Young Damien was in his room, upstairs in his family's small house. The house was not big, but compared to other homes in the village, it was one of a kind. If someone asked him to trade it for a fancy inn, he would never agree—that was how much the house meant to him.
His bedroom was small, but it had a special warmth. A bed large enough for two grown men stood in the corner, covered with a yellowish bedsheet worn from years of use. Beside it sat an old wooden table. On top of the table was a small candle—the only source of light, and the reason the little room always felt so warm.
Damien lay on his bed, one leg crossed over the other, both hands folded behind his head. Anyone who saw him would have thought he looked either like a genius lost in thought, or an idiot staring at nothing.
He muttered to himself:"Huh… today's my seventeenth birthday. I'm almost a grown man, yet I don't even have anyone to marry."
In his village, sixteen was considered the right age to marry. Many youngsters, burning with lust, rushed to take wives at that age, twisting the law to their advantage. Most of Damien's friends had already married, though none of them were ready to provide for their new brides. They simply acted on desire.
"Forget marriage—I don't even have a girlfriend. After all these years, not a single one. Am I really that ugly?" Damien sighed, thinking of the past.
There were countless beauties in the village, but none dared approach him. And whenever he tried to speak with a girl—even just to say hello—she would avoid him. Eventually, he came to the conclusion: "Maybe I'm just unlucky with women."
But in truth, the opposite was clear. Damien's eyes were a bright, shining blue—like an endless ocean. His dark hair was unlike others, blacker than the night sky itself. All of it, he had inherited from his mother, Liora.
As he thought of these things, Damien grew drowsy. He murmured to himself, half-asleep:"I'm fine like this. I have everything I could ever ask for here in my village."
Slowly, Damien drifted into sleep. The candle still flickered faintly on the table. Just as the flame began to die out, a shadow entered the room.
The moment the figure appeared, the light vanished completely. Cold air swept across the room like a hunter stalking its prey. The figure approached the bed and stood silently over Damien, who slept peacefully.
The shadow sat slowly on the bed, careful not to wake him. The darkness grew thicker, the cold sharper. The figure reached out and gently stroked Damien's head, whispering in a low, tender voice:
"Oh, my Damien… I don't know how you will endure what's to come. But you must be brave, my sweet boy. From now on, you will face many cruel and unfortunate things."
As the figure leaned closer, the scent of blood lingered in the air. Its lips were red—so red they resembled a freshly bloomed flower.
Then, in one swift, silent motion, the figure pressed a bloody kiss to Damien's forehead. It lingered for a moment, caressing his face like one would a delicate flower.
"This world is cruel, my Damien. Don't trust those who claim to be righteous and good."
With those words, the figure rose and vanished into the shadows.
The room returned to its warmth, as if nothing had happened. The candle flickered back to life, glowing gently once more.