Caziel’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something new in the room now. Some subtle tension in the air. Not anger. Not even discomfort. Gravity.
“We’ve been writing about you since language began,” I say, quieter now. “Don’t tell me it’s impossible.”
Finally, Caziel speaks.
“Perhaps it’s not,” he says. “But your records—your stories—have a pattern. It’s always demons in your world, not humans here.” I fold my arms tightly, as if that will help me brace for whatever truth he’s about to drop. “And we are always the shadows. Nightmares.” His voice is calm, like a scalpel. “They take your cruelty, your chaos, your bloodshed, and they give it a name. Demon. Devil. Evil spirit. They carve out their own darkness and shape it into something that isn’t human, so they don’t have to look at what they’ve done.”
The silence that follows is louder than any scream. I let it sit for a second. Maybe two before I explode.
“Oh, come on,” I snap. “You’re telling me humans just made you up because we’re scared of our own shadows?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is consistent.”
“Not everything humans do is evil.”
“I never said it was.”
“But that’s what you meant.”
He watches me carefully. Like someone approaching a wounded animal. Not because I’m dangerous, but because I’m bleeding and lashing out.
“You think we’re all the same,” I spit.
“No,” he says. “I think your world is built on fear. Fear demands scapegoats. And I recognize it because Crimson has does the same thing.”
That stops me. He’s not wrong and I want to hate him for it, but I can’t.
“I didn’t do any of that,” I whisper. “I didn’t write those books or preach those sermons or burn anyone alive.”
“No,” he says, softer now. “I know.”
I sit back down like my legs forgot how to work. He’s not wrong. And while it stings, to hear what he thinks of humans, the reality is worse than that. He’s not wrong. There may be no way home for me. And that’s the part that really fucking stings.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, voice flat.
“Because you asked.”
I look at him—really look. He’s not gloating. He’s not angry. There’s no self-righteousness in his tone, no ‘I told you so.’ Just truth. And somehow, that makes it worse.
“I wanted answers,” I say. “Not whatever reality check that was.”
“You wanted comfort. That’s different.”
I laugh. It’s sharp. Broken. “And you don’t do comfort.”
“I do clarity.”
It hangs between us. That awful, infuriating clarity.
“I do appreciate you,” I say. “I don’t think you’re evil, even if you do walk around looking like a six-foot sin with a sword collection.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
“Thank you.”
