Before she was the goddess of everything, before treaties and betrayals and the weight of galaxies, Irene was simply a girl with wings too large for her body and dreams too soft for the world.
She had lived in the Temple of Angels, where the sun kissed the marble floors and the air smelled of lavender and old wisdom. The elders called her "blessed," but Irene only knew herself as curious. She believed in kindness like it was gravity—inevitable, invisible, and everywhere.
She thought the stars were secrets waiting to be whispered. That every creature, even the ones with claws and shadows, could be taught love if you spoke gently enough.
When Irene was ten, she tried to befriend a demon cub lost near the border. She wrapped it in her cloak and sang lullabies until it stopped growling. Though, the elders punished her for it.
"You cannot tame destruction," they said.
But Irene cried that night, not for herself, but for the cub who had learned fear before it learned love.
She trusted too easily. She believed every compliment was truth, every smile was sincere. She gave away feathers to strangers who said they needed luck. She wrote poems to the moon and buried them in the garden, hoping the stars would read them.
Once, she followed a voice into the woods—a voice that mimicked her mother's. She was found hours later, shivering and silent. The voice had belonged to a Mimic demon, the demons who were known for mimicry. They could take the form of anyone, and even change their voice too. It was rumored that those kind of demons lure children like Irene to slaughter them...
Irene never spoke of it again.
But even then, she did not stop believing that the world could be better if only someone tried hard enough.
Thus, Irene and Daemon met at this time as well. Irene was a small angel, yet she could move galaxies as if it were a game of chess. Daemon, however, was a walking hazard.
He came like dusk—soft, deliberate, and full of shadows. Daemon did not rush her. He asked questions that felt like invitations. He left daisies at her door, each petal a practiced gesture. He praised her in the Hall, but never too loudly. He listened, and Irene mistook that listening for love.
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that someone could see her light and not want to use it. She let him into her orbit, and for a time, she felt seen.
But Daemon's silences were not empty. They were strategic. His compliments were rehearsed. His gaze lingered just long enough to be remembered, but never long enough to be understood. Irene did not see the edges then. She saw only the softness.
Later, when she learned of the dagger he carried—etched with runes of conquest—she felt the old ache return. She had been gullible. But she had also been brave. To trust is to risk. And Irene had always been brave. She was young, yes, but naive.
And that gullibleness will get her killed...
And change everyone...
And everything....
And the next generations to come...