Damien was far too awake to even think about going back to sleep.
My ability is finally here! The thought sparked a jolt of excitement that buzzed in his fingertips and made his chest feel light. He sat up abruptly, coughing to clear his throat and biting down on the grin tugging at his face. He didn't want to give that overly smug voice in his head any more satisfaction than it already had.
Once he'd steadied his breath, he asked in the calmest tone he could manage, "So what can you do? Hopefully, protecting my dream isn't your only trick, or... hate to break it to you, but we're probably gonna die."
The voice hesitated as if weighing its options. Then, with a tone so confident that it practically oozed arrogance, it said, "Ah, a better question would be: what can't I do? You're one lucky kid to have me floating around in your skull."
Damien rolled his eyes. He was already getting used to the voice's frustrating tendency to dodge questions with flair rather than substance."Yes, I get it. You're great and awesome, and I'm the luckiest guy alive. Now, can you please tell me what you can actually do?"
'Seriously, what is with this guy—or whatever it is?'
"Hey, I can hear your thoughts, you know!" the voice snapped, almost offended.
Damien smirked. Of course, he knew. That was the entire point. After some trial and error, he'd figured out that the voice could only hear thoughts he consciously focused on. It was a small win—a wall of privacy in his otherwise invaded mind. His thoughts drifted, unintentionally, to Summer and Mrs. Sharp.
If he heard everything, I thought about them... yikes.
"What would be embarrassing?" the voice asked with obvious amusement.
Damien flushed. He hadn't meant to focus on that thought. The voice let out a playful chuckle. "Whatever it is, it must be really embarrassing. I can feel your emotions stirring like a cat in heat."
Another unwelcome discovery—apparently, the voice could feel his emotions, too. That irritated Damien more than he liked to admit. He'd always been guarded, distant. And now this thing had a front-row seat to everything he tried so hard to keep hidden.
Pushing away the irritation, Damien shifted gears. If this being thrived on ego, he might be able to manipulate it. "So, oh great and powerful helper," he said with exaggerated reverence, "I can tell how mighty you are… but I still don't know your power. Do you think you could show me?"
The voice gave a delighted chuckle. "Glad to see you've finally realized, my little goblin. And yes, of course! Why didn't you say so earlier?"
Damien tried to give the voice a side-eye, then remembered how ridiculous that must look. Still, he was certain the intent came across. Whether the voice noticed or ignored the look, it continued smoothly, "Close your eyes and focus on your soul."
Damien sat cross-legged on the floor and obeyed. He'd never practiced looking inward. It was
something all Awakened could supposedly do—but he'd only awakened an hour ago. He reached inward, blindly fumbling for something he couldn't quite define. Minutes passed—maybe hours. Frustration rose, curling in his stomach like a tightening fist.
He began to wonder if he even had a soul.
"You're not soulless. Just an idiot," the voice muttered dryly.
Sensing Damien's rising despair, the voice finally stepped in. The world around Damien shifted, and he was pulled back into the void.
Everything was gone when he opened his eyes, replaced with nothingness. The void was absolute. Black. Endless. Soundless. But it wasn't frightening. It was... surreal. Damien floated in the stillness as if suspended in thick ink. There was no up or down, no floor or ceiling. Yet, despite the total darkness, he could see. Not with his eyes, exactly—but with something deeper. It was clarity without light.
For the first time, the voice was silent. Damien drifted through the void, letting its silence wrap around him. It pressed gently against his mind, not suffocating but overwhelming. The darkness wasn't empty. It was vast, stretching in every direction, filled with the weight of his existence. It was him—his soul.
Then, a pinprick of light. A tunnel of radiance bloomed in the distance, like a tear in the fabric of the dark. Damien's heart leapt. He paddled toward it, flailing like a swimmer with no form. It wasn't graceful, but it worked.
Please don't let him be watching this, he thought as he thrashed through the void. I probably look like a dying starfish.
He shook the thought away and focused. Inch by inch, he made his way to the tunnel. The light grew closer, warmer. Hope surged through his chest.
At last, he reached it.
Damien reached out with trembling fingers and touched the edge. The light was warm, alive—it wrapped around him like silk. No pain. No fear. So he dove in.
The tunnel enveloped him. For a moment, he felt weightless, like a raindrop falling into the ocean. Then his feet touched the ground—real ground.
Sort of.
He looked down.
Clouds. He was standing on clouds—thick, soft, and buoyant. He bounced slightly as he shifted his weight. Around him, the horizon stretched endlessly. The sky above was a pale blue, the sun casting long golden rays. A gentle breeze tousled his hair. The air smelled like white daffodils—clean, sweet, and nostalgic.
His chest tightened, and a tear slipped down his cheek before he realized.
"The smell was my doing," the voice said gently, breaking the silence. "I hope you don't mind."
Damien wiped his eyes and managed a smile. "What now?"
"Turn around."
This time, the voice wasn't in his head. It echoed from behind him, clear and real.
It's crazy how I've gotten used to a voice in my head already.
Damien turned—and his jaw dropped.
A staircase of white marble stretched into the clouds, leading to an enormous golden gate, easily over a hundred feet tall. It stood open, inviting.
He felt the pull again—a magnetic draw from deep within, like the gate was part of him.
He climbed.
Each step was a struggle, not physically but emotionally. With every step, he felt memories stir. Pain. Fear. Triumph. The climb wasn't just toward the gate—it was into himself.
Finally, breathless, Damien reached the top.
Beyond the gate lay a grand hall. The walls and floor were the same pristine marble as the stairs. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, vanishing into light. In the center of the room sat a massive throne.
And on it sat a man.
Damien's breath caught.
The man looked exactly like him.
But that wasn't what stunned him.
Behind the throne stood eight golden walls, each the size of a skyscraper. Etched across their surfaces were symbols—glowing, shifting, radiant. Powers. Thousands of them. More than he could count.
Each wall radiated with energy and was labeled with one of the eight known categories: attack, defense, mobility, magic, transformation, utility, control, or healing.
Damien's legs wobbled.
"This... this isn't normal," he whispered. "This shouldn't be possible."
No soul in Deviant history had been like this. A soul was supposed to be a quiet space to train
your energy. A reflection. Not a damn arsenal.
"What the actual hell?"
The figure on the throne stood.
"Welcome, my dying starfish."
Then, the man on the throne smiled.
"You asked what I can do," he said calmly, voice echoing. "Well, this is it."
Damien stared, slack-jawed.
Maybe... he is a god.