The valley was awake before Allisiario was. Or perhaps it had never slept. Smoke curled from the chimneys of angel courts, and demon merchants rattled their carts across the cobblestones, their voices sharp as iron. The world was always moving, always whispering, always watching. And Allis felt it — the weight of eyes, the weight of expectation, the weight of bloodlines that were not his choice but had become his inheritance.
He hated mornings because mornings reminded him of duty. The katana at his hip was not just steel; it was a reminder that he was his father's son. The silver feather tucked into its sheath was not just ornament; it was a reminder that he was his mother's child. Two halves stitched together, and yet the stitching never felt strong enough. Every day, someone pulled at the seams.
"Man up, punk," he muttered to himself, echoing the words he'd overheard from older demons who thought him soft, from angels who thought him dangerous, from a sibling who thought him stubborn. It was a phrase that clung to him like frost, a dare and a curse. He repeated it not because he believed it, but because he wanted to see if saying it aloud would make him stronger.
Everywhere he walked, the world judged him. Angels whispered about his eyes — too dark, too sharp, too much like Daemon's. Demons whispered about his posture — too upright, too careful, too much like Irene's. He was never enough of one thing, always too much of another. He was a contradiction dressed in leather and feathers, and contradictions made people nervous.
Allis knew the rumors. He knew the way children pointed at him in the market, the way mothers pulled their daughters aside when he passed, the way fathers muttered about scandal and impurity. He knew the way the council spoke of him as if he were a prophecy waiting to break. He knew, and he carried it like a blade pressed against his ribs.
But he also knew the valley itself. He knew the way the river bent like a question mark, the way the lilies leaned like listening ears, the way the mountains darkened when storms gathered in his chest. He knew the way the world mirrored him, and sometimes he wondered if the valley was his only true ally — a place that did not care if he was angel or demon, only that he was alive.
His family was a fortress and a fracture. Irene's smile was a shield, Daemon's silence a weapon. Ellina's laughter was a blade disguised as music. Together they were a kingdom stitched from contradictions, and Allis was the seam that threatened to tear.
He loved his mother, though her love sometimes felt like a burden. She wanted him to be proud, to be strong, to be more than rumor. She wanted him to carry the angelic grace she had mastered, the discipline she had carved into treaties and laws. But Allis was not grace. He was fire. He was storm. He was the son of a demon king, and sometimes he wanted to burn the treaties just to see if the world would finally stop pretending it was civilized.
He feared his father, though fear sometimes felt like respect. Daemon's presence was a shadow that stretched across every hallway, every courtyard, every battlefield, every galaxy. His voice could silence armies, his temper could ignite wars. And yet, when Daemon looked at him, Allis saw something softer — pride, regret, a love that was too heavy to carry. He wanted to be worthy of that look, but worthiness was a word that slipped through his fingers like smoke.
He fought with his sister, though fighting sometimes felt like love. Ellina was light sharpened into discipline, rules turned into weapons. She mocked him, challenged him, provoked him. She called him monster when she wanted to wound, twin when she wanted to heal. But she never called him "brother", not once. Said he has to "earn his title". He hated her certainty, envied her confidence, admired her precision. She was everything he was not, and he was everything she was not.
Opposites.
Blood was a story written before he was born. Demon blood brewed violence, angel blood brewed law. Together they brewed scandal. Allis carried that scandal like armor, though it cut him more than it protected him. He wanted to be his own person, not a symbol, not a prophecy, not a lesson. But the world did not care what he wanted. The world cared only for the story it could tell about him.
"Man up, punk," he whispered again, this time to the reflection in the river. His reflection stared back, split in half — one side angel, one side demon. He wanted to smash the water, to shatter the reflection, to prove that he was more than halves. But smashing water only made ripples, and ripples always returned to stillness.
He thought of his father's words: Love is often written in blood. He thought of his mother's words: Softness is strength when wielded with care. He thought of his sister's words: Be a better lesson. And he wondered if words were enough to hold him together.
That night, as the valley slept uneasy, Allis stood on the roof of his home and looked at the stars. They burned like questions, like accusations, like promises. He wanted to answer them. He wanted to shout into the sky that he was not a monster, not a prophecy, not a pawn. He wanted to shout that he was Allisiario Dame Daemon, son of contradictions, brother of storms, heir of scandal, and that he would carve his own story.
But shouting would wake the valley, and the valley already judged him enough. So he whispered instead, whispered to the stars, whispered to himself: "Man up, punk. Not because they tell you to. Because you choose to."
And in that whisper, he felt something shift. Not strength, not certainty, not grace. But resolve. Resolve to carry the weight, resolve to face the storm, resolve to be more than halves. Resolve to be whole.
The valley listened. The stars listened. And for the first time, Allis believed they might understand.
"I'm Allisiario Dame Daemon..."
"And I'm not a monster."
The morning was a blade, and Allis carried it in his chest. He walked through the valley with his katana at his hip once again, the silver feather gleaming faintly against the sheath. Every step was a reminder: he was both son and scandal, heir and exile, promise and threat.
The market was alive with voices — angels bargaining for incense, demons hawking spices, children darting between stalls with laughter sharp as bells. Yet when Allis passed, the laughter dimmed. Mothers pulled their children closer. Fathers narrowed their eyes. He felt their judgment like frost on his skin.
"Man up, punk," he muttered under his breath, the phrase a shield against their stares. He hated the words, but he needed them. They were armor, even if they cut him from the inside.
At the training yard, Allis drew his blade. The steel sang when it left the sheath, a sound that silenced whispers. He practiced footwork until his calves burned, each strike a question, each parry an answer he did not yet believe.
Ellina appeared, feathers catching the light like sharpened glass. She smirked, arms crossed. "Still brooding, twin?"
Allis rolled his eyes. "Still mocking, Ellina?"
She stepped forward, knives glinting at her wings. "Fight me then..."
He hesitated. Not because he feared her, but because he feared himself. His anger was a storm, and storms did not care who they destroyed.
"Man up, punk," he whispered again, and raised his blade.
Their clash was thunder. Feather against steel, light against shadow. Ellina moved with precision, every strike calculated, every feint deliberate. Allis moved with fire, every swing fueled by frustration, every block a refusal to break.
"Too slow," she taunted, wings slicing the air.
"Too arrogant!" He snapped, blade flashing.
They fought until sweat dripped from their brows, until the crowd gathered in hushed awe. Angels whispered about scandal, demons muttered about prophecy. The twins were spectacle, contradiction, danger.
Then Daemon's voice cut through the yard like a blade through silence. "Enough."
The twins froze. Their father's silhouette loomed, crimson eyes burning. He did not shout again; he did not need to. His presence was command enough.
Ellina lowered her wings. Allis sheathed his blade. The crowd dispersed, but the whispers lingered.
That evening, the family gathered at the long table. Candlelight flickered against carved stone, shadows stretching like secrets. Irene smiled, her voice soft as she asked about their day. Ellina spoke of council debates, her words sharp and certain. Allis stayed silent, staring at the hearth's dying embers.
Daemon watched him. "You carry something heavy," he said, voice low.
Allis clenched his jaw. "I carry everything."
Ellina scoffed. "You carry your temper, twin. That's all."
He glared at her, but Irene's hand touched his arm, gentle, grounding. "You carry more than temper," she whispered. "You carry hope, even if you don't see it, son..."
Hope?
The word felt foreign, like a language he had not yet learned.
Later, alone on the roof, Allis stared at the stars. They burned like accusations, like promises, like questions. He whispered to them: "Man up, punk."
"You have to."
"You need to..."
The stars did not answer, but the valley listened. The river bent like a question mark, the lilies leaned like listening ears, the mountains darkened with his storm.
He closed his hand around the silver feather, his mother's gift, and vowed: he would not be prophecy. He would not be scandal. He would not be halves. He would be whole.
And in that vow, he felt something shift. Not strength, not certainty, but resolve. Resolve to face the world, to face his family, to face himself. Resolve to man up — not as a curse, but as a choice.