Daverion entered and surveyed the place.
The walls were covered in light gray, unbleached linen. On them, objects were arranged with precision: paintings, shields, musical instruments. Nothing seemed out of place. The tables were draped in linen cloths, their centerpieces neatly aligned. The seats were tall armchairs. The air was permeated with balms and the dry scent of fabric.
The place was full. Scattered laughter could be heard, along with the constant murmur of overlapping voices.
It was not a single conversation, but many.
Near the entrance, someone spoke in a low voice:
"Did you hear what happened at the still lake…?"
At another table, further inside:
"Only destruction and ruin remain."
From a different corner:
"They say there's an abyss there now. Pure darkness."
A little farther away, between drinks:
"It was said that Drark, one of the most powerful creatures on this planet, lived there."
Another voice, different, conspiratorial:
"Some say it was the Celestial Court."
And farther still, almost as a passing remark:
"There are madmen who say it was a sovereign. Such sublime beings would not waste their time on such things."
All the voices, scattered and separate, revolved around the same thing.
The destruction of the lake.
An event that had shaken the people of this world.
There was Daverion, listening to everything that was being said about him.
If they knew that the one who caused such a commotion was there among them, smiling, they would surely not be so calm.
"How could such sublime beings waste their time on such things…?" he muttered with annoyance.
Are they looking down on me?
Of course it was a sovereign. And one of the three most powerful.
Even if I'm not number one, I am the youngest.
He thought it with mild amusement.
Daverion moved from the first floor to the third without anyone noticing. On the third floor, there was someone tasked with checking whether guests wore a wristband, as only the elite of the dynasty were allowed there. Daverion passed by him unnoticed, avoiding unnecessary inconvenience.
He found a seat near the window and sat down, watching the sunset.
Was leaving everything behind worth it?
Daverion leaned back in the armchair and let the fading light brush against his face.
I had parents.
And yet, I killed them.
Not because I hated them.
I loved them.
I saw what awaited them if they remained alive.
No assumptions.
No fears.
Facts.
They would have been used.
Worn down.
There was no escape.
There was no refuge.
I was young.
With enough power to kill…
but not enough to save.
I understood something simple:
love does not stop destiny.
Between a slow death
and an immediate end without suffering,
I chose the end.
It was quick.
They did not suffer.
I did not tell them anything.
Not out of coldness,
but because giving them hope
would have been the cruelest way to lie to them.
He turned his gaze back to the window.
He had no woman.
Not because he could not have one,
but because all closeness creates a fracture.
He thought about it.
About caring for someone.
About promising presence.
About the exact moment when that promise would fail.
That was when he understood another truth:
To love is to commit to a protection
that will always fail sooner or later.
Life, in the end, is about feeling.
Nothing more.
Pleasure and pain are not opposites.
They are different stimuli.
Whether a sensation is good or bad
is not an absolute fact.
It is a decision.
And deciding implies control.
That is why he had no one.
Not because of emptiness.
Because of clarity.
At a nearby table, someone laughed.
At another, an argument was drowned in wine.
Love can be felt for anyone.
People love one person.
Then another.
Then several.
Not because love is eternal.
Because it can be repeated.
It is a force that pushes one to stay.
When that push fades, it is abandoned without remorse.
He wondered whether someone could love a stone.
If they did, it would not be love.
It would be obsession.
And then he thought of something more disturbing:
When someone feels pleasure in destruction,
a monster is not born by accident.
It is born because they chose to submit to what they feel.
All for emotions.
All for sensations.
Miserable.
Not for feeling,
but for allowing what they feel to decide for them.
To be a slave to emotion
is the most vulgar form of existence.
Daverion closed his eyes for a moment.
There was no regret.
No pride.
Only certainty.
Or so he thought.
"Excuse me, sir," a voice said nearby.
Daverion opened his eyes.
"What would you like to order?" asked Mael, the waiter.
He was respectful and attentive. Everyone who reached this floor held power.
"Bring me the best wine you have," Daverion said indifferently.
"Of course, sir. We have one of our finest wines. It's called **Origin**."
Daverion considered it briefly and nodded.
"Yes. That will do. Bring it."
"Certainly, sir. I'll return shortly."
Mael left at once.
When he returned, he held the bottle carefully, as though its name itself demanded reverence.
"Origin is no ordinary wine, sir. It is made from grapes grown on ancient land. The soil retains minerals no longer found elsewhere. The process is long. It does not seek sweetness or indulgence. It is deep. Persistent. It is meant for those who know how to wait."
Daverion listened without interrupting.
Not out of interest, but courtesy.
"Pour it," he said at last.
The liquid fell into the glass with a clean sound. Dark. Dense.
Daverion took it with one hand. He did not raise it to inspect it. He did not need to.
He tasted it.
The flavor unfolded clearly. Dry at first. Firm. Unadorned.
Then came a warm, steady depth—present without intrusion, lingering calmly on the palate, patient.
Daverion smiled faintly.
It was good.
Not because it was rare.
Not because it was expensive.
But because it was well made.
Another sip.
There was balance. Control.
Nothing excessive. Nothing lacking.
"This," he thought, "is a minor pleasure, well executed."
It demanded no attention.
Asked for no devotion.
It simply existed, ready to be enjoyed.
He liked that.
Enjoying without attachment.
Taking what the moment offered,
and moving on.
He set the glass down calmly.
"Origin," he murmured. "A fitting name."
Daverion opened his eyes.
The evening light had changed.
No longer warm.
Low. Weary.
For a brief instant, he felt something else.
Not regret.
Not sadness.
A faint friction.
As if a truth he had accepted for centuries
did not quite align with the silence around him.
He tightened his fingers around the glass.
It wasn't doubt.
So he told himself.
Just a misplaced sensation.
He drank.
The wine was still good.