When Myra returned home, the night had already settled. She knocked lightly on the door before stepping inside.
"Hello, everyone," she called out, shutting the door behind her. She glanced around. "It's so quiet in here." Her gaze landed on Mysa. "Where is Kairos?"
"In his room," Mysa answered, standing up. She walked toward Myra, her tone calm but firm. "He knows about Gilen."
Immediately, Myra's cheerful expression faded. "Is he okay?"
"Don't worry, he's fine," Mysa assured her. "Go talk to him."
She knew Kairos well. He always carried himself with composure, never revealing too much, never asking for help. To most, he seemed unshakable—calm, collected, untouched by hardship. But Mysa knew better. Beneath that carefully maintained exterior was someone who bore his burdens in silence.
Ever since they were children, Myra had been his refuge. The one person he allowed himself to be vulnerable with. Not Mysa. Not anyone else.
Mysa cared for him deeply, but Kairos was more comfortable with Myra , Perhaps it was because he and Myra were around the same age. To him Myra was special, she had a warmth that softened the sharp edges of his world, a presence that made it easier for him to breathe.
Even if he never admitted it, Mysa knew—when things became too much, he needed Myra.
Myra nodded and headed to his room. She knocked softly.
"Kairos, can I come in?" she asked, her voice gentle.
"Please do," Kairos replied, opening the door for her. "How was work?"
As Myra stepped inside, a sense of unease settled over her. The room was uncharacteristically messy—books piled haphazardly on the table, some even lying on the floor, their pages bent as if tossed aside carelessly. Chess pieces were scattered across the wooden surface, some toppled over, others missing entirely from the board.
This was unlike Kairos.
He was always meticulous, always in control. He never allowed clutter, never left things out of place. His human mother, Lucy, had once told him, "Cleanliness is next to godliness." He had taken those words to heart, not out of mere habit but as a reflection of his own nature—order, discipline, precision. To him, a tidy space was a clear mind, a sense of stability in a world filled with chaos.
But now?
The disarray spoke volumes.
It wasn't just an untidy room; it was a silent confession. A glimpse into the turmoil simmering beneath his composed exterior. Myra didn't need to ask if he was troubled—this room already answered that for her.
"Kairos, don't overthink it," Myra said softly, watching him. "The boy will be okay."
"Okay?" Kairos let out a bitter sigh as he sat on the bed. "How is he going to be okay?" He looked up at her, eyes dark with worry. "Tell me, how many demi-demons have undergone the Trial of Blood and survived?"
Myra fell silent. She already knew the answer. The Trial of Blood was merciless.
Few ever completed it. Those who survived were never the same. Some lost their minds, their sanity eroded by the torment they endured. Others became hollow shells, their former selves swallowed by the nightmares that lingered long after the trial was over.
Only Kairos had emerged intact—or at least, as intact as one could be after enduring such horrors. Even he was not untouched. The memories still followed him, lurking in the corners of his mind like shadows that refused to fade. He did not speak of them, but Myra could see it—in the way his gaze darkened when the trial was mentioned, in the restless nights when he thought no one was watching.
If someone as strong as Kairos was still haunted, what hope did Gilen have?
"Then we'll support him," Myra said, sitting beside him. "Tomorrow, I'll go with you. We'll help him through it."
"And after that, we'll welcome him into our family," Mysa added, standing at the doorway. "So don't worry, my boy."
Kairos looked at them, his gaze heavy with uncertainty. Yet, for the first time that night, a flicker of hope stirred within him.
The Trial of Blood was merciless, a crucible that shattered most who took it. But… what if Gilen could endure it? What if he didn't have to face it alone?
Kairos had walked that path once, and though he had survived, he had not done so unscathed. The ghosts of the trial still clung to him, whispering in the quiet moments, lurking in his mind. But he had Myra. He had Mysa as well as instructor Valkos. They had been there to pull him back from the nightmare.
If they could do the same for Gilen, if they could stand by him, guide him, anchor him—then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't lose himself.
"Come on, let's go have dinner," Mysa said, turning away. "The food's getting cold."
Myra patted Kairos's shoulder with a small smile. "You heard Mom. Let's go. We need all the strength we can get to help Gilen. So let's eat."
Kairos got up and walked into the living room, where the warm glow of lanterns lit the wooden walls. The air was filled with the delicious smell of roasted meat and seasoned vegetables. Plates clinked, cups were filled, and soft laughter of Myra echoed through the room.
Dinner went as usual. Myra, always playful, cracked jokes between bites, her words full of mischief. Mysa, ever the responsible one, scolded her, but there was no real anger in her voice—just the familiar rhythm of their routine.
Kairos sat quietly, watching it all unfold. It was the same every time he was here, and that was what made it special. The warmth, the familiarity—it gave him a sense of belonging.
He thought of Gilen. Will he ever be able to have this? Will he ever feel this kind of warmth?
Every living thing—trees, dogs, humans, demons, spirits—longed to belong. It was in their nature. Belonging brought comfort, and comfort was the greatest relief of all.