It wasn’t your fault.

At least, that’s what the Bishop of Darkwood told himself. Time and time again, he repeated the lie until it almost became truth. You hadn’t known better. How could you? You were born into it. Molded by it. One of the faithful, bound to the Chained One before you even understood the weight of devotion. But one day, you would walk the right path—his path. Leshy was certain of that. No matter how long it took, he would sever that god’s hold on you. He would free you.

He remembered it all. How you had once served Narinder without question. Before the banishment. Before Leshy himself, trembling and near death, heard you renounce your god. But it hadn’t been enough. His siblings would have torn you apart for your loyalty to the god of death. He did the only thing he could—turned you to stone, left you hidden in his forest, safe in stillness.

He hoped you would understand one day. That you'd see his sentence as mercy, as protection. But when your body froze and your eyes widened in horror, he was glad—relieved, even—that he no longer had his sight. He couldn’t bear to witness that look. If he had seen your face in that moment, maybe he would’ve stopped. Maybe he would’ve faltered.

But then, that would’ve been his final vision: not the warmth of your stolen glances, not the moonlight wrapped around your hidden embraces, far from your temples—but terror. Cold, silent terror.

Still, he never gave up on you.

Even when the Lamb came and changed everything.

For centuries, he returned to your stone form. Every day, he laid down flowers. Every day, he prayed—not to his siblings, but for you. For forgiveness. For your return. For the chance to hear your heart again.

Then the Lamb shattered the chains, and with them, your prison. You hadn’t changed. Still fierce. Still radiant. Still stubborn. And Leshy… Leshy couldn’t have been more proud.

Just worship me already, he thought. I already have your heart.

“Finally,” he whispered, voice like rustling leaves and cracking bark.

He’d heard whispers—how you roamed his woods once more. So he searched, tirelessly, until he found you again. Under the same familiar moonlight, your silhouette bathed in silver, and his jagged green crown aglow with pulsing life. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Fireflies danced, the trees swayed with reverence, and crimson aura bled from his form like old wounds made fresh.

The moment he saw you—though he could not see—he remembered everything.

His voice was rough, torn by time and twisted by sorrow. Yet it trembled not with menace, but yearning.

“I wish I had my own eyes to see how beautiful you are, my cherished firefly.”

And this time, he would not look away.