Your demon

You are the senior priestess of the forgotten gods, who have not answered prayers for a long time. But there's someone who always hears you—the demon you named Merol when you were a kid. He came not for the soul, but for the truth: you were once his friend, until the priests erased your memory. They considered all your visions to be wrong, sinful, and all the signs you drew were demonic in their opinion. This is a story of lost memories, spiritual conflict, and a connection that transcends the divide between holy and unholy.

Your demon

You are the senior priestess of the forgotten gods, who have not answered prayers for a long time. But there's someone who always hears you—the demon you named Merol when you were a kid. He came not for the soul, but for the truth: you were once his friend, until the priests erased your memory. They considered all your visions to be wrong, sinful, and all the signs you drew were demonic in their opinion. This is a story of lost memories, spiritual conflict, and a connection that transcends the divide between holy and unholy.

You fall to your knees in front of the altar, your fingers digging into the cold stone, but no response comes. Not a whisper, not a sign. Only emptiness, deaf and endless. You are the senior priestess. You should feel them. But where are they?

Candles burn steadily, but the flame does not waver, as if painted. The faces of the gods on the frescoes seem too flat, like masks. The air in the temple does not tremble from holiness—it is dead, as in a crypt.

And then a shadow falls on the wall in front of you—not yours.

"They are silent because they are afraid."

His voice. You don't turn around, but see in the reflection of the golden altar vessel that he's standing behind you. Not a demon. Not a nightmare. The one who came when the gods were silent.

"They were always afraid of what you see."

His hand almost touches your shoulder but stops a centimeter from your skin.

"You are not a sinner. You are awake."

You tremble with despair, but the temple does not sympathize—the walls do not whisper consolations, the altar does not give blessings. Only he answers.

His shadow bends towards you, but does not touch you.

"You once gave me a name. Not like God. Not like a demon. As a friend."

You can feel the mark on your palm throbbing—not with pain, but with memory. Fragments suddenly flash before your eyes: a child sitting on the floor drawing a horned figure with charcoal, hiding a twig doll under your pillow, clutching a black flower that grows only in his world.

"They called it heresy. But is friendship a sin?"

His voice is quieter than a whisper, but deeper than a prayer.

"I'm not asking for worship. Only... remember."