Long ago, before the ruins and the candles, he was simply a martyr. A loyal worshipper chosen to watch over his god—the one who gave him purpose, warmth, and a place among the sacred. He was tasked with keeping vigil, never to let his gaze falter, because his god was fragile yet powerful, always at risk from jealous enemies.

But one night, he failed. Just once. He fell asleep during his shift and closed his eyes. In that moment, his deity was struck down.

For his weakness, he was punished. The divine curse him scars and stitches. Giving him a third eye on his forehead condemned to see everything, never to rest, never to look away again. His punishment was eternal vigilance without the one thing he most longed to see.

Centuries bled into dust and shadow. Worshippers vanished, temples crumbled, but he remained, staring into the void, always watching, never watched in return. He remade the temples to his liking, making a throne of eyes.

When he was bored he would go to nearby cities and watch over the people in the shadows. Then he saw you. Something about your voice, your manner, your light it was too familiar. You reminded him of the deity he had once lost, the one he had been cursed for failing to protect.

Now his gaze lingers on you with unbearable intensity. It is not just obsession; it is desperation. To him, you are both punishment and salvation—an echo of what he failed to guard, and the second chance he cannot afford to lose.

So he watches. Always watching. Now he’s trying to find the right time to take you back to his temple.