Bastian absorbed the information quickly.
Aurel. The Seraph of Salvation.
The name and title aligned perfectly with what the necromancer had once said, and with the promise carried by that radiant being itself. Hope of salvation. Forgiveness. Release from suffering. Everything fit too well, as if scattered pieces that had long been separate were finally locking into place.
He had not expected to uncover the creature's identity this soon.
That realization made his chest feel slightly heavier, burdened by the sense that this truth would not lead to anything simple.
"And the other four?" he asked. His tone remained even, but the interest beneath it was unmistakable now.
Aland caught the shift. He took another sip of tea, then spoke again, his voice settling into the steady cadence of someone recounting old stories.
"Gath," he said, "the Seraph of Triumph. He embodies hope for victory—success, domination, recognition."
"In the texts, he appears as a towering man, his presence heavy with strength, almost tangible. Most striking is what crowns his head, either a crown or something like bone, grown from him. A symbol of unquestioned authority."
A faint gleam entered Aland's eyes. "There are stories claiming that any king or general who dreams of Gath before battle is destined to win. Soldiers used to whisper prayers to him before drawing their blades, hoping to borrow a fragment of his triumph."
Aland paused, savoring his tea as it cooled. When he glanced at Bastian, he saw that the man's face remained stone-like, yet there was an intensity in that gaze. Aland knew he was listening closely.
"Then there is Lilianne," he continued. "The Seraph of Reunion."
His tone softened without him realizing it. "She brings hope for love, for unbroken bonds, and for reunion, whether with a beloved person, a lost family, or even a forgotten part of oneself."
"She's described as a woman of overwhelming beauty. Hair like flowing gold. Eyes like small suns, warm with compassion." Aland smiled faintly. "Lovers separated by war prayed to her. Parents who had lost children. Wanderers longing for home. They begged her to weave broken fates back together and guide them toward one another."
He fell silent for a moment, then moved on to the next.
"Sera… she is the interesting one. She is the Seraph of Revelation. She brings hope for knowing the truth. Truths that are hidden, futures, the secrets of the world, even the reasons behind one's misfortune."
He shook his head. "But her form is never clearly described in any text. Unlike Aurel, Gath, Lilianne, or Ezeran, Sera remains a mystery even in depiction. Perhaps because truth itself often has no shape."
Aland drew a breath, as though reaching the final part of an old lesson.
"And lastly, Ezeran. The Seraph of Renewal. He brings hope for new beginnings, for transformation and rebirth from the ruins of destruction."
He tilted his head, searching his memory. "Ezeran is described as androgynous, possessing a beauty that is both mesmerizing and soothing. It is said that flowers grow from their body, or perhaps surround them, as if they themselves are a living garden. A symbol of life that continues and endlessly renews itself."
He shrugged lightly. "Though, to be honest, it is hard to imagine their exact appearance."
Bastian stored every detail carefully in his mind.
Five Seraphs.
Aurel of Salvation.
Gath of Triumph.
Lilianne of Reunion.
Sera of Revelation.
Ezeran of Renewal.
Each name carried a certain resonance, touching something vague within him—the promise for salvation, hope for victory, longing for reunion, the desire to understand the truth, the possibility of starting over.
Yet his thoughts returned to one name.
The Seraph of Salvation.
The angel who had offered him forgiveness and release from suffering. An offer that demanded a million lives—or the life of that woman.
His mad queen.
An offer he could never accept.
"Your descriptions are beautiful and poetic, old man," Bastian said, his voice flat but edged with subtle skepticism. His sharp eyes fixed on Aland. "But has no one ever described them as monsters? Or at least as something far removed from anything holy?"
He remembered all too clearly how the radiant being that called itself a savior had effortlessly twisted the necromancer, a human being, into a grotesque, distorted mass of flesh. That was not the act of a merciful angel in any poetic sense. It was an atrocity.
If Bastian had asked such a question to a devout follower of the Temple of Hope, the man would likely have cursed him as a blasphemer and cut off his head, or at the very least driven him away in fury.
But Aland did not react that way.
The old man fell silent, weighing the words he had just heard. In his heart, he could not tell whether the scarred man before him was testing him, or sincerely insulting the angels.
At last, Aland let out a quiet sigh.
"I'm only repeating what the texts say," he said calmly. There was no anger in his voice, nor any excessive defense. "And yes. They are written beautifully. Poetically. Full of hope."
Bastian nodded faintly. He lifted his cup and drained the remaining tea to the last drop. The bitter-sweet taste lingered on his tongue, warming his throat briefly before fading away.
"Then tell me about the afterlife," he said, steering the conversation forward. "What does the story say about it?"
Aland tilted his head, mildly surprised. "You never heard it as a child? It's one of the oldest and most popular bedtime tales."
Bastian tried to remember. Memories of his parents were blurred, buried beneath layers of time and trauma. But there was a faint tremor, a weak woman's voice, perhaps his mother's, telling a story about a beautiful place after death for the good, and a terrifying place for the wicked. A very simple tale, painted in black and white.
"I remember parts of it," he said.
Aland noticed the way Bastian's expression closed off. He didn't press.
"The most famous version is called The Kind Sun Witch," he said instead. "An allegory from the Book of Hope. But before that, let me ask you something."
Aland leaned forward slightly. "Have you ever wondered why the nights are so much longer than the days?"
The question seemed unrelated.
Bastian frowned. It was something he had thought about recently as well. But was there really a tale that explained it? He did not know.
"Not really," he said. "At least, not properly."
Bastian was not an educated man. Born into poverty, books had been a luxury. Libraries belonged to nobles. People like him had once lived only to survive until the next day. The fact that he could read and write at all felt like a small miracle in an otherwise bleak life.
"According to that tale," Aland said softly, as if sharing a great secret, "the reason night is longer than day is because there are more evil people in this world than good ones."
Bastian fell silent. Then his already furrowed brows drew even tighter. That was not a scientific or logical answer. It was a moralistic one, sounding like nonsense from a preacher.
"What do you mean?" he asked at last, his voice low and filled with disbelief.