A man knelt in the vast hall of Reverend Steppe, prostrating before a dark, twisted sculpture wielding a sword of impossible design, no human hand could have crafted it.
He wore a black compression shirt, his sculpted body tensing beneath it as though trying to burst free.
This was the Eyes of the Night, Liam Asterion, praying to the God of Darkness with one request consuming his thoughts. Something that had tormented him for ages. Before this sculpture, he would get his answer.
When he was done praying, he turned toward an old man who was fragile and weak, looking only a day away from death.
He smiled.
"I'm about to set out on a journey. I may never meet you again, rest in peace."
The old man smiled in return.
"That's rude, you little prick. You're preparing for your Nemesis, aren't you?"
Liam's smile grew warmer.
"You know me best."
