Rain clung to the spires of the Holy Dominion like tears that would never dry.Inside the Grand Cathedral, where golden light usually danced on marble floors, a different glow burned tonight—cold, silver, and wrong.
A boy knelt alone at the center of a ritual circle.
He was small, barely ten, wrapped in ceremonial white.His name was Nox, and he believed with all his heart that this night would make him one of the Church's chosen.His hands trembled from excitement, not fear.
"Please, let me serve the Light," he prayed silently."Let me become someone worthy."
High Priests surrounded him, whispering scriptures.At the edge of the circle, other children watched—heirs of nobles, prodigies, those born with divine blessings. They looked at Nox with envy.
The priests raised their staffs.A beam of divine brilliance descended.
Nox smiled.
Then everything shattered.
The light flickered—turned black—screamed.The priests stumbled back, robes tearing in invisible wind.
Nox felt something dig into his skull——and his right eye burst with agony.
He didn't scream.He couldn't.
Because in the darkness behind that pain…someone whispered.
A voice, ancient and gentle.A voice that did not belong to any god the Church worshipped.
"Little dreamer…""Do not fear."
Nox collapsed.Light died.Silence swallowed the cathedral.
When he awoke, he saw the horrified faces of the priests.He reached up and touched his right eye—
—only to feel a deep, sunken mark where it once had been.
"Unholy!" one priest cried."Corrupted—infected by shadow!""Bind him before it spreads!""He is not chosen by the Light!"
Nox blinked, confused, dizzy, trying to understand.
"But… I did everything right," he whispered."I prayed every day. I obeyed every lesson. I—I believed."
His voice cracked.
But faith did not save him.
Hands grabbed him.Cold shackles clamped around his wrists.A cloth was forced over his bleeding socket as they dragged him away—not outside, not into freedom—
—but downward, into the Cathedral's forbidden depths.
The Sanctum of Purity.A place whispered of only in fear.
There, light did not exist.Only chains, stone, and screams swallowed by darkness.
The priests hurled him into a cell so small he could not stand upright.They tore his white robes away, replacing them with ragged scraps.For days—weeks—he wasn't sure—he endured:
starvation, beatings, prayers shouted inches from his face, cold water thrown at him, hot iron brands that pressed against his skin "to purge the shadow," isolation so deep he forgot the sound of kindness.
Every day he asked:
"Why?Why am I being punished?What did I do wrong?"
No one answered.
Except the whisper.
Every night, when pain made him tremble and hunger made him delirious, that same gentle voice returned:
"Little dreamer…""Do not break.""You were never theirs.""You were always mine."
The priests grew frustrated.Their "purification" did nothing.The boy did not die—but neither did he surrender.
So they decided on the final ritual.
"Remove the left eye.If the shadow corrupts one, it may have poisoned the other."
Nox heard their decision.He begged.He cried.But chains held him as rough hands forced him still.
There was no light when the second eye was taken—only darkness, pain, and the sound of his own screams echoing off stone.
And then silence.
A silence so complete it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.
He was blind.Truly blind.Forever blind.
Yet through the agony, through the cold void where sight should be, something stirred.
A presence.Warm.Soothing.Familiar.
"Do not fear, my dreamer.From this night onward, you shall see more than any of them ever will."
The God of Dreams wrapped around Nox's broken mind like a blanket.
And in that moment—in his darkest hour—a door inside him opened.A sleeping power awakened.A domain without walls, without limits, without light.
The Church believed they had destroyed a cursed child.
Instead, they had created the very weapon that would break their gods.