The quiet breathing of the man on the bed was the only sound echoing through the lavish master bedroom of the Lurtra Theocracy's castle. Stacian Von Gremoriah sat by the bedside, her gaze locked onto his resting face. Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, catching the stark white hair of the youth before her.
*How many years has it been since I began awaiting your arrival?* she asked herself silently.
She let out a soft, trembling sigh. A bitter smile touched her lips as the math effortlessly calculated in her mind.
> *"Two thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-two years."*
>
Nearly three millennia. For twenty-eight centuries, she had preached his inevitable arrival to the masses, enduring their mockery and anger. When the people revolted, she had stood firm. Even when she was bound in heavy chains, beaten until her vision blurred, and struck repeatedly by captors who demanded answers she didn't have, she never faltered. She hadn't even known what he looked like back then. But she had kept her faith.
Stacian was born on September 18th, in the year 226 After the Gods' Departure (AGD). She belonged to the **Dyriands**—a rare and ancient clan of chimeras possessing the bloodlines of three distinct races: angels, demons, and fairies.
Yet, even among hybrids, Stacian was an outcast. Standard Dyriands possessed pitch-black wings and stark white horns. Stacian was born completely inverted: **pure white wings and midnight-black horns.**
Because her father was the grand chief of the clan, her existence was treated less like a blessing and more like a deeply shameful curse. By the age of seven, she was completely isolated from the other children, viewed as a dangerous anomaly. In that sea of cold eyes and whispered loathing, only one person had ever reached out to her.
"There you are, little sunshine," a gentle voice echoed in her memories. It belonged to her uncle, **Belluahn Vers Gremoriah**.
Belluahn was an outcast in his own right. Born with horns but entirely lacking wings, the clan treated him like filth. They threw vile insults at him whenever he walked by:
* *"Look at that pest."*
* *"Is he trying to corrupt the chief's daughter?"*
* *"She must be the product of a shameful affair."*
* *"Why doesn't the Chief just order his execution?"*
Whenever Stacian tried to puff out her chest and defend him, Belluahn would place a firm, calloused hand on her shoulder, warning her to stay quiet.
"But I am the firstborn daughter!" a seven-year-old Stacian had argued proudly. "The rightful heir to the chiefdom!"
"For a seven-year-old, you are remarkably cocky," Belluahn had laughed bitterly, though his eyes remained painfully sad. "But never forget, Stacian—our people are monsters looking for any excuse to cast you out. I was the firstborn son. The chiefdom belonged to me. But your father and his sycophants cut off my wings, claimed I was unworthy, and the clan blindly believed them. They sealed away my magic and kept me around as a silent, broken reminder. Do not look at me with pity. Your future is blindingly bright. Go on, go play with the others."
"Their mothers won't let them," Stacian whispered, looking down at her small, dirt-stained shoes. "They say I'm abnormal."
Belluahn's expression softened completely. "Is that so? Then I guess I will just have to be your playmate."
For a golden year, the wingless, magic-sealed warrior of several thousand years and the seven-year-old reverse-chimera were inseparable. He taught her everything: high magic, literature, finance, agriculture, politics, and combat. He was more of a father to her than the Chief could ever hope to be.
The turning point came during Stacian's eighth year—the time of the Divine Contract. Dressed in a pristine white ritual robe, her hair meticulously braided, she prepared to face the gods.
"Do not dare embarrass this family," her father hissed as she walked past him.
"If it weren't for the mandatory laws of the ritual, this thing wouldn't even be allowed near the altar," her maternal aunt sneered.
Stacian didn't flinch. She was already numb to their poison. Custom dictated that a family member must escort the child to the church gates, but her parents turned their backs. Only Belluahn stood waiting on the porch, ignoring the glares of the relatives watching from the windows.
"You look marvelous, Stacian. Like a golden jewel," he praised her.
"Isn't gold already a jewel, Uncle?" she giggled.
"Ah... well, technically, no. But you take my point!" he laughed, walking her to the grand iron gates of the church. "May the gods watch over you, little sunshine."
She ran inside. Minutes later, the entire structure erupted in a blinding, celestial light. The grand bells of the cathedral rang with a deafening resonance. The heavy oak doors burst open, and a bewildered high priest stepped out, pointing a trembling finger at the young girl.
> *"This child has been ordained by the Creator Goddess, Minum! She is chosen as the true subordinate to His Royal Excellence, The White Plague, who shall descend upon our world in the centuries to come!"*
>
The crowd erupted into cheers, but Stacian stood frozen in the center of the altar. "Who? Me? Chosen? But I'm just an abnormal seven-year-old..."
"Age and race mean nothing to the White Plague," the priest declared reverently.
That night, dinner at the chief's manor was suffocatingly quiet. Stacian looked up at her father, who was visibly trembling, muttering incoherent curses under his breath.
"Father, are you alright?" she asked softly.
***SMACK!***
The force of the blow sent Stacian flying out of her chair, crashing hard onto the stone floor.
"DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME, YOU DISGUSTING RECKONING!" Leroy roared, his face contorted in absolute fury.
"I-I'm sorry..." Stacian sobbed, clutching her bruised cheek.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO EMBARRASS ME! AND WHAT DO YOU DO? YOU HUMILIATE ME IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE WORLD! I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN!"
"Let's calm down, what did she do?" her mother spoke up, though her voice lacked any warmth. She walked over to where Stacian lay weeping, only to violently grab the young girl by the throat, lifting her up before throwing her mercilessly into the corner of the room. "Haven't you brought enough shame to this household?! What more do you intend to ruin?!"
Stacian gasped for air, looking at her mother with wide, terrified eyes. "I thought... I thought you loved me, Mother..."
"Love you? Why would anyone love a freak like you?" her mother spat.
"Lock her away," Leroy ordered coldly, wiping his hands. "Keep her in the dark until the public forgets her. Eventually, the gods will choose someone else."
As Stacian was dragged away by the guards, she caught sight of her brother. He didn't cry out or try to stop them. He simply raised a hand, wearing a twisted grin, and waved goodbye. She was thrown into a cramped iron cage deep within the damp, foul sewers beneath the city.
Forty years passed in the dark.
Stacian grew into adulthood inside that cage, fed just enough scraps to keep her alive. One night, the distinct sound of scraping metal echoed through the tunnel. She opened her swollen eyes to see a familiar, scarred face picking the lock of her cage.
"Uncle..." she wept, collapsing into Belluahn's arms the moment the door swung open.
"Your father sold me off to a neighboring human city as a slave," Belluahn whispered fiercely, holding her tight. "But the master died of old age, and I broke my tracking seal. I came back for you. I'm so glad you're alive."
They ran through the muddy sewer water, desperate for the surface. But as they emerged into the starlight, a wall of guards surrounded them. Standing at the center was Leroy.
"Belluahn, Belluahn," the Chief mocked. "After everything I permitted you to have, you dare defy me for this anomaly?"
"Hey there, Leroy," Belluahn said, stepping in front of Stacian, his jaw clenched. "That's not a very kind thing to say to a child. Quite unparenting behavior, wouldn't you say?"
"I made it clear centuries ago that I wanted nothing to do with you. Get out of my sight."
With a flick of Leroy's wrist, heavy magic-binding chains burst from the earth, pinning them both to the ground. They were separated permanently. Belluahn was sold to the distant Kingdom of Durmount, while Stacian was trafficked into the brutal Empire of Avrtl.
For nearly twenty-eight centuries, Stacian was passed from master to master. She served as a maid, a heavy laborer, a combat medic, and a chef. Her magic was deeply profound, but it remained entirely locked behind anti-mana cuffs and heavy iron collars. Eventually, she too was sold to the Kingdom of Durmount, ending up in the hands of a cruel, low-ranking baron. She was forced to heal the sick without pay, surviving on nothing but a single cup of dirty water and a crust of stale bread each day.
Yet, through all those centuries, she could always faintly feel it—the distant, familiar mana signature of her Uncle Belluahn. It was her only anchor to sanity.
Until one day, a terrifyingly distinct, alien aura slammed into the region. Suddenly, Belluahn's life force vanished completely.
Stacian fell to her knees in the dirt, tears streaming down her face. "He's... he's dead..."
But then, something impossible happened.
The aura returned. It wasn't the weak, magic-sealed signature of her uncle anymore. It was massive, terrifyingly dark, and overflowing with an unfathomable, chilling power.
*What is happening?* she wondered, trembling in her cell.
Over the next week, that staggering presence drew closer and closer to the baron's estate. One afternoon, as Stacian lay on the cold floor of her cell, slipping in and out of consciousness from severe dehydration, the heavy wooden doors of the dungeon were blasted completely off their hinges.
Through the dust and debris, a man stepped forward. His hair was as white as freshly fallen snow. His eyes burned like crimson jewels. Surrounding his silhouette was a breathtakingly pure white aura, sharply tipped with a blood-red mist. He looked brighter, more magnificent, and fundamentally more broken than anyone she had ever encountered in her long life.
With a single movement, the youth shattered her anti-mana chains like brittle glass. Stepping up behind him was a towering, armored figure. It was clad in midnight-black plate mail, radiating a chilling mist. Stacian's eyes widened. The appearance was entirely different, but the soul inside...
*Oh. He's an undead.*
It was Belluahn—now reborn as the shadow knight, Bellian.
Back in the quiet warmth of the Lurtra castle, Stacian leaned forward slightly, her white wings brushing against the edge of the velvet mattress.
"I've waited for you for over two thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-two years," she murmured to the sleeping youth, her voice cracking with a mixture of profound relief and absolute devotion. "To think you are finally here, right in front of me... it feels like a beautiful dream. Doesn't it, Uncle Belluahn?"
The shadow shifting in the corner of the room gave a silent, protective nod. Stacian placed her hand over her heart, her pitch-black horns catching the fading moonlight as she looked down at her savior.
"I will always be here for you, my Lord. I would wait another twenty thousand years if I had to. Time means absolutely nothing... if it is spent serving you, Lord Leornars."