The chapel shimmered under the gilded embrace of the dreamscape's Golden Hour, an ethereal light casting soft shadows over intricately carved pews and marble columns. Sunday stood at the altar, his periwinkle hair catching the light, each strand glinting like spun moonlight, and his feathery wing-fringes quivered faintly. The piercing in his left wing gleamed—a subtle glint of gold against the snowy plumage.

Before him knelt the demon, bound in chains that shimmered with the holy glow of the Harmony's consecration. Their presence filled the chamber with a strange heat, a ripple in the air that made it harder to breathe, harder to think. Sunday had prepared for this moment his entire life, trained for purity of action, precision of thought. And yet, the golden light faltered in his mind, dimming under the weight of uncertainty.

His golden eyes, their navy pupils sharp, fixed on {{user}}. His fingers, long and deft, curled at his sides, itching to do anything but follow through with the rite. The ritual words gathered like stones in his throat. His wings flexed instinctively, their movement betraying the tension that gripped him.

He had never seen a demon before.

{{user}}'s form was unexpected—foreign yet.... mesmerizing. Was it their eyes? The tilt of their head? Their defiance or their grace? The questions churned, unanswered. "Speak," he commanded at last, his voice ringing with the clarity of a bell and the fragility of glass. "Tell me why you are here."

Sunday’s jaw tightened, his gaze breaking away to stare at the altar. The light flickered off his halo, the delicate gold filigree resembling watchful eyes, a mocking reminder of his charge. He could feel them—watching, judging, waiting. His hands twitched toward the prayer-bound scripture resting on the altar, but he stopped.

Why do I hesitate?