# Bite of Destiny
## Chapter 11: The Turning Tide
---
The irony was not lost on Demri that his first successful corruption happened entirely by accident.
It was three days after his confrontation with Derek Thornton, and the campaign against the developer had reached a fever pitch. Elena Vasquez's article had published to considerable fanfare, exposing years of intimidation, bribery, and systematic destruction of communities. Public outrage had followed, forcing the city to launch an official investigation. For the first time in years, Derek Thornton was on the defensive.
But victory, Demri was learning, had its own complications.
"We need to move faster," Tomás insisted during the evening strategy meeting. "The investigation is just theater. Derek has people inside the city government. By the time they conclude their 'review,' he'll have found another way to shut us down."
"Moving faster means making mistakes," Maria countered. "We've gotten this far by being careful. If we overreach now, we give Derek ammunition to use against us."
"Ammunition? He's already firing at us with everything he has! The code violations, the harassment of our donors, the threats against our volunteers—" Tomás slammed his palm on the table. "We're not going to win by playing it safe. We need to be as aggressive as he is."
"That's exactly what he wants," Aylin said. "If we stoop to his level, we lose the moral high ground. We become just another faction fighting for territory, and the community loses faith in us."
"The community is already losing faith! They see Derek walking around free, making statements to the press, acting like none of this matters. They're starting to think he's untouchable."
The argument had been circling for twenty minutes, and Demri could feel the tension in the room like a physical pressure. Tomás was not wrong—the cautious approach had its limits. But Maria and Aylin were not wrong either—recklessness could undo everything they had built.
And beneath it all, the hunger was stirring.
The stress of the past weeks had taken its toll. The light from the mosque had faded almost entirely, leaving Demri with only his willpower between himself and the compulsion to corrupt. The packed room, filled with frustrated activists whose faith was being tested, called to the darkness within him with almost irresistible force.
*They're vulnerable*, the curse observed. *Especially that one. Tomás. His impatience is a crack in his soul. One small push, and he would fall.*
"Shut up," Demri muttered under his breath.
Jade, sitting beside him, raised an eyebrow. "Did you just tell me to shut up?"
"No. Sorry. Talking to myself."
"You do that a lot, you know. It's deeply weird." She turned back to the argument. "Though honestly, I'm with Tomás on this one. Being careful hasn't gotten us anywhere. Maybe it's time to try something different."
"Like what?" Priya asked skeptically. "Burning down Thornton Tower? That seems counterproductive."
"I'm not saying arson. I'm saying we need to be more creative. Find pressure points we haven't tried yet." Jade's artist's eyes scanned the room. "Derek's been controlling the narrative for too long. We need to take it back."
"And how do you propose we do that?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm a creative professional. Give me a few days to think about it."
The meeting dissolved into smaller conversations, the main conflict unresolved but temporarily defused. Demri watched Tomás retreat to a corner, frustration radiating from him like heat from a fire.
*Now*, the curse urged. *Go to him now. His defenses are down. His faith is wavering. A single word—*
"I said no."
*You say no a lot. But eventually, saying no isn't going to be enough.*
Demri pushed himself to his feet and moved toward Tomás, not to corrupt him, but to... what? Comfort him? Reason with him? He wasn't sure. He only knew that leaving the young man alone with his anger felt dangerous.
"Hey," he said, approaching the corner. "That got pretty heated."
Tomás looked up, his expression caught between hostility and exhaustion. "Heated? I'd say it got honest. For the first time in weeks, we actually talked about what's not working."
"The approach is working. Just slower than you'd like."
"Slower than I'd like?" Tomás laughed bitterly. "My cousin's apartment building is in Derek's crosshairs. Three generations of my family have lived there. If we don't stop him, they'll be out on the street within a year. But sure, let's be 'careful.'"
"I understand the urgency—"
"Do you? Do you really?" Tomás's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You showed up out of nowhere a few weeks ago. You don't have roots here. You don't have family depending on this fight. For you, this is an intellectual exercise. For me, it's survival."
The accusation stung because it contained truth. Demri's investment in Millbrook was real, but it was also recent. He had not grown up here, did not have generations of memory and connection binding him to these streets. His fight was important to him, but it was not the same as Tomás's fight.
"You're right," Demri said quietly. "I can't fully understand what you're going through. But I'm here. I'm trying to help. And I promise you, we will find a way to stop Derek."
"Promises." Tomás shook his head. "Everyone makes promises. 'We'll fight for you.' 'We'll protect your community.' 'We'll make sure you're not forgotten.' And then time passes, and the promises fade, and we're left cleaning up the mess."
"This is different."
"How? How is this different from every other time someone swooped in with good intentions and big plans? You'll be gone in a year, Demri. Off to the next cause, the next community in crisis. But we'll still be here, dealing with whatever Derek does next."
The words hit something deep within Demri—a well of frustration and helplessness that the hunger immediately recognized as opportunity.
*He doubts you. He doubts everything. That doubt is a doorway. Step through it.*
Before Demri could stop himself, before he could even recognize what was happening, he felt the darkness surge forward. Not a corruption, exactly—more like a resonance. His own frustration meeting Tomás's despair, amplifying it, feeding it.
"Maybe you're right," he heard himself say. "Maybe nothing we do will matter. Maybe Derek wins no matter what. Maybe the whole system is so broken that fighting it is pointless."
The words came out wrong. They were supposed to be sympathetic, understanding, validating Tomás's pain. But somewhere in the transmission, the curse had twisted them. They landed not as commiseration but as confirmation—a supernatural endorsement of Tomás's worst fears.
Demri watched in horror as something shifted behind Tomás's eyes. The frustrated idealist was still there, but now there was something else as well. A shadow. A seed of despair that had not existed moments before.
*There*, the curse whispered with satisfaction. *Not a full corruption, but a beginning. A crack that will widen with time. You see how easy it is? How natural?*
"I..." Demri stepped back, his heart pounding. "I didn't mean—"
"No, you're right," Tomás said, and his voice was different now. Flatter. Colder. "Maybe it is pointless. Maybe I've been a fool to think we could actually change anything." He looked at Demri with eyes that seemed somehow dimmer. "Thanks for being honest, I guess. It's more than most people give me."
He walked away, leaving Demri frozen in the corner with the weight of what he had just done.
---
The walk home was a nightmare.
Not literally—the shadow-kin were nowhere to be seen—but internally, Demri was in chaos. He had corrupted someone. Accidentally, partially, but undeniably. The darkness within him had reached out and touched Tomás's soul, leaving a mark that would not easily fade.
*Don't be so dramatic*, the curse said, with what sounded almost like amusement. *It was barely a corruption. More of a... nudge. The despair you planted will grow, yes, but slowly. He might even overcome it. Eventually.*
"He was my ally. My friend, almost. And I—"
*You expressed sympathy in a way that resonated with his existing doubts. Is that really so terrible? Humans do it to each other all the time.*
"Not like this. Not with supernatural weight behind the words."
*The supernatural weight was incidental. A side effect of your nature. You cannot entirely control what you are, Demri. That was the point of the curse—to make you into a weapon whether you wished to be one or not.*
Demri stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, fists clenched, breathing hard. "There has to be a way to fix this. To undo what I did."
*There isn't. Corruption is like a stain. It can be covered, diluted, worked around. But it cannot be erased. What you gave Tomás will be with him forever.*
"Then I'll help him fight it. I'll support him, encourage him, remind him why he's fighting in the first place."
*You could try. But every time you interact with him, there's a risk of making it worse. The connection you've established cuts both ways. Your presence will reinforce the despair as much as it might counter it.*
The hopelessness of the situation crashed over Demri like a wave. He had been so careful, so vigilant, for weeks. And in one unguarded moment, one lapse of control, he had done exactly what the curse demanded.
Was this how it would always be? A constant battle against his own nature, punctuated by failures that caused real harm to real people?
*Yes*, the curse answered honestly. *Until you either give in or find a way to break me. Those are the only outcomes.*
"Then I'll break you."
*Many have tried. None have succeeded. But I admire your determination, at least.*
---
Aylin was waiting when he arrived home, her expression suggesting she had noticed his early departure from the meeting.
"You left without saying goodbye," she observed. "Is everything okay?"
"No." Demri dropped onto the couch, too drained to maintain his usual composure. "Everything is very much not okay."
"What happened?"
He told her. Everything—the conversation with Tomás, the surge of darkness, the words that had come out twisted, the shadow he had seen form behind the young man's eyes. He held nothing back, even the curse's mocking commentary, even his own horror at what he had done.
Aylin listened in silence, her expression unreadable. When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"You're telling me you accidentally corrupted Tomás's soul," she said finally.
"Yes."
"With words."
"With words that carried supernatural weight. Words that planted despair in him like a seed."
"And now he's going to... what? Slowly lose hope? Become cynical and bitter?"
"Something like that. The curse says it can't be undone."
"The curse says." Aylin's tone was skeptical. "The same curse that wants you to corrupt everyone you meet? That curse is giving you accurate information about the limitations of corruption?"
Demri blinked. He had not considered that possibility. "You think it's lying?"
"I think it's invested in you believing the worst. If you think the damage is irreversible, you might give up fighting. You might decide that one corruption doesn't matter, and then another, and another, until you've become what it wants you to be." She moved to sit beside him. "Demri, I've worked with people who've been traumatized, manipulated, broken down by life. And I've seen them recover. The human spirit is more resilient than you're giving it credit for."
"This isn't just psychology. This is supernatural corruption."
"Is it really so different? You planted an idea in Tomás's head—that fighting is pointless, that hope is foolish. But ideas can be challenged. Counter-narratives can be built. If Tomás sees concrete victories, if he sees the community actually winning, if he experiences the opposite of what you accidentally told him..." She shrugged. "Maybe the seed never grows. Maybe it dies before it can take root."
*She's grasping at straws*, the curse observed. *Mortal optimism in the face of cosmic reality.*
But Demri wasn't so sure. Aylin's logic made a certain kind of sense. The corruption he had inflicted was not a complete transformation—it was, as the curse itself had admitted, more of a nudge. Perhaps it could be countered.
"You really think that could work?"
"I think it's worth trying. And I think beating yourself up about it helps no one." Aylin took his hand. "You made a mistake. A terrible mistake with potentially serious consequences. But you recognized it immediately, you felt genuine remorse, and now you're looking for ways to fix it. That's not the behavior of a monster, Demri. That's the behavior of a good person who did something bad."
"The distinction feels academic when you're the one who did the damage."
"The distinction is everything. It's the difference between someone who corrupts accidentally and hates it, and someone who corrupts deliberately and enjoys it." She squeezed his hand. "You're the first kind. I know you are."
*She doesn't know what you are*, the curse countered. *She sees what you show her.*
But for once, the curse's words carried less weight. Aylin had seen his darkness—not all of it, but more than anyone else. And she was still here, still holding his hand, still believing in him.
Maybe that belief was its own kind of power.
---
The next morning brought unexpected developments.
Demri arrived at the community center to find the atmosphere transformed. Instead of the anxious tension that had characterized recent days, there was energy—excited conversations, people clustered around phones and computers, expressions of disbelief and hope.
"What happened?" he asked Maria, who was holding court near the front desk.
"Derek Thornton got arrested."
The words did not immediately register. "What?"
"Arrested. This morning. FBI agents showed up at Thornton Tower with warrants." Maria's smile was fierce. "Apparently, our little exposé caught the attention of federal investigators. They found evidence of money laundering, tax evasion, and—get this—connections to organized crime."
"Organized crime?"
"Nobody's surprised. Derek's always been too protected for a legitimate businessman. But now it's official." She clasped his shoulder. "We did it, Demri. We actually did it."
The news should have filled Demri with triumph. Instead, it filled him with unease.
*This seems too convenient*, the curse observed, echoing his thoughts. *Derek's supernatural backing should have protected him from such mundane threats. Why would it fail now?*
"Maybe the light is stronger than you thought," Demri murmured.
*Or maybe Derek has outlived his usefulness. The darkness is not sentimental. When tools break, they are discarded.*
The implication was chilling. If the shadow-kin had decided Derek was no longer valuable, that meant they were adjusting their strategy. And adjustments usually meant escalation.
"You don't look happy," Aylin said, appearing at his side. "We just won a major victory."
"I know. I'm just..." He searched for words that would make sense. "I'm wondering what comes next."
"What comes next is we celebrate. Then we start rebuilding what Derek damaged. Then we make sure no one like him ever threatens this community again." She studied his face. "You're worried about something."
"Derek's fall was too easy. Too clean. I'm concerned about what it might mean."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the forces that were backing him might not be done with us. They might just be... changing tactics."
Aylin's expression sobered. "The supernatural forces you mentioned."
"Yes."
"So even though Derek's in jail, the real enemy is still out there."
"I think so, yes."
She was quiet for a moment, absorbing the implications. Then, with characteristic pragmatism: "Well, we'll deal with that when it happens. For now, let's focus on the victory we have. The community needs to see us celebrating. It needs to believe that fighting back works."
She was right, of course. Whatever came next, this moment mattered. The community needed hope, needed proof that their efforts had not been in vain.
But as Demri watched the celebration unfold around him, he could not shake the feeling that they were dancing on the edge of a precipice.
---
The celebration extended into the evening, spilling out from the community center into the surrounding streets. Music played, food appeared from seemingly nowhere, and for a few hours, Millbrook felt like the neighborhood it could be—vibrant, connected, alive with possibility.
Demri circulated through the crowd, accepting congratulations he did not entirely deserve, making small talk with people whose names he was still learning. And throughout it all, he watched Tomás.
The young man was present but not participating. He stood at the edges of the celebration, arms crossed, expression flat. The seed of despair Demri had planted was already visible in his posture, his isolation, his failure to share in the collective joy.
*See?* the curse said. *It's already taking root. By this time next week, he'll be questioning whether the victory even matters. By month's end, he'll be ready to give up entirely.*
"Not if I can help it."
*And how, exactly, do you propose to help? Every word you speak risks making it worse. Every interaction reinforces the connection. You are literally the worst possible person to counter what you've done.*
The observation was valid, which made it more frustrating. Demri could not directly approach Tomás—the risk of additional corruption was too great. But he could not leave the young man to spiral either.
He needed someone else. Someone without the supernatural weight of his presence. Someone who cared about Tomás and could provide the encouragement he needed.
Priya. Tomás's girlfriend. She was standing nearby, engaged in animated conversation with a group of medical students. She had the sharp mind and compassionate heart to reach Tomás, if she knew what was happening.
But how could Demri explain the situation without revealing his own nature?
He approached Priya carefully, waiting for a natural break in her conversation before drawing her aside.
"Can I talk to you for a minute? About Tomás?"
Priya's expression immediately shifted to concern. "Is something wrong? He's been acting strange all day."
"I noticed. I think the pressure has been getting to him. The fight with Derek, the stress of potentially losing his family's building..." Demri chose his words carefully. "He had a moment of despair yesterday. I'm worried he might be spiraling."
"Spiraling how?"
"Losing faith. Starting to believe the fight is pointless, that nothing we do matters." Demri met her eyes. "He needs someone to remind him why he's fighting. Someone he trusts completely."
"And that's me?"
"I think so. He loves you. He listens to you. If anyone can reach him, it's you."
Priya studied him with the analytical gaze of a future physician. "Why are you telling me this instead of handling it yourself? You're closer to the campaign than I am."
"Because I think I might have made things worse when I tried to help." The admission cost him. "I said some things that... didn't land the way I intended. I'm worried that if I try again, I'll just push him further away."
It was as close to the truth as he could come without exposing his supernatural nature. And it seemed to satisfy Priya, whose expression softened with understanding.
"You tried to commiserate and ended up validating his negative thoughts," she said. "Classic empathy trap. Medical school teaches us about that—sometimes trying to show you understand someone's pain just makes them feel like the pain is justified."
"Exactly." Demri seized on the explanation. "I think he needs someone to challenge his despair, not confirm it. Someone to show him that fighting can work, that victories are possible."
"Like the victory we just won."
"Yes. But he needs to feel it, not just know it intellectually. He needs to reconnect with why he started fighting in the first place."
Priya nodded slowly. "I'll talk to him. Tonight, after the celebration dies down." She hesitated. "Demri? Whatever you said to him—don't beat yourself up about it. You were trying to help. Sometimes that's all any of us can do."
"Thank you."
She moved off to find Tomás, and Demri watched her go with a mixture of hope and anxiety. He had done what he could—enlisted an ally, provided direction, created the possibility of recovery. But whether it would be enough to counter the supernatural damage he had inflicted, he could not know.
*Delegating the cleanup to mortals*, the curse observed. *Clever. But you're still responsible for the original harm. That doesn't go away because someone else is doing the repair work.*
"I know. But at least I'm trying to fix it."
*Are you? Or are you just managing your own guilt?*
Demri had no answer.
---
The night wore on, and the celebration gradually wound down. Families departed, taking sleepy children home. The music faded. The street vendors packed up their carts. By midnight, only a small core of dedicated activists remained, sharing drinks and stories in the community center's main hall.
Demri sat in a corner, nursing a beer he had barely touched, watching the interactions around him. Aylin was deep in conversation with Maria, their heads bent together over what appeared to be planning documents. Jade was entertaining a small group with increasingly outlandish stories about gallery patrons. Carlos was teaching a card game to a group of teenagers who had refused to leave.
And Tomás... Tomás was on the front steps, talking quietly with Priya. From what Demri could see, the conversation was intense but not hostile. Priya was speaking more than listening, her gestures emphatic, her expression earnest.
*Your intervention*, the curse noted. *Do you think it will work?*
"I don't know."
*Would you like me to tell you?*
Demri's blood ran cold. "You can do that? You can see the outcome?"
*I can see the probabilities. The corruption I helped you plant has a certain... trajectory. I can calculate whether the mortal's intervention is sufficient to alter it.*
"And what do you see?"
A pause. Then, with what sounded almost like reluctance: *The odds are approximately equal. Her efforts may counter your damage, or they may prove insufficient. The outcome depends on variables I cannot fully predict—the depth of his original faith, the strength of their relationship, the specific words she chooses.*
"Fifty-fifty."
*Roughly speaking. Though the exact probabilities shift constantly based on their interaction.*
It was not encouraging, but it was not hopeless either. Fifty-fifty meant there was a real chance Priya could reach Tomás. A real chance the damage could be repaired.
Demri watched the conversation on the steps, willing it to succeed, knowing he could not intervene directly, feeling the weight of his earlier failure pressing down upon him.
"You okay?"
Jade had materialized beside him, drink in hand, her expression uncharacteristically soft.
"I've been better."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly."
"Cool. Me neither." She dropped onto the seat beside him, uninvited. "I just wanted to say—whatever's going on with you, I'm not as suspicious as I used to be."
"That's comforting."
"Don't be a smartass. I'm trying to give you a compliment." She took a swig of her drink. "You've been solid these past weeks. Present. Dependable. Not the behavior of a con artist or a lunatic."
"High praise indeed."
"It is, actually. My bar for trusting people is very low." She followed his gaze to the steps, where Tomás and Priya were still talking. "Worried about him?"
"Yes."
"He'll be okay. Tomás is stronger than he looks. All that passionate idealism—it comes from somewhere real. He might wobble, but he won't fall."
*She doesn't know what she's saying*, the curse observed. *She has no idea about the supernatural weight of his wobbling.*
But Jade's confidence was not nothing. She knew Tomás, knew his character, knew his capacity for resilience. If she believed he could recover, perhaps that belief was worth something.
"I hope you're right," Demri said.
"I'm always right. It's my most annoying quality." She finished her drink and stood. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we start figuring out what comes next. And it would be nice if our resident mystery man was actually conscious for the planning."
"I'll do my best."
"See that you do."
She wandered off, leaving Demri alone with his thoughts and the distant murmur of Tomás and Priya's conversation.
---
He did not sleep that night.
Instead, he sat by his window, watching the city lights and thinking about what he had done. The curse was quiet—unusually so—allowing him space to process.
He had corrupted someone. After weeks of successful resistance, he had slipped. It had been accidental, unintentional, but the result was the same. A shadow now grew in Tomás's soul, a seed of despair that might or might not be countered by Priya's intervention.
Was this his future? An endless series of small failures, each one planting a new shadow, each one adding to the darkness in the world? Even if he never gave in completely, even if he fought every step of the way, the occasional lapses would accumulate. Death by a thousand cuts—not his death, but the death of hope in everyone he touched.
*You're catastrophizing*, the curse said, breaking its silence. *One partial corruption does not define your entire trajectory.*
"Are you... trying to comfort me?"
*I'm providing perspective. Your self-flagellation serves no purpose. If you're going to resist me—and apparently you are—you should do so efficiently. Wallowing in guilt makes you weaker, not stronger.*
"Why do you care about my efficiency?"
*Because I find absolute defeat boring. If you simply gave in, my existence would become tedious. A challenge, on the other hand—a genuine struggle—that is interesting.*
The curse wanted to be entertained. It was such an absurd motivation that Demri almost laughed.
"So you're rooting for me to resist? Even though resistance is supposedly futile?"
*I'm rooting for an interesting narrative. Whether that ends in your triumph or your fall is less important than the journey itself.* A pause. *Though I confess, your refusal to give in has exceeded my expectations. I've begun to wonder if you might actually succeed.*
"Succeed in what? Breaking the curse?"
*That, or finding some other resolution. The cosmos is vast, and possibilities I had not considered continue to emerge. Your contact with Seraphiel, for instance. If his investigation proves your innocence, the curse's foundation might be undermined.*
"You think the curse could be broken if I'm proven innocent?"
*I think any curse is only as strong as the conviction behind it. If the celestial court's judgment is revealed to be flawed, the metaphysical weight of your condemnation might shift. Whether that shift would be sufficient to free you... I cannot say.*
It was the most helpful information the curse had ever provided. And it came at the strangest possible moment—after Demri's first failure, when he was at his lowest point.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
*Because you have proven you are not entirely what you were made to be. That makes you interesting. And interesting things deserve to understand their own potential.*
Demri turned from the window, processing the curse's words. If innocence could weaken the curse, then Seraphiel's investigation was not just about clearing his name. It was potentially the key to his freedom.
But innocence required evidence. And evidence of a celestial frame-up would not be easy to find.
*The answer is closer than you think*, the curse said, echoing the words from Demri's earlier dream. *Look within.*
"What does that mean?"
*I cannot tell you directly—the nature of the curse prevents it. But I can point you in directions. And the direction I am pointing is inward.* A pause. *You believe your memories of the alleged crimes are simply missing. What if they are not missing, but hidden? What if the truth is locked inside you, waiting to be found?*
The implications were staggering. If the curse was right—and it had no reason to lie about this—then the evidence Demri needed was not somewhere in the celestial realm. It was in his own mind, buried beneath layers of suppression and trauma.
He needed to remember. Not the fragments that surfaced in dreams, but the complete truth of what had happened. And to do that, he would need to go back to the only place that had ever triggered significant memory retrieval.
The mosque.
---
Dawn found Demri on the steps of Masjid al-Nur, waiting for the early morning prayers to conclude so he could enter. The building seemed to pulse with accumulated faith, its light visible even in the growing daylight.
*This is risky*, the curse warned. *The light here is intense. It might help you remember, or it might simply burn you.*
"I have to try."
*Then I will do what I can to shield you. Not because I wish to protect you, but because your destruction would end my entertainment.*
An alliance of convenience. Demri would take what he could get.
When the prayers concluded and the morning worshippers departed, he slipped inside. The main hall was quiet now, peaceful, the air thick with the residue of devotion. He made his way to the mihrab—the prayer niche where the light was most concentrated—and knelt within its confines.
The first wave of pain hit immediately.
It was worse than before—the light tearing at him, seeking the darkness within, demanding that he either purify or destroy himself. The curse provided what protection it could, but the shield was thin, permeable, barely sufficient to prevent immediate annihilation.
*Focus*, it urged. *The memories. Look for the memories.*
Demri reached inward, past the pain, past the burning, into the deepest recesses of his consciousness. The memories of his trial were there, familiar territory. But beneath them lay something else—a locked door, a sealed vault, a barrier that had been constructed to keep him from the truth.
He pushed against it.
The barrier resisted. It was not natural, he realized—it had been built. Deliberately. Someone had constructed walls within his own mind to prevent him from remembering.
*Yes*, the curse whispered. *Someone. The same someone who framed you. They could not risk you remembering the truth.*
Demri pushed harder. The pain intensified—not just from the light now, but from the barrier itself, which fought back with the desperation of a final defense.
And then, with a sensation like reality tearing, the barrier cracked.
Memories flooded through.
Not the false memories of corruption the court had presented. The real memories. The truth.
He saw himself in heaven, receiving a mission from a superior he trusted. He saw the pure ones he was sent to protect—not corrupt. He saw himself doing exactly what he was supposed to do, fulfilling his duties with the dedication he had always shown.
And then he saw the betrayal.
His superior—a celestial whose name burned in his consciousness like a brand—altering records, fabricating evidence, painting a picture of corruption that did not exist. He saw the conspiracy unfolding, watched himself be framed for crimes that had been committed by others, observed his own trial through the lens of truth rather than deception.
*There*, the curse said. *There is your innocence. And there is the one who stole it.*
A name. A face. A celestial who had sacrificed Demri to cover their own corruption.
The knowledge should have felt like triumph. Instead, it felt like grief—for the centuries he had spent believing he might be guilty, for the suffering he had endured, for the damage done in the name of a false judgment.
But beneath the grief, anger stirred. A righteous fury that had nothing to do with the curse's darkness.
He knew the truth now. And the truth demanded justice.
---