Axir looked at the young man seated before him. His eyes, aged like dusk itself, held no malice—but carried the kind of weight only time or truth could forge.
"If it's that what you desire..." he said, the words landing with the softness of falling dust, but the weight of a tombstone.
Damián didn't respond at once. He was stuck inside his own thoughts, the room vanishing around him like a fading memory.
He wandered mentally through whispers he once discarded as fantasy—half-believed legends, graffiti scratched onto temple stone, sermons delivered by fanatics on neon-lit corners in the richer parts of the city.
The Clergy of the Lord of Mimetic Desire.
The Temple of the Lord of Truth.
Even the Chapel of the God of Inept.
Did all these truly exist? Had they always?
The thought coiled around his mind like a serpent made of ink and smoke.
He leaned forward slightly, the light in his eyes dimmed by disbelief and burning curiosity.
"Where the hell do you even become one?"
The question wasn't shouted, nor whispered—but it fell from his lips like a blade coated in wonder.
Axir didn't answer immediately. He shifted slowly, deliberately, as if speaking would summon something.
Then, like a candle lit in a crypt, his voice flickered alive.
"There are things in this world—things not born of womb or word. Objects that are found, not made. Desired, not understood..." He paused. "They're called... Eclipticas."
The name slid off his tongue with a chill that didn't belong in the room. It slithered into Damián's mind and nested there like a parasite of prophecy.
Damián didn't move.
Axir's voice deepened. More truth, more danger.
"They grant power, yes... but not freely. Each one bears an Authority—an essence forged by your own personality, something like a servant... or a reflection. And each carries a flaw. Some flaws are subtle—hidden like poison in honey. Others... are cruel, like nails driven into the bones of your power."
He leaned back now, his posture neither proud nor broken. Simply... knowing.
"These flaws... they balance the scale. They may counter your ability, directly or from the shadows. They're stitched into the Ecliptica, a law against transcendence. If you cannot learn to use your flaw to your advantage, then your power becomes your cage."
Damián's brows furrowed, his voice low.
"And the rot?"
Axir's smile cracked like old porcelain.
"The rot is the price of growth."
He said it as if quoting something older than language.
"The more power you wield... the more you lose—your identity, your sanity. Your name becomes a whisper. You forget the light because you burned too bright."
Damián's thoughts swirled like leaves caught in a storm. His gaze lifted, rested on Axir, now more shadow than man.
"How do you know all this?" he asked.