Hemera's duty was to illuminate the forsaken fragments of the island. Though Klaus could pierce through even the deepest, most absolute darkness, there was something unsettling about this place. The darkness here clung to the land like a lingering curse, as if refusing to yield even to her radiance.
From above, she watched the Lich and Klaus, their voices a steady murmur as they wrestled with the problem before them—their escape from the Tear.
With a quiet snort, Hemera spread her golden wings, taking to the air. Light shimmered from her feathers, washing over the broken landscape as she scouted ahead. But no amount of radiance could erase the uneasy sensation gnawing at her instincts. This place should have been dead, empty, meaningless—just another fragment drifting in the void. Yet something lurked beneath the surface. Something unseen.
She couldn't explain it, but she felt it. The weight of an unseen presence.
Even as she soared, she listened to the conversation unfolding below. She had always known that her master was not a good man. That was indisputable. Klaus had walked a path soaked in blood, made choices that no righteous soul would ever dare consider. But was that truly all he was?
Had he really forged them—her, the Lich, the others—solely to be weapons against those who carried the blood of gods?
No. She refused to believe that.
It may have been part of the reason, but not the whole of it. Hemera had lived long enough to recognize malice, to feel the poison in a being's intent. And whatever drove Klaus, it was not mere cruelty or hatred. His actions were cold, calculated, and pragmatic, yes, but there was more—something deeper, something unspoken.
She had seen true monsters. Loki was one of them.
That loathsome wretch—he alone had no tragic past to shape him, no suffering to twist his soul. He was wicked simply because he was, a creature of sheer, insatiable destruction.
Even with all the precautions, even with all their strength combined—Hemera, the Lich, and Klaus himself—they had barely survived the battle against him.
They had nearly ceased to exist.
The Master had lost four of his cores in that fight, his very essence torn away, his rank falling from Terror to Monster. It was a reminder that even the cunning, even the powerful, were not untouchable. After all, Loki was that terrifying.
But what the world refused to see—what Hemera knew—was that Klaus pitied them.
The Lich had been right. The Master was cunning, ruthless, cold when he needed to be. But beneath it all, he was also kind. Not in the way mortals understood kindness, not in warmth or soft words, but in his actions. In the way he carried burdens that would have shattered lesser beings.
The world remembered only his sins. They whispered of his cruelty, of his endless machinations, of the blood on his hands. But they never spoke of his sacrifices.
The Night Temple was proof of that.
Bound by contract, he had been forced to aid Mordret, forced into a battle he had no desire to fight. And yet, he had still risked himself. He had faced a Saint as a mere Awakened and won—not through brute force, but through wit, through schemes, through sheer audacity. He had saved the Fire Keepers, saved his cohort, and still, they had looked upon him as if he were a beast.
Hemera had always thought it was unjust.
The Master never voiced resentment, never demanded recognition. But that didn't mean she had to accept their blindness and hypocrisy.
None of them understood the weight he bore. None of them grasped the cost of his choices. Without him, the world would have already fallen.
He had killed his own father to prevent war.
He had bound the most dangerous Sovereign to the moon.
He had kept Anvil and Ki Song from plunging the world into another era of bloodshed.
And yet, they dare to judge him?
Hemera gazed into the abyss below, a lone beacon in the endless dark.
Her Master had saved the world. He had saved them all.
Her golden eyes narrowed, burning with displeasure.
What right did these insignificant beings have to pass judgment on the Spirit King?
Hemera descended in a quiet arc of light, her wings folding with elegance as she touched down beside Klaus and Lich. The ground beneath her talons barely qualified as solid—this fragment of a sundered island, half-consumed by the Tear, trembled faintly with residual instability. Yet her steps were steady, unwavering.
She looked to her master, and in that moment, a quiet, solemn pride stirred within her. Klaus stood with the bearing of a monarch—not in the ornamental sense, but in spirit. His presence did not come from divine aura or mystical force. It came from authority. Earned. Wrought through blood, pain, and brilliance. He was fearsome in silence, commanding without effort. Cold, yes—but not empty. There was a compassion beneath that chill, subtle and deep as winter's stillness.
A true master of convergence did not search for the strongest move—he forged it from nothing. That was Klaus. His ritualistic magic, intricate and blasphemous in equal measure, was not mere power. It was creation. Hemera and the others—beings of spirit, of myth and light—they too were his work. Living proof that he did not only wield strength. He shaped it.
To Hemera, her master was nothing short of a marvel. Unbreakable in spirit. Singular in will. He was a man who could hold contradiction without crumbling—malice and mercy, wisdom and folly, recklessness and restraint. He bore the burden of sin alongside virtue. A being of extremes held together not by chance, but by will.
What is a true king? Hemera had pondered that question often.
A king is not merely obeyed—he is followed. Trusted without question. Believed in without doubt. A Conqueror does not merely take land—he seizes hearts, commands loyalty, breathes courage into those who stand at his side.
And Klaus… Klaus had done the unthinkable.
What kind of Awakened dares to challenge the Supremes? To stand before dragons as an ant, and win?
He had turned the impossible into reality.
She still remembered his words—etched into her soul like scripture.
"Impossible is a word of fools. Follow me, and I will show you victory."
He had walked into battle with no intention of losing. Found strength where there was none. And in doing so, became a king not crowned by ceremony, but by conviction.
The kind of king who leads others not through promises, but through action. Who inspires both awe and dread. Whose very existence demands reverence.
All must fear him. All must admire him.
All must kneel before him.
And Hemera… she would never leave his side.
Even if the sun were to dim, if the skies were to collapse, if the weight of the world pressed down upon her shoulders—she would not abandon him. Not now. Not ever.
To forsake him would be to forsake justice itself. And Hemera, child of light and flame, would never turn her back on justice.
She did not fear death. Death was inevitable.
What she feared was regret. The shame of silence in the face of injustice. The guilt of looking away.
The strongest sword is reason.
The strongest shield is faith.
And Hemera—she would be both.
Sword and shield of the Spirit King.