Chapter 4 -The Game of Tragedies

During the confrontation between Aldes and Oriel, Igorus returned home, weary and drained from the long day. Entering the living room, he found his wife with their baby, who had just settled peacefully in her mother's arms. The room was enclosed by walls of deep maroon stone, a central wooden table covered with a red cloth bordered in black, and a wooden stove that filled the home with its spiritual warmth. It was a house designed to offer comfort and beauty, a place that radiated a sense of belonging.

"How are you, my love? And what does our little champion say?" Igorus asked as he approached his wife and child, tenderly stroking the baby's head with warmth and care.

"He's so sweet. He's been waiting for you," Kaeda said, gazing at the child with love.

"So that's why he fell asleep. He was waiting for me?" Igorus replied with a gentle smile in his voice.

"He's simply tired from the day. Who would have thought our son would become part of such a prophecy?" Kaeda whispered, her eyes full of tenderness as she looked at their baby.

Igorus said nothing in that moment, but together they watched their child with conflicted hearts, a sharp contrast to the baby's own fragile sense of peace, at least as it appeared to him.

"What I saw was real. You don't think I would invent something like this, do you, my love?" Kaeda asked, her voice laced with fear, bracing herself for her husband's answer.

"I do not doubt a single word of yours, my love. Our son truly is Uamangura. Look, this is the mark that reveals his status," said Igorus, pointing to the dark cross with a half-circle that lay etched upon the infant's chest.

"Now that I think about it," Kaeda said softly, "what truly is Uamangura? The only thing I've ever known is his destructive power. Until today I thought it was nothing more than a myth, or rather, a pretext the angels invented to hate us."

"There is some truth in what you say," Igorus replied. "But what I have heard is this: his fate is to unleash such a vast fury, born from his hatred, that it will turn the heavens into an ocean of blood, lay waste to the divine beings, and at last hold the whole world in his grasp, once he shatters the barrier of Ladnoria. It is said to be the mightiest dominion of all time, a direct descendant of dragons, carrying blood purer even than what flows in our veins." His gaze lingered on his son.

"To destroy the entire sacred isle?" Kaeda trembled, her hands shaking with unease and dread. "I will not allow my child to cause such devastation. Our son will be noble, peaceful. We will never let him become a monster, no matter what others hope for."

"It is only a legend, my dear," Igorus said gently. "Our son may possess the power of Uamangura, but it is we who hold his life in our hands. As long as I live, as long as we remain whole and strong, we will never allow him to become a divine catastrophe. On the contrary, he will make us proud." Igorus smiled faintly, his eyes warm with quiet resolve.

Kaeda smiled as well, mirroring Igorus' calm assurance, yet a shadow of uncertainty still gnawed at her heart. She wondered if she would truly be able to raise her son as he deserved, whether she might fail him as a parent, as a mother, despite all the effort she was willing to pour into his life.

"Imagination..." Igorus murmured under his breath.

"What?" Kaeda asked, puzzled.

"Everything our son imagines, Voidanos, becomes reality. That is his power, the very thing you witnessed after his birth," Igorus said.

Kaeda froze in fear at his words. She could hardly believe it, that her infant son could manifest his power so soon, and above all, a power so overwhelming.

"The mightiest Dominion is said to wield the most formidable Fernia: the power of imagination. With it, one can command the entirety of Fernia Relica, of every attribute, and become the greatest threat this island has ever known. If properly trained, he could even master Lapis and Lagus as well," Igorus explained coldly.

"This is impossible!" cried Eliael, seated at the royal palace of the angels, where the same matter was being discussed at the banquet table, the dreadful power of Uanamangura.

The three children were dining at a luxurious table, beneath chandeliers adorned with golden crosses. Their plates, carved from marble, were filled with extravagant foods; beside them lay fresh salads, wines, and other fine drinks. The servants, trained to anticipate their every whim, stood motionless like statues, designed solely for this purpose. It was a grand dining hall adorned with mural paintings: angels baptizing one another, blessing mortals, battling demons and dominions, building civilizations, cooking, feasting, and countless other scenes.

"That is why it's called a legend, because it's so rare to appear in our time, Eliael," said Kaela as she scooped a spoonful of salad.

"But that breaks the very principle of legend. A legend isn't something rare; it's something hypothetical, existing only in tales," Eliael replied, eating voraciously.

"Even legends carry a measure of truth within them," Tarnael interjected in a cold tone, piercing his steak with a fork.

"Hold your words, brother. Do you think like our sister too? I had more respect for you," said Eliael.

"If you don't believe in Uanamangura as something real, then why do you believe in Bakabali?" asked one of the servants, who at that moment was pouring water into Eliael's glass.

"Lazrael is right. Or is it perhaps because you want to believe it?" Tarnael asked Eliael with a cynical tone.

"Bakabali is different. He is our hero, the hero of all angels. His duty is to save the world from the clutches of evil," Eliael said proudly.

"Now you sound exactly like a child," said Kaela, laughing innocently.

"Silence! I have the right to enjoy something as well. Where is the main course? I'm tired of eating side dishes," Eliael demanded.

"We shall bring it at once, your grace," replied the servants.

Tarnael continued cutting his steak with delicate precision, yet his thoughts had drifted far away. He sliced the meat mechanically, almost like a programmed automaton performing a task, while his mind was entirely elsewhere. Lost in reverie, Tarnael found himself, along with his chair and the table he sat at, fading into vagueness. The voices of Kaela and Eliael grew ever more muffled, their figures dissolving into obscurity. The murals on the walls, the servants, the vases, the candles, the crosses, all of it slowly vanished into the mental fog enveloping him.

"From the very beginning, Father told us he saw us only as dolls, easily replaced. It isn't particularly impressive to hear, since our ears have long grown weary of absorbing such nonsense from his mouth. But if he considers us in that way, what must he think of mortals? They look upon us as if we were their gods, and indeed, we are. Isn't the mindset he displays a terrible example for them? Humans and demons alike have the tendency to trample one another underfoot whenever they gain something that grants them advantage. But angels, should we really think the same way? Do angels exploit one another, if ever given the chance?"

So he spoke within himself, as everything around him had now vanished. Yet behind him, a massive shadow took form. A shadow that shaped itself into the likeness of his father. A shadow without origin, appearing from nowhere, and yet blotting out the light above Tarnael, covering even the thoughts he was struggling with.

"Yes, my son. Life is nothing. Even for us gods, life can slip away at any moment. Though the word doll often sounds like an insult, as if it diminishes the value of one's spirit and living being, dolls we are, dolls of the world, of the universe, of nature itself. We bring order into the world, into the lives of the powerless. But little do we realize, we are dolls controlling other dolls. For better or for worse.

At the end of the day, it does not matter what mindset you follow, be you angel, demon, or dominion. If you accomplish your purpose, you are in the right. Every doll has its role. Oriel is the doll of investigation. You are the doll of teleportation. Eliael is the doll of wisdom. And Kaela is the doll of swiftness," spoke King Augustel through the shadow looming above Tarnael, his voice resonant and heavy.

"And you, Father? What kind of doll are you?" asked Tarnael, staring straight ahead.

"I, my son, am a tattered doll, one that merely gives orders to other dolls who are in far better condition than myself."

"Has the absence of Mother torn you apart?"

"It tears at me every day. I often recall the moment she was burned alive by the humans. All it took was a single instant, a single second, in which she had spoken to a demon in a friendly manner. You know well that we are forbidden to harm mortals in any violent way. And you also know it is taboo to converse with a demon, regardless of the context. And yet mortals, the dead in their entirety, are still able to toy with us."

"What meaning is there in ruling over mortals, if they suffer no consequence for their ignorance? What meaning is there in having power, if we are forbidden to use it?" Tarnael pressed.

"Our duty is to forgive every being, to bear the weight of all sins mortals commit in their brief lives. We are the martyrs of their negative emotions, the custodians of their irredeemable acts. Ignorance is a blessing. Ignorance paves the way for the enlightened to find some fragment of happiness. And that is our purpose: to give light to those weaker than ourselves."

"Here, Father, you are wrong."

"What?" said the king's shadow, surprised by Tarnael's reply.

"I will decide what the mortals, and what Ladnoria, truly need. Your duty is finished," declared Tarnael. At that moment, clarity returned to him; his father's shadow dissolved, and the dining hall emerged once more, vivid and sharp in the boy's eyes.

Meanwhile, the main course arrived in the dining hall, carried with utmost care and professionalism by a servant.

"At last, it's here!" exclaimed Eliael, unable to contain the joy he felt in that moment.

"Glutton," muttered Tarnael under his breath in a mocking tone as he sipped his glass of wine.

"HEY! I heard that," Eliael snapped, angered by what he had just caught.

Kaela laughed a little, though awkwardly, at the exchange.

"Open it! Open it!" Eliael ordered eagerly.

"As you command, your grace," the servant replied, delicately lifting the cover from the dish.

But what was revealed on the plate was far beyond what anyone in the room had expected. Slowly, dramatically, Eliael's knife and fork slipped from his hands, clattering onto the table. They fell from fear and disbelief overwhelming him.

"Eliael? What is it?" asked Kaela, who quickly rose from her chair in haste to see what lay on the plate.

Eliael was struggling to breathe at the sight before him. His hands trembled, sweat pouring down his face like a waterfall brought to life by the very notion of fear.

"O-ORIEEEEEEELLL!!!"

His scream echoed through the entire hall, as the severed, lifeless head of Oriel, split into three equal parts, lay upon the silver platter. Olives, cabbage, tomatoes, and oil drizzled across his pale, lifeless skin gave the horrifying display the grotesque illusion of a "Salad of Death." Everyone present in the dining hall, both the royal family and the servants, were shaken to the core by what they saw. The servants recoiled in terror, unable to comprehend what their eyes were witnessing.

"No... it can't be... Oriel..." Kaela began to weep, lamenting the nightmare that was unfolding before her.

"Damn it. Someone must go inform the king," ordered the servant Lazrael.

The soldiers stationed at the doorway nodded in acknowledgment, then spread their white wings to fly toward the king and deliver the grievous news.

It was a grim sight. A scene that cast a heavy shadow over the dining hall, staining it with melancholy.

"Your grace? Where is Lord Tarnael?" asked one of the servants in bewilderment.

"What?" Kaela, weeping and lost in grief, turned her head toward the chair where Tarnael was supposed to be seated.

But the chair was empty.

"Where has that bastard gone?" shouted Eliael, filled with unbearable sorrow and rage.

"Where are you, brother?" Kaela asked, her voice trembling with disbelief and shock at her brother's sudden absence.

Meanwhile, the king sat upon his divine throne, its back carved in the form of a cross, draped in crimson velvet, flanked by eight guardian angels clad in armor that shone brighter than the purest gold.

"I sense something amiss," the king said, his expression darkening, his eyes fixed upon the doors of the royal chamber. The guardians turned their heads toward him, awaiting either an order or an explanation for his words.

"Go and see. I hear shouting, faint, but troubling beyond the walls," the king commanded, almost dismissively.

"But, your grace, at least one or two of us should remain with you," one of the guardians objected.

"There is no need. Go! That is an order," the king said, raising his voice this time and lifting his right hand in a commanding gesture to dismiss them.

"Yes, your grace," the guardians bowed their heads in obedience and soared toward the chamber doors, opening them with their combined strength before departing, leaving the king alone.

"What do you think you are doing, Tarnael?" the king asked calmly. At that very moment, Tarnael appeared, his reflection visible upon the surface of the ring worn on his father's hand. He had concealed himself in perfect camouflage behind the throne, holding a sword angled at the king's neck, the steel hovering mere centimeters away from ending his life.

He looked upon his father with bloodthirsty desire...