DAEMON
Dear son, if you're reading this letter, then know that must mean I no longer breathe nor live in this world for that matter….
Daemon never understood parental love. How could he understand something that he himself never received? But he understood what it meant for one's despair to bleed through the pages of a piece of letter… even if that person was dead.
So as he stood before his uncle and protector while the pieces of his son lay strewn a distance away, the tangy metallic smell of blood caressing their nostrils—in the look they both exchanged, they said the same thing.
Finally, the time of reckoning is here.
Daemon himself was bathed in blood, his hair stuck on his forehead, glued by his sweat. He was shirtless, exposing muscles that were even broader than it originally was, courtesy of the ordeal he had just gone through.
