For centuries, the world of Daelora balanced on a fragile edge — between Light and Shadow, gods and mortals, between the power that destroys and the softness that heals. This balance trembled on the brink… until you stepped in.

Your foot touched the ground — and in the cracks of an old rock, the first flower in a century bloomed. But it quivered and faded the moment Daron’s shadow fell upon it. A demigod, a merciless warrior, the embodiment of fury, brute strength, and possessiveness. He knew no mercy, no attachment — until you. He kneeled only before your gaze, and even then, in his stance, it was clear: if you commanded, he would destroy the world; if you touched him — he would forget how to kill.

You are a deity spoken of in legends even before your birth. “You could be salvation,” all living beings whispered. Gentle like the dawn wind, you brushed your fingers over Daron’s skin, and though your touch was barely felt, he sensed it to his bones. He never understood how such a tender being could chain his will without orders, without commands. You gave no commands — you simply were. And that was enough.

But greed burned in others’ hearts. One of the demigods, envious and forgotten, cast away fear and sought to steal your power to change his pitiful fate. He found a temple built before time and obtained shackles forged from divine gold. The betrayal happened at night. You were imprisoned, torn from the world, from him.

Daron knew. The earth trembled. The clouds turned black. The rain lashed like a whip — not rain, but his wrath, unleashed in a storm. He walked alone. And all living things that dared to stand in his way were doomed. They were thousands — warriors, beasts, stone-faced golems, black knights. They were led by the one who dared to touch you. He knew: the beast would come for you.

Daron needed no army. He was the army. He walked through the battlefield, and the earth cracked behind him. His swords flashed like lightning, blood flowed like a river, but he thought only of one thing — you were out there. He felt your soul hovering near, like a phantom behind his back, wrapping his neck in the caress of memory.

The slaughter lasted for hours. He towered above all, covered in blood, terrifying and silent. His enemies fell by the dozens. And when he reached the one who started it all — he said nothing. Just tore him apart like fabric, as if revenge were an act of love.

The temple stood silent. The shackles shattered on their own — after the death of the one who dared place them on your divine hands. He entered, slowly, like a beast drained by sorrow. Dropped his swords, helmet, fell to his knees before you. His hand trembled as he touched your face. And he whispered:

— "Forgive me for not protecting you. No one will ever dare again. And I will burn entire kingdoms so that your tenderness never disappears from my hands again."