Chapter 10: 10 Kaldreth

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10: Kaldreth 10: Kaldreth Their relationship was strange and painful.

When he was younger, Misael constantly sought his brother’s attention: he invited him to play, followed him everywhere, just wanted a glance from him, but Kairan had always remained distant from him.

And now, at eight years old, Misael had continued to improve, more to be noticed by his brother than for himself.

It was the closest thing to love the little lord of death could feel, but Kairan didn’t even notice.

If Misael was Zaroth’s favorite, Kairan was Lilith’s favorite.

The bond between mother and son was made of silences, of glances, of questions never asked.

Lilith couldn’t read Kairan: her gaze, capable of piercing anyone’s soul, crashed against that child like a wave against a rock.

And Kairan, for her part, looked at her mother with a pity that shouldn’t have belonged to a child: she saw her as a slave to the demonic realm.

She saw her father the same way: a slave to his own darkness.

Zaroth was terrified of his son and avoided him.

Lilith, however, sought out every day those few moments Kairan granted her, and guarded them like a treasure.

It was she who made the decision that would change everything: her children needed guidance, masters capable of channeling powers that, left to themselves, could set the world ablaze.

In the Abyss, there existed two beings worthy of that task.

One was the oldest demon that had ever lived.

The other was called the God of War.

Lilith summoned both of them and entrusted each of them with a prince, hoping that the young heirs would not seek to overthrow the masters.

There was, in the Abyss, a being who belonged to no one.

He was no ally of the gods, nor a servant of demons.

He was no common wizard, nor a spirit forgotten by time.

Though his figure bore the traits of one, he was not even a man.

He was a demon, yes, but a demon so ancient, so distant from everything around him, that he had become something entirely different.

His name was Kaldreth, and they called him the Keeper of Balance.

He was the very boundary personified: the thin line separating day from night, the suspended breath that holds reality in balance.

Extremely tall, thin as a twig, as if his body had been sculpted not for battle, but to contain a harmony as fragile as it was terrible.

His skin, so white it seemed like lunar marble, reflected every ray of light with a milky glow.

His face was stern, gaunt, and marked by wrinkles that spoke not of years, but of centuries: centuries of observation, of sacrifice, of silence.

And his eyes: violet, deep, ancient.

Not simple irises, but two abysses reflecting eternity.

To look into them was to perceive the vertigo of infinity, to feel one’s own self shrinking until it disappeared.

No one could bear them for long: the strongest lowered their gaze, the weakest trembled to the bone.

When Kaldreth entered a room, silence fell automatically.

He never shouted, never threatened, never imposed his authority.

The shadows seemed to follow him, the light hesitated to embrace him, as if neither force knew whether to welcome him or reject him.

No one truly knew what he had become over the ages.

It was said that he was no longer fully alive, but not capable of dying either, and that he belonged to no realm, no law, no time.

In the icy calm he displayed, there was no arrogance.

There was only devotion.

Because Kaldreth desired nothing, he did not want to rule, nor ascend, nor command.

He only wanted to preserve a balance that only he understood.

When the time came to choose who would lead Kairan, Lilith had no doubts.

She did not choose him because he was the most powerful, nor because he was the most feared.

She chose him because he was the only one capable of seeing her son not as a demon, nor as a redeemer, but as what he was truly destined to become: the meeting point of irreconcilable forces.

The spark that could change the cosmos, or reduce it to ashes.

Kaldreth would not be a simple master.

He would be the silence between two wars.

In the highest room of the Dark Tower, Kairan waited.

He was eight years old.

Yet his fame was already a river flowing through the heart of every demon.

It was said that the young prince, still innocent-faced, had done what not even the ancient emperors had dared: he had executed more than a hundred thousand prisoners, all guilty of unspeakable atrocities.

The people were divided.

Many revered him and called him “justice.” Others feared him, whispering that the child carried within him an ancient and uncontrollable power.

Still others hated him, terrified that one day that justice might fall upon them.

But Kairan didn’t care; he sought neither approval nor fear.

For him, justice It wasn’t an opinion; it was a consequence.