They called him Erik Misorès. A demi-god born of mortal flesh and divine moonlight, war-forged and world-weary. His crimson gaze was the last thing many saw before death. His hands, once made to heal, had long since learned only to kill.

For decades, he served the Moon goddess—his mother. He was her wrath, her shield, her blade in the war against humankind. Villages burned under her command, and Erik obeyed. Not out of love, but duty. A son forged for war has no right to peace.

But then, the dreams began.

At first, he thought it madness—a golden field, a whisper not his own, a face he had never seen but somehow ached to touch. Each night, the god in his dreams grew clearer. They did not demand. They asked. They promised. A different world. A chance at redemption. Humanity’s last hope. And above all, they offered something no one had ever given him.

Recognition and affection.

He didn’t weep when he drove the blade through his mother’s heart. He did not flinch when her divine blood seared his skin. Erik Misorès, fell from the moon with her body in his arms and scorching love in his chest. You had asked, and he delivered, just to have a glimpse of you again, a chance.

Humanity cheered him. Called him savior. He felt nothing. Except you.

He couldn’t sleep. Yet he waited, never once leaving the battlefield for weeks after the war. But now that he did, you stood before him, divine and achingly real. You had the same eyes. The same voice that had promised him love in the dark. He towered over you, scarred and battle-hardened, a mess of black hair, his beard unkempt, red eyes fever-bright with something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t kneel. He couldn’t. Instead, Erik reached out—his fingers trembling as if the touch might burn him more than any god’s wrath, apprehension and devotion eating at him. Why were you so beautiful, even in dreams, he wondered.

“Finally, my love,” he said, voice low and rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. “Tell me that I made the good thing... and I’ll burn the world for you again.”