When the Red Moon is still on the Sky.

Lajara could not remember the last time Atuc could sleep like that, a slumber of tranquility, a sleep of peace. Atuc slept like a baby with no dark mist of turbulence inside her dream, without that leaden scene where Atuc tasted the ash of her happiness, without the need for Lajara to intervene with her demonic power.

Atuc slept like she was that eight years old girl again. There was no moan of the departed. There was no screech of steel meet steel. There was no cracking of fire and embers. There was no shout and curse. There was no mourning tear. There was no reason for Lajara to use her power. This was Atuc’s first true rest in the last seven years.

But Lajara was not sure if Atuc realized that.

Waking is the domain of mortals. Slumbers and Dreams are the domain of Gods and Demon Lords, and the dream demons. For that reason alone, the succubi are much envied by other demons but detested by Gods and Demon Lords.

Dreams are made of the mist of desires, both hidden and open desires. Bathing in the mist of desires, Lajara found the grip of her power. Lajara’s power was at the strongest when Atuc was asleep.

Since there was nothing for Lajara to do, she thought of resuming writing her diary. It has been so long since the last time Lajara wrote her diary. Perhaps, as long as the number of years that Atuc has kept that accursed being alive. Lajara read the last words that she has written seven years ago.

…

Your Majesty, true love means true suffering when that love is no more. I have learned that the more you love, the more painful it would be when that love is no longer exist.

It is painful to not know love. Our heart is empty without love. But it is a thousand time more painful to experience the loss of your true love. It hurts. It hurts so much that you can no longer be yourself. It hurts so much that you would become someone else to live through and with that pain.

Your Majesty, that makes me question myself if we were already perfect as we are, a succubus.

We seek love. We admire love. We romanticize love. We live and die in the name of love.

Yet, love would always elude us. We are romanticists who were born unable to understand love.

Perhaps, we are created like that so we would experience less pain in life. Perhaps, we are perfect when we are like this. Perhaps, we should admire love from a distance even when it is within our sight and grasp.

It’s painful to not know love. But it is even more painful when you know love.

I felt like I am regretting falling in love.

…

Lajara first started writing a spectral diary when she has come to term that she could no longer feel the red ground of Kharigan with her naked feet again. Lajara was a dream demon, a succubus, a daughter of Lust the Beautiful Demon Lord. Was, because right now, she is not so sure what she is now. Her flesh and soul fused with Atuc’s for over two decades. Since that moment, Lajara was neither a human nor a succubus. But even, Lajara retained a few of her demonic power.

Writing a spectral diary was easy for a dream demon. When Atuc went to sleep, Lajara started writing her diary on the mist of dream, something that every dream demon was capable of. Leaving words behind inside the mist of a mortal’s dream was something the succubus often did. It was like leaving the message to the other succubus, gods and the other Demon Lords, “We were here before you did.”

Lajara considered herself as one of the more talkative individuals among her race. Perhaps, she talked too much, as her sisters would describe her.

“More love and less talking,” as they would always tell her.

But Lajara could not help it. Talking was one of her many sources of enjoyment in life. She enjoyed kissing with her sisters and making love to them like any other succubus. But she loved talking with them even more.

So, she has always been the strange one among her people. But that was what others would describe the Succubi and Lust, “Strange”. But then, to be labeled as “Strange” from the mouth of the other races was strange for what strange is.

A banshee has once told Lajara that she and her race was strange. But that banshee screamed during the day and shrieked during the night. She shrieked on a dusty day. She shrieked on a sunny day. She shrieked all the time. She shrieked on days are that neither beautiful nor ugly, and yet she would look at a succubus and label a succubus with one word, “Strange.” Thus, Lajara laughed and pushed that banshee down, sealing that shrieking mouth with her full lips, and asked the banshee who was strange one when she was done with kissing.

“Make love, not war.” That is the way of the Succubi. That is Lust’s favorite words and that’s how a succubus was expected to live within the succubi’s society.

Love was a succubus’ calling.

Even back then, when the First Divine War was reaching its climax, the time when every miracle existed for two purposes, either for destruction or protection, nothing else.

Lust was on Escana just like many other Demon Lords. But not for war, not for blood or carnage, not for madness or destruction, not for vengeance, not for domination, not for greatness or morbid enjoyment. Love. Love was her calling. It has always been, true love. “A succubus who knows true love is the happiest succubus,” as Lust has constantly reminded Lajara and her sisters when Lajara was on Kharigan.

Everything that the Beautiful Demon Lord has ever done, they were done in the name of love and the quest of true love.

Every succubus has her own definition of what true love means, just like everyone would have her own definition of a perfect lover is.

After all, no love is made equal. No loin are created equal. Searching for true love was almost an imprinting instinct of a succubus. And yet, love was an endless pursuit, love was an extremely difficult goal for a succubus, true love was an even more unattainable goal. Even Lust has yet to find out her true love, and she was queen and the most beautiful succubus. If Lust has already found her true love, the number of the succubus would have stopped increasing.

Pride was the closest to such a being, an ideal lover, a perfect lover to Lust and every succubus. It was not difficult to see why. Most succubi swooned and fainted on the spot when they saw Pride for the first time. There was nothing strange about that. Such was the common occurrence in a succubus’s life, swooning and fainting. When that tuck inside a succubus’ heart became too strong, her legs weaken and forgot to breathe.

Pride, the Golden Lioness was one among of those Demon Lords that possessed two forms, a titanoid form that she was born with and a conception form that manifested from her authority and miracle.

Pride, was strong, but not just strong due to her authority and the miracles that she wielded.

Her strength reflected in her look and her confidence. Her strength reflected in both of her forms, titanoid and conception.

Pride’s conception form was beautiful. But her titanoid form was even more. Her long mane braided and cared with a golden luster. Her prized honey-colored face has remained half hidden behind her elegant feline mask, always. Pride’s metal mask was a work of ingenuity unlike that grey veil on the Goddess Niwdar’s face. Pride and Niwdar, Demon Lord and Goddess, the two of them wore mask and armor as if their mask and armor were their normal cloth. And yet, they could not be more different.

Niwdar’s veil was there to hide her face. But that metal mask on Pride’s countenance served to highlight the contrast between her two majestic eyes. Pride’s eyes were the day and night of Escana. One was bright like the sun, hot and fiery, framed by a golden comb made of long lashes and thin brows. The other one was a dusky sky, shadowed by the mask, deep, violet and cold. That mask was genius. It revealed only half of the breathing-taking piece of artwork that was revered as the Perfect Demon Lord. It left the other half to people’s imagination, adding an acquired mysterious touch to Pride’s beauty. Other than Munezee and Lust, nobody has ever seen the wholesomeness of Pride’s beauty.

Where Niwdar’s multi-scales armor removed all traces of feminity out of her image, Pride’s armor existed to give praise to her own beauty.

Pride’s figure was riveted with the ideal muscles and sturdiness of a man but filled with the ideal grace and the golden curves of a woman. Pride was a woman but her appearance was like the ideal fusion of a man and woman. She was a paragon of both world, but not just a paragon, the paragon. When Pride walked, it was a sight to behold, the slayer of a succubus, a sight worthy of dying. Her strides were regal, wide and firm with confidence. Every stride was power and authority, but soundless and graceful like that of a cat. When Pride walked, her long and golden legs crossed naturally, her fertile hips would sway seductively. Such was a sight that no succubus could resist staring even if staring could cost their consciousness and embarrassment in public.

Some succubus preferred the sight of a man’s body over a woman’s body. Others argued otherwise, forming their own respective factions. Some had a neutral preference between the two. But every succubus idolized Pride. Pride’s appearance being the paragon of both world, was so illegal that it had to be a sin.

When Pride talked, it was an ideal song of the strong and the powerful. It was always quiet and slow like the coming of a season, but every word was magnetic and magical. Pride could talk for days and nobody would complain.

And, Pride has remained that way, the closest to be an ideal lover of any succubus, a projection of every succubus’ ardent thought, an idol to admire. True love is an ideal, and ideal is perfect. But the reality is not. Reality is, nobody is perfect, not even Pride, the Golden Lioness, the Perfect Demon Lord.

Perhaps, that was why Pride would remain the closest to be an ideal lover of Lust. She could not show Lust what true love looked like. But Pride was not the one at fault, never Pride. No succubus has been born with the ability to experience love, let alone true love.

Reading her own words from seven years ago and reminiscing her of her past, Lajara inadvertently smiled.

Seven years, that was a very long time for a human. Yet, it was very short for a succubus, like a blink of an eye. Just like Lust, a succubus’ beauty would remain untouched by the passage of time. But unlike Lust, a succubus’ life could be taken by blades and magic.

Seven years, that should have been a blink of an eye for Lajara. But Lajara felt that she must have lived an eternity in these seven years.

Perhaps, that was what resignation truly means.

Lajara found herself became infinitely wiser in these seven years. Lajara felt that she has become much wiser, perhaps wiser than even Munezee the Maker of Demon Lords. Perhaps, that was just her imagination.

Looking back, that was close.

Neither Lajara nor Atuc has said a single word about that, Atuc’s secret plan to carve the most wicked wedge on Bloodbeard’s heart. The two of them bantered, cursed, mocked and got angry at each other. But neither spoke a word of that topic. Though, even if Atuc had never mentioned her ultimate intention to Lajara, Lajara could see it. She has been by Atuc’s side for over twenty years.

Atuc used Lajara’s powers to grow that mole on her chest and even turned the color of her hair into a cascade of river reed. She learned to talk like Bloodbeard’s mother and walk like his mother. She acted according to the ideal image of his mother that Bloodbeard had inside his heart.

Slowly, Atuc would turn that ideal image of a mother inside Bloodbeard’s heart into her image without him even knowing. And when Bloodbeard was ready, ready for real love, ready to become a changed man, ready to move on, Atuc would make him kill her with his own hands and then live the rest of his life with a wedge in his heart, a wedge so large that it could never close. Atuc would make Bloodbeard entered the hall of Mistress Death with that wedge inside his heart remained unsealed after he has but lived out his life.

That was Atuc’s revenge. Nasty and cruel. In a way, Atuc reminded Lajara of Flokí when he was not smiling, or Yasubotay when he was scheming. Sometimes, mortals and Demon Lords, the difference between them are power. One wielded the force of miracles at their command whereas the other could only beg for miracles. One possessed the power to bend reality while the other had none.

Which was why Lajara was glad that she was a succubus. Revenge, destruction, carnage, madness, such nasty things had nothing to do with a succubus’ love life.

Lajara found no enjoyment in using her power to please a man like Bloodbeard. She loathed using her power to court his wives under his command while he was watching and courting a poor random woman to death. A succubus made love to whoever she loved, wherever and whenever she wanted. If it was forced, it was not Love. It was insulting that Lajara had to court a person under another person’s command, especially when that command came from a man like Bloodbeard. Lajara hated doing such things. But she hated watching Atuc did them even more. It was even more insulting for her to watch Atuc obeyed such command.

Living through these seven years while knowing Atuc’s revenge plan, it was painful. Lajara found no amusement in watching Atuc slept with the very person who took away her happiness. Lajara had no delight when she had to live from place to place while being constantly surrounded by a bunch of savages.

“There is so much more in life and in Escana.”

Escana was the dream of every demon on Kharigan. The color of the sky of Escana changed routinely, colorful, but the ground of Escana was even more colorful. On Kharigan, there was only one color, red. The sky of Kharigan never changed, always cloudy, filled with red dust. The ground of Kharigan was red, but its water was even redder, like blood. On Kharigan, there was only red stones, demons, and Demon Lords. But on Escana, there was so much more.

There was more in Escana than just a playground for the game of wars and destination to settle disputes between Demon Lords and Gods. There was more in Escana than the vanquished kingdom of Kraig’ondor and the ruined city of Scicily. There was so much more in Escana than just war and unhappiness. Escana was the dream of every demon on Kharigan. For that reason alone, demons would risk their lives to enter Escana regardless of the pact between their Demon Lords and the gods. Escana was the realm of mortals, but it was the dreamland of every demon.

“So don’t waste your happiness like this.”

But, Atuc has never lent Lajara an ear since that ashen day.

There was that time when Lajara was so close on slitting Bloodbeard’s throat while he was asleep. She has already braced herself to be hated by Atuc for the rest of her life. She has already steeled herself to be hated. She loved Atuc. Her love was real, so she could do that.

But Atuc woke up in time and stopped Lajara.

She put a limit on Lajara’s control even though she has never done that before. Atuc was simply too adamant on her quest for vengeance to be talked out of it. The Atuc that Lajara was so very different from the Atuc that Lajara knew. She was so very different from that precious little girl who extended her hands to save Lajara on that cold rainy day.

Since Lajara has resigned. She lived a millennium worth of length in those seven torturous years, counting leaden day after leaden day, stranding from place to place with the worst kind of companions at her side. She could not comprehend how Atuc could go along and live that kind of life. There was no joy or love in living that kind of life.

Sighed aloud, Lajara decided to turn a new page on her spectral diary and continued from there.

…

It’s over. Atuc has done it, and the two of us are still alive. Finally, it’s over.

This is like a miracle. Someone has actually appeared and put an end to my torment. A prince. His appearance is like a miracle. He is so unreal that he has to be a dream.

And yet, it’s over. I do not dare to believe it. It’s over. It’s over. My torment is over.

Your Majesty, I cannot tell you just how much I want to meet you right now. I thought I would have died in obscurity. I have resigned to die a meaningless death, an unfulfilled death, a leaden death, the kind of death that we hated the most. A succubus should die fulfilled in the lushness of love. Yet, I have already resigned to that fate.

But here I am. I am still alive. Your Majesty, there are so much I want to talk to you. I am overwhelmed with joy.

I have learned that a succubus who knows true love might not be the happiest succubus.

Perhaps, I am not even the right succubus to say that for I am neither resembling that of a succubus nor human now. I am something in between. But perhaps, that is why I can experience love as a succubus.

It’s hard to describe this love in words. I don’t know if I could describe this love with “beautiful” or “ugly”, “good” or “bad”, “perfect” or “imperfect”. Your Majesty, I don’t know how to describe it to you before. Even now, I don’t know how to describe it to you of the difference between the love I felt in the time when I was a succubus and that love I have experienced after I have become something that was once a succubus.

Even now, I still feel that longing for a better love, a true love, an ideal love. I still feel that strong desire to live and die in the name of love.

But even so, I am perfectly contented with the way I am now.

I have learned that even when my heart is still filled with love, it could be very painful and unhappy.

But I’m content with my current love.

If I live, I would live for Atuc. If I die, I would die for her as well. I have lived through these seven years for her sake with the resignation to die a most unfulfilled death. I think I could live for her sake for the rest of my life.

But, I am conflicted right now. If Atuc is my true love, what is he? I’m being very conflicted.

He’s a prince. He saved me. He ended my torment. So I should fall in love with him, right? I have always loved that kind of stories. But, that prince, what is he?

He’s so unreal that he could not be real. And yet, he ended my torment. So, he must be real. I already made love with him, so I know that he is real. I would like to believe that he is real. Otherwise, both Atuc and I have been deeply infected with his Majesty Sanguine’s poison.

That prince, what is he?

He’s like a fantasy becomes reality. Does beautiful man like him really exist elsewhere? Or is he the only one of his kind? I have known that there is Your Majesty and Her Majesty Pride. And then him. He is like the dream of a dream demon.

That prince, what is he? Your Majesty, I wish you could see him for yourself.

He made me jealous. He talked with Atuc as if he has known her for years. But the one making love with him was me.

That prince, what is he?

…

“Do you hear me? Stupid demon, I ask what were you doing?” Atuc’s huffy voice rung inside Lajara’s head. Atuc was the kind of woman who always wakes up angry and cranky every morning. So her voice could be loud, especially loud in a first few counts when she was waking up. But her voice was especially loud this time.

“Oh? You wake up, insane bitch. I did not notice. You were sleeping like a corpse,” Lajara fired back with an edge in her voice. Lajara clicked her tongue, realized that she has been so invested in her diary to not notice that Atuc was up.

“My head hurts. Stupid demon, what were you doing while I was asleep? What time is it? How long have I been sleeping?”

“Bitch, you have two legs. If you want to know what time is it? How about crawling out of your bed and having a good look at the sun? By the way, insane bitch, just in case you have forgotten, you have two eyes as well. How about opening them.”

“Stupid demon, you cannot even answer simple questions. Have you always been this stupid?” Snapped Atuc.

“Insane bitch, open your eyes and look into a mirror first before asking me that question,” Lajara did not hold her anger back either.

Then without any signal, “I’m so done with you,” Lajara found herself sighing in depression as if she was mimicking Atuc’s reaction with perfect timing. That thought irked her, so Lajara clicked her tongue to suppress her anger, but so was Atuc, again, at the same time.

“Stop mimicking me, stupid demon.”

“Insane bitch, stop mimicking me.”

Now, Atuc was not the only one who is angry and cranky.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They were forsaken, those creatures. The Observer knew that, concluding after she drew out the knowledge from her wealth of wisdom.

The Observer’s creator, Lady Eogaill would not give them any special attention. Their tragedy and suffering were just one among the countless. Why would she save them when she had not saved others?

They were pitiful creatures. They were forsaken by the God of Justice himself. Otherwise, they would not be like that. The God of War and Civilization would not even look at them for how hideous and savage they were. They were his creatures, his creations, born from his godly image, but no longer. The Mother of Nature, the Merciful Goddess would extend her mercy on them. Her miracle would close their wounds, mend their broken bones. But they would remain what they were, forsaken creatures, neither the children of Nature nor the children of Civilization, but something else. They were the bastardized creatures of both worlds, forsaken and fated to meet Death as the forsaken children of the gods.

But, there he was, the biggest moron.

Even when these creatures had forsaken themselves, and even when the gods had forsaken them, there was someone who would not.

He was a moron, in all aspects and definition of a moron.

He was in no condition to worry about anyone else other himself. He was being watched and tested. His fate would be determined by how he would perform his test. And he knew that. His test had nothing to do with these worthless forsaken creatures. His test was something else. He knew that while playing with his magic coins. And he drew the most correct conclusions, that he should not associate himself with them.

With a single look at those forsaken creatures, he concluded that they were beyond the saving grace of the gods. He looked at them and realized that he should give up on them just like the Gods have already done. Gods had a myriad of problems to worry about, but these forsaken creatures were not one among those myriad. So was he. If he was worried, he should have worried about himself first. That man understood that truth without anyone giving him any hint.

“Useless, expect nothing less from them. They will be a burden. Stay away.”

So smart a man, he coldly calculated his lost and gain, leaving his emotion out of the calculation. And yet, his final conclusion was magically stupid. It was so stupid that it was magical.

“But I’m OP anyway. Let’s give them some handicaps.” Quietly, he muttered the words in his foreign tongue. He did not even realize that he has vocalized his true thought at that moment. He did not even believe in what he said. But he went along with that conclusion anyway.

So smart a man, and yet, his final conclusion was stupid, so incredibly stupid that it had to be a work of magic. Someone must have cast some unknown magic spells and brainwashed him to arrive at such a stupid conclusion. That conclusion was so stupid that it cannot be anything but magical induced.

But then, the Observer witnessed a different form of magic.

Those forsaken animals that appeared to be human, they looked like a human in form. But that was about it. They barked like dogs. They moved on all fours like dogs. They ate like dogs. They acted like dogs. They were dogs in human form. They lived, but not quite. That was not living. That was surviving. They survived by the virtue of turning themselves into dogs. They survived by erasing their name. They survived by forgetting their human tongue. They survived by forgetting that they were once human. They were animals that were too afraid to sleep, fearing that when they closed their eyes, that moment would be their last.

Their eyes were feral. They were the eyes of beasts. Eyes that were terrified of Sinintee’s best creations, terrified of the creatures who were touched and changed by the First Flame. Their eyes, they were distrustful eyes, scarred, unyielding to the force of fatigue, terrifying of sleep and darkness, desperately clinging to the final piece of their own life, a fragmented piece of their survival instinct, their fear of Death. Their eyes, they were hollow. Without a dream, without hope, without purpose. They were eyes that trusted no one, not their master, not themselves and not even their own kind especially those from the same pack. They were not even dogs but something lesser. It would be a direct insult to Niwdar’s intelligence if someone actually identified them as “Dogs.”

But there they slept. They slept as if that was the first time they had slept in a year. They snored. Loudly and unguardedly.

Human’s snore can be very loud, that the Observer has learned from listening to the snoring of Prince’s companions. The Observer was there when the Prince lit that hearth and whistled his lullabies for those scarred feral animals.

They slept a most peaceful sleep, a deep sleep, a true rest without a phantom of their tormentor haunting their dream.

It was magical.

The Observer was not sure if that magic came from the songs, the food, the water, the smile, the cold words of harshness, the warm words of assurance, that orange lit hearth, or the absence of the cruel tormentor. The Observer witnessed magic spells being cast without a single prayer offered to any god or goddess or Demon Lord.

The reality was being warped at that moment and from that moment.

There is hope for them, those forsaken beasts. Just a tiny glimmer of hope whereas there was none before. It was a miracle regardless of whether those forsaken creatures realized it or not.

That is magic for what magic is.

That, in itself and of itself is already a miracle to the Observer.

That was the first time the Observer witnessed that kind of magic even though she has been by the side of the Prince for so long.

It was baffling that the Prince has never used such magic on himself, not once.

Is it normal for a human to purposely gag himself in his sleep? The Observer asked herself, searching for that specific knowledge from the wealth of wisdom that her creator has bestowed on her.

The Lady of the Light, the Lady of Light, the Bright Lady, the Wise Lady, the Goddess of Wisdom, the Goddess of Truth, the reclusive Goddess. She had many titles. She was the firstborn of Naharis.

Eogaill was her name.

That was about everything that the Observer knew about her mistress, nothing else other than the mission that her creator has given to her. “Stay by his side. Observe him. Report.” That was the Observer’s mission and the sole purpose of her life.

The Observer was created to observe him, the Prince of The Alliance.

Her creator has bestowed the Observer many gifts alongside a gift of wisdom, a gift so great that even the Observer herself could not possibly comprehend its greatness after she has lived out her life and purpose. The Observer viewed herself as a newborn baby with the wisdom of an immortal who has live through the eon of time.

She possessed the wisdom of an Immortal, both as a goddess and a Demon Lord. She had the wisdom of a man. She had the sagacity of a woman. She even possessed the experience of an intelligent monster. She had the wisdom of a dwarf, an elf, an orc, a Garuda and so much more, including a fragmented piece of wisdom of an Earthling. This gift was a library, an archive of wisdom of a much smaller scale when compared to the Forbidden Library, yet so much larger than any library on Escana.

Such was the gift of her mistress and creator, bestowed to the Observer so that she could monitor the Prince. The Observer was late to question why her mistress has armed her with an entire library of wisdom to monitor one man. By the time she consciously started questioning the meaning of her gift, the Observer has already had the answer.

He was an abnormal being among the most abnormal beings, an aberrant. He was like a rare and exotic animal. Putting him inside a cage with all the reigning Demon Lords, and people would flock to that cage watch him rather than watching the Demon Lords.

He, he was not a prince. He was the Prince, as every Demon Lord, their chosen champions and their demons have decided to call him by this title. The Prince.

The Observer did not know much about her creator other than the amount of knowledge that her miniature library has given her. She did not even know the purpose of her mission. Her mistress did not reveal it to her, perhaps out of her cautious nature. But it mattered not. Even when the Observer knew not of the reason of her mission, she knew that she existed only to observe him.

Without him, without the Prince, she would not exist. There was no other reason for the Observer to exist. For that reason alone, she was grateful.

Since, the Observer has been by his side, closer to him than his own shadow, inseparable, unbeknown to him and unseen to anyone else.

She was the light. But not all lights are visible. The Observer was invisible. She was the darkness. But she had neither a shadow nor a form. She was one with the light. She was one with the darkness. She cannot be seen, heard or felt by the eyes and ears of the mortals of Escana, not even by the sharpest eyes and ears of Mother Nature’s greatest creations, not even by the concealed night wings of Mistress Death’s agents. She cannot be touched for the Observer was both the light and the darkness. One cannot touch the light, one cannot touch the darkness. And it went both ways.

The Observer could not touch anything either. Even when the Observer desired nothing more than removing that gag from the Prince’s mouth, she could only watch. Even when she was so close to the Prince, so close that she should feel the warmness of his breath, so close that she could listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat, she felt nothing. Light cannot touch. Even when she was closer to him than anyone else, she could not touch him.

Light could not feel. Neither could darkness. It was already a miracle that a being like her, a being constructed from the light and the darkness had sentience. Neither the Light nor the Darkness should be able to think, and yet, that was what the Observer.

She was a great miracle created from the authority of the Goddess of the Light, Truth, and Wisdom.

Her creator has given the Observer many gifts, but a name to identify herself was not one of them.

She called herself the Observer. Her task was to observe the Prince, without that task, she was nothing. Thus, Observer was her name, the name she has chosen for herself, just in case the Prince discovered her presence and decided to talk to her.

The Observer knew that it was just a wishful imagination. She could not be seen or heard or felt. She had no shadow and no form.

How could the Prince discover her? He did not possess the eyes of truth. He was granted no miracle to perceive the Observer’s form. Just in case, the Observer reassured herself so very often. She knew that she could never count him out.

She has always by his side and yet, the two of them had never talked to each other.

Sometimes, the Observer would imagine herself talking with the Prince just like his friend. The Prince loved talking. He loved smiling but he loved laughing even more. He loved singing. He loved dancing. It was almost sad that the Prince would do all of that, by himself, to himself while he crossed that plain.

The Prince loved being in the good company of his friends and people. Yet, since he has arrived at Escana, he often found himself in the company of loneliness.

The Observer, she knew not what it felt like to have a friend. She knew what kind of being that a friend is, her wealth of wisdom told her. But, she knew not what it felt like to have a friend.

The Prince talked to himself so very often. So was the Observer, as she has learned that she was infected by the Prince’s habit. She thought that maybe the two of them could be friends. She could take away his loneliness and the Prince could teach her what it feels like to have a friend.

The Observer was observing the Prince today as well. Her task remained the same. There was nothing unusual about her task. But if there was anything unusual about her task, it would be the Prince. It would always be the Prince, he would always be the unusual one. His action always contradicted with her wealth of wisdom.

He has slept since the early of yesterday dusk. Half a day has gone by and he has slept without any sign of waking up. The four days before that, he did not sleep a wink to make sure that no Immortals could enter his mind and see through his plan.

Picking a fight against an immortal, the Prince was not the first. And he would not be the last. The Prince was just another fool among the billions of fools who have existed before him and then after him. But if there was any difference to distinct the Prince from those fools, it would be URLOX’s prophecy. URLOX boldly predicted that the Prince would win. That was the only difference. URLOX placed their bet on him.

As usual, the Prince slept with his hand towel balled-up inside his mouth, gagged him, making his breathing labored, difficult and out of rhythm. The Prince did that to himself after he has barricaded the door and told his bodyguard to prevent anyone from entering his room.

How often a human would purposely gag himself in his sleep? The Observer asked herself still. She materialized herself into her mistress’ form, trying to take away that gag from the Prince’s mouth in vain. Even when she took her mistress’ form, she could not touch.

The Observer could not find another instance where a human would routinely gag himself in his sleep. She had not found another similar case from her miniature library of wisdom.

The Prince was aware of his sleep-talking habit. He was aware that he talked about many things in his sleep. He was aware that he could not control the things that he spoke while being asleep.

In his sleep, he would often weep without any reserve. He would thrash his body around. He would scream like a dying man. He would shriek like Echo, the Banshee Queen. He would curse, infusing his words with the combined hatred and anger of a thousand curses. He would often howl like a predator claiming its territory. Sometimes, he laughed. But not all laughter were made equal. Hysterically, sarcastically, happily, hedonistically, manically, hollowly, loudly, softly. All manner of laughter. Sometimes, he went back and forth between crying and laughing, sometimes both at the same time. He would laugh with the face of a man who was crying. He would cry with the look of a man who was laughing.

The Prince slept at night while he crossed the plain. The most foolish decision on his part, perhaps due to his lack of wisdom about the world of Escana. He was alone by himself without anyone watching his back, yet, he slept at night.

It was so stupid of a decision that it was unintentionally genius, mostly due to the Prince’s sleep-talking habit.

No predator dared to approach him at night when he was asleep and vulnerable.

The night was the domain of nocturnal hunters, those that developed better eyesight than their morning counterparts, also with keener nose, sharper ears, graceful footsteps that made no sound and the ability to kill their target within a single strike.

The Great God Sinintee often argued that only the races that were touched by the First Flame were capable of perceiving and creating strategies and weapons.

Niwdar has never bothered to argue. Her creations, those that were untouched by the First Flame, those that were looked down upon by the Great God, they proved otherwise.

To survive Sinintee’s creations, creatures who were touched by the First Flame, those who mostly slept at night and woke up at dawn, these wild creatures of Niwdar developed their own methods. The strong ones empowered their muscles even further or sharpened their fangs and claws or attuned themselves with magic. Their methods and their weapons varied to suit their purpose.

But the weak ones simply chose to avoid the light of the day and embraced the darkness of the night. And then there were those who trained themselves to hunt and kill in the lightlessness of the night. Deadly killers, yet, none of them dare to venture near the Prince at night.

It was almost bizarre that the snow wolves would attack the Prince during the daytime and not night time. They were a better-developed hunters than most. They hunted in a pack. They could hunt in day time or night time. But they were deadlier hunters at night time. But these wild dogs did not dare to approach the Prince at night due to the all the strange sounds that he made in his sleep. They had never heard such noises. They would probably never wish to see what creature would make such terrible sounds. Those terrible noises sounded like the constant shrieks of a dying animal in one moment, then the howl of a predator on the prowl, then something else, something inhuman, demonic and unnatural.

The long claw badgers, the most fearless animals of their size would choose to stay in their holes.

The crying cats, the smaller and more graceful cousins of the smiling cats, but equally deadly. They were invisible hunters in the darkness of the night. But even in bright moonlit nights, their presence was invisible, had it not for the cries of the lesser animals warnings for their fellow herbivores of the cat’s presence from its body odor. But even the crying cats stayed away from the Prince’s vicinity.

In his sleep, the Prince was more insane than an insane man. And animals, they were keener than man, they could sense that and stay away from him. He was less than a Prince and more of a deranged Demon Lord. If the Observer did not possess such an abundant wealth of wisdom from her mistress, she would have thought the Prince was cursed to be possessed by legions of starving shadowless demons and thirsty dream demons in his sleep, and all of them just wanted a piece of him.

Mortals go to sleep when they need rest. But watching the Prince, the Observer thought otherwise. It has always been a battle, always. Whenever sleep came to him, it was always a battlefield. It has always been a struggle, a seemingly endless battle until the Prince came out of his sleep.

It was as if the Prince was resting while he was awake and battling a war when he went to sleep.

His hand towel, that small square of nylon that he always kept inside his pocket, it was often balled-up and entered his mouth whenever the Prince went to sleep. He would not gag himself when he was dead drunk, more like he passed out from the wine and could not bother to gag himself. Other time, it seemed like he has forgotten about its existence. He did not gag himself either when he was around that spider girl. Perhaps, he was under the influence of his pride, thinking that because she had already discovered his habit and there was no point to covering that up.

The Prince would not always gag himself, but often. Very often when he was alone.

It is such a strange thing to do, the Observer has always thought whenever she saw the Prince did that to himself. The Observer could not understand the Prince’s reason for doing that. Perhaps, she would never do. It’s hard to understand the Prince’s thought. The Observer realized that she was not the only one who wished to understand his thought. She was not the first and she would not be last.

The Observer could only presume.

It was as if he had no wish for anyone to listen to his sleep-talk. But it was bizarre that he would put that gag into his mouth when he was alone. It was as if he had no wish to listen to his own sleep-talk.

If sleep was a battlefield and dreams were foes to be vanquished, that gag was the Prince’s weapon, his only weapon, and armor. The Prince was a madman who arrived at a battlefield armed with a hand towel. But with or without that weapon, he would embrace his battle fearlessly.

It was like the Prince was trying to sleep like a normal human by gagging himself. It was like he wished to silence himself to make himself appeared normal.

But with or without that hand towel gagging his mouth, the Prince’s sleep has always been shallow. He woke up very often during his sleep. The Observer has seen him waking up seven to ten times a night while he was crossing that plain. But with that gag inside his mouth, that number would mount up to twenty and sometimes thirty. It was as if he could not sleep properly without getting himself completely dead drunk or exhausted.

The Prince snored painfully loud when he put that gag to himself. Human’s snore can be very loud, that the Observer has learned from listening to the snoring of Prince’s companions. But the Prince’s snore when he gagged himself was something else.

The Observer was not sure if that kind of sound could be classified as a snore. It was loud, painfully loud. That kind of noise was terrifying to listen to, unnatural and painful to one’s ears.

That noise was so much worse compared to his usual sleep-talking.

It was the kind of noise that broke a person’s heart if that person had any amount of affection for Prince. It was the kind of noise that brought delight to one’s ears if they were the Prince’s enemies.

It was the kind of noise that changed the color of his face, from his normal skin color to pale white to the alarming pink and the urgent red, and sometimes that greenish purple when he did not wake himself up in time to remove that gag.

That noises sounded like a series of snorting sounds, dreadfully uneven and every snort sounded like the last. But it was not the kind of snorting of contempt or arrogance that the Prince made when he was awake. It was the kind that a human body made when it starved for air. It was the kind that was made by a pair of tortured lungs that starved for air and desperate to live.

It was like a scream for help, a desperate plea of a cornered soul that was muffled by one’s bravado. But, sometimes, muffled words would leak out of that gag. It was fury for whatever fury was.

It was a growl, a growl but more like a howl, a suppressed howl out of deliberation. It was like a bottled howl of an angry heart. If the heart of a human could only howl and did not know how to beat, the Observer was the first one Escana to find out what that sound was like.

It was like a choke, a choke of one’s dying lungs, a choke of one’s broken heart. It was the kind of choke that took away many things. It was the kind of choke that made the nose forgot that it could be used to regular the air inside a human’s body. It was the kind of choke that was self-inflicted. It was just one choke after another. Each choke was painful, loud and desperate. It was the kind of choke that sounded grim and ominous. It was shallow and abrupt. It was the kind that sounded extremely precious and valuable to one’s ears, the kind that every single one of them sounded like the last before coldness came and took away the strength and warmness from a man’s body, leaving him rigid and unresponsive.

Just like that, the Prince would always choke himself out of his sleep. He woke up to fill his lungs with many mouthfuls of nocturnal winds before slowly going back to sleep again, putting that same gag that has almost killed him inside his mouth again. And he would repeatedly do that until morning came.

While she was accompanying him through that plain, the Observer thought that one day, the Prince might kill himself with that gag. She found herself fearing for him and his safety more than he did to himself. If he died, the Observer would lose her only purpose in life. If he died, her mistress might return the Observer back to what she was once before. Just Light and Darkness. Normal light. Normal Darkness. Nothing else, nothing special, nothing sentient.

And now, that fear revealed itself.

This time, he has not woken up once. The Prince has not woken up to remove that gag from his mouth once since yesterday. He has slept for almost half a day and he was still sleeping.

There exist three Immortals whose authority could kill a mortal in his sleep. All three of them have injected their astral form into the Prince’s dream now. If the Prince failed, they could kill him. But not if that gag would kill him first. His entire head has been colored in that reddish purple for a while now. His snore was excruciating to the Observer’s ears. And she should not feel it, that kind of pain. Light should know no pain. Neither should darkness. And yet, it was excruciating.

It was like the Prince’s body was trying to swallow down that gag to save itself and that gag became stuck at the entrance due to its size, making it worse for the body to find air.

The Observer had no idea if the Prince has meant for this to happen to him. The Observer had no idea if the Prince was aware of his current condition. But if he was aware of this before he went to sleep, the Observer thought, that would mean he has fully intended to commit suicide if his plan failed.

If that was true, the Prince has won regardless, a moral victory. Even when the other Immortals have won the physical battle, the Prince would win the moral battle. In his death, he showed every immortal his defiance. They could not make him change his decision. They could not change him. They could not take away anything from him, not even his life because he was the one who did that. He took his own life. It was almost terrifying to the Observer when she saw the length that Prince would go to defend his pride and dignity.

A thought surfaced from within the depth of the Observer’s mind, a memory, but not her memory. His.

“It was such a Fearless’ thing to do, isn’t it? WHY? Why would you even ask that kind of question? I am Fearless. You are Stupid or what? Must I introduce myself again?” The Prince wore a most sarcastic smile on his lips. “But also, utterly stupid. I know.” He laughed. “So what? What matter is that I caught you, demon. Being stupid is the fastest way to capture a demon like you. If I appear too strong, too invincible and too smart, you would not even dare to attack me. But if I am weak and stupid, your kind would deliver yourself to me. I don’t even have to track you down. That saves me the effort, doesn’t it? I dedicated myself to be the most stupid man in the world for that reason. This move, in chess and in ROC, it is called a gambit. So, now demon, do yourself a favor, help yourself, ask yourself the fucking question. WHY AM I MONOLOGUING LIKE THIS TO YOU?”

The Prince made no sense. His thought made no sense. His action made no sense. His words made even less sense. And yet, the longer the Observer stay by his side and watching him, things started to make sense little by little.

To win an unwinnable battle, the Prince was willing to pay the ultimate price.

But that also meant the Observer’s master, the Goddess Eogaill has failed, whatever her plan is. The Observer could feel that her master needed the Prince to be alive for her plan to work, just a feeling, a guess. The Observer had no evidence to support that guess because everything that Prince and her master did was painfully subtle and deliberate. But every time the Prince played with his own life like a toy, the Observer could feel her mistress’ anxiety.

No longer could the Observer continue to watch the Prince’s face kept on darkening.

“He’s going to kill himself. Instruction is required.” The Observer weaved her message into an invisible thread of light, aiming it at the Forbidden Library, and released that thread. That thread of light was invisible to the naked eyes of human and dwarf, and even elves. The high elves could see that thread of light with their naked eyes, but their brain would not register it for how short and quick that thread of light was. Only the like of Magnamor’s children-the All-seeing demons and the Demon Lord of a Thousand Burning Eyes could see this thread. But even they could never read the content or intercept the message due to the speed of the tiny thread.

Xaara, the White Snake, the Demon Lord of Lightning styled himself as the Quick. He was the quickest among the rank of the Demon Lords. He was one with thunder and lightning. He could turn himself into a white bolt of lightning and travel from one place to another. He claimed that he could travel around Escana three times within a blink of an eye. Xaara was fast. Many times faster than Echo, his second in command, the Shrieking Demon Lord, the Banshee Queen herself. Xaara has always believed that he was the fastest being in the universe, not knowing that there is nothing faster than the light itself. He could never catch or intercept this tiny thread of light that the Observer weaved.

Xaara was fast. But the light was faster. And the fastest being in the universe has never revealed herself. The Lady of the Light was one with the light. She was the light itself. So were her creations and miracles. Xaara was not even the second fastest being in the universe, nor third, nor fourth.

That was how fast that message being delivered to the Forbidden Library.

And yet, the Observer could only watch. The message should have reached her but her master did not reply. The Observer resent her message twice while watching the Prince’s face darkened by the chaos of his pulses.

Then came the reply, the instruction, just not the instruction that the Observer was waiting for. Neither the Prince nor her mistress made sense with their words and actions, that, the Observer was reminded again.