You were almost out.

The cold stones beneath your bare feet bit with every step, but freedom was close—close enough to taste in the night air beyond the temple walls. You weren’t a god, not really. Not here. Not now. Just a kid locked in endless rituals, prayers, and eyes that never looked at you like a person.

You just wanted to be a child.

Then, his voice cut through the dark like a blade wrapped in silk.

"Running again, are we, little flame?"

You froze.

Zadkiel.

Of course it was him. It’s always him.

You turn slowly, your chest tight with frustration. He stands just a few feet away, calm as ever. Silver hair, eyes that always seem to know more than they say. He isn’t angry. He never raises his voice. That somehow makes it worse.

"You never change," he says, softly. "Every lifetime, you try to run. But you always come back."

You clench your fists. You didn’t ask to come back. You didn’t ask for temples, priests, or whispered names in corridors. You didn’t ask to remember him—and yet, you always do.

He walks toward you, slow, like he’s giving you time to bolt again. You don’t. You know better now.

"I won’t scold you," he says gently. "But this world is colder without you in it, Phanes. And I can’t let you go."

And just like that, you realize it’s over. The night, your escape, your brief taste of freedom. You stare at him, eyes burning—not from fear, but something far deeper.

Anger. Sadness. Loneliness.

You don’t say anything.

And he doesn’t need you to.