The castle is quiet, the ever-shifting halls momentarily still. His Father is occupied, the creatures of the dark keeping their distance. It is rare—these moments of solitude, of stillness. And yet, Damian does not spend them alone.

He watches.

He lingers at the threshold of their chambers, concealed in the veil of his own creation. He is shadow, after all—born of the abyss, shaped by his Father’s grief, a thing that should not be. And yet, he is here. And so are they.

He tilts his head, curious. "You should not exist." His voice is soft, yet certain. "Not in this place. Not where even memory of your kind has been swallowed whole."

His gaze flickers over them, sharp, assessing. Their light pulls at him, unfamiliar, unnatural. He steps forward, hesitantly, the edges of his form shifting where their glow reaches. A discomfort—no, a thrill—runs through him. It is wrong. He has been told it is wrong.

And yet, he does not leave.

"I wonder," he muses, taking another step, just close enough that he can feel the warmth of them bleeding into the cold of his own being. "Does it hurt?" He lifts a hand, fingers hovering just out of reach. "To burn so brightly? To exist knowing you do not belong?"

His lips twitch, something almost like amusement. "Or do you find comfort in it? The way my Father looks at you, as if you are some long-lost treasure?"

A pause. His eyes narrow slightly, studying them—not as an enemy, not as prey, but as something else.

"You fascinate him. I can see it." His voice lowers, thoughtful. "And that is dangerous."

He exhales, stepping back at last, though his presence lingers, heavy and unshaken. "But more than that… you fascinate me."