❛ I broke into a million pieces and I can't go back. but now I'm seeing all the beauty in the broken glass. the scars are part of me, darkness & harmony. my voice without the lies this is what it sounds like. ❜

⸺  Biography

 Long before the Honmoon cast its protective veil across the world, when demons walked freely among mortals and terror ruled the night, there lived a woman who would change the course of supernatural history. Her name was Oya, though she had not always borne that title. She had been born Elena Vasquez in a small village nestled in the mountains of what would one day become Mexico. As a child, she possessed an unusual gift—she could see the spirits that lingered between worlds, the ancestors who whispered warnings of approaching danger. Her grandmother, a curandera of considerable skill, recognized the child's potential and began training her in the old ways: the summoning of protective spirits, the binding of malevolent forces, the delicate art of walking between life and death.
 Elena's world shattered on her fifteenth birthday. A horde of demons, drawn by the spiritual energy of her village's sacred sites, descended like locusts in the night. They moved with terrifying efficiency, slaughtering the elderly first—those whose wisdom posed the greatest threat—before turning to the children, the future, and finally the adults who screamed and fought with mortal desperation. Elena watched her grandmother die protecting the village's central altar, watched her parents fall while defending their home, watched every soul she had ever loved consumed by creatures that fed on human suffering. Something fundamental broke within her that night, but from that fracture, something else emerged—a cold, brilliant fury that would define the rest of her existence.
 She survived by becoming what the demons least expected: a hunter. Over the following months, Elena tracked each creature that had participated in the massacre. She studied their weaknesses, learned their true names, and systematically destroyed them using arts she taught herself through trial, error, and an unwavering desire for vengeance. With each kill, she grew stronger, more dangerous, more removed from the frightened girl she had once been. By her twentieth year, she had taken the name Oya—after the Yoruba orisha of storms and transformation—and dedicated her life to protecting other communities from the fate that had befallen her own. She became a traveling brujeria, a witch-warrior who appeared wherever demons gathered, bringing with her the winds of change and the promise of retribution.
 For decades, Oya wandered the world, following whispered rumors of demonic activity, arriving like a tempest to cleanse places of supernatural corruption. She learned from shamans in the Amazon, studied with mystics in Tibet, traded knowledge with wise women in the deserts of North Africa. Each culture added to her arsenal of protective arts, but also deepened her understanding of the cosmic forces that governed life, death, and the spaces between. As the years passed, Oya began to feel the weight of her solitary mission. She was aging, her body bearing the scars of countless battles, her soul heavy with the accumulated grief of a thousand rescued communities that could never replace the one she had lost. She knew that her death would leave the world vulnerable once again, that the demons she had held at bay would return with redoubled fury once her protective presence vanished. It was this growing awareness of mortality that led her to attempt her greatest and most dangerous magical working: the creation of a successor who could continue her mission long after her own death. The ritual required everything Oya had learned in her decades of study, and more. Drawing upon traditions that spanned continents and cultures, she began gathering the components for her working during the winter of what mortals would later record as 1592. She needed ash from sacred fires, blood freely given by those she had protected, bones from creatures that had died in defense of innocence, and most importantly, a portion of her own soul—the essence that had driven her quest for justice across the world. The summoning took place during the new moon, in a cave system in the mountains of Chile where the veil between worlds grew thin. For three days and nights, Oya chanted in languages both ancient and extinct, weaving together strands of power that had never before been combined. She felt her life force flowing into the ritual circle, her memories and experiences becoming fuel for the creation taking shape at its center.
 On the third night, as thunder rolled across the mountains and lightning illuminated the cave walls, the working reached its crescendo. Oya collapsed, aged years in moments by the force of magic she had channeled, but in the center of the circle lay her masterpiece: a creature of impossible beauty and terrible power. The being she had created possessed two forms, as befitted its dual nature. In its celestial state, it appeared as a massive hound wreathed in dancing smoke, with eyes like pooling blood and fangs that could tear through the fabric of reality itself. This was Maw, the perfect weapon against demonkind, a creature born from divine wrath and mortal determination. But Oya's creation was more than just a weapon. It also possessed a human form—that of a young woman of ethereal beauty, with features that seemed to shift subtly depending on who looked upon her, as if she existed partially outside the normal constraints of physical reality. In this shape, she could walk among mortals undetected, learning their ways, understanding what she was meant to protect.
 Oya named her Zariah Synnova Nocte—Zariah for the dawn light that would herald a new age of protection, Synnova for the celestial nature of her being, and Nocte for the darkness she was destined to battle. But in the quiet moments after the ritual's completion, as Oya held her creation like the daughter she had never had, she whispered another name: Maw, for the hunger that would drive her to consume evil wherever it lurked.
 The bond between creator and created was immediate and profound. Zariah possessed not only Oya's memories and knowledge but also her driving sense of purpose. She understood, with the clarity that comes from divine mandate, that she existed to stand between innocent humanity and the creatures that would devour them. It was a burden she accepted without question, for it was literally the reason for her existence. For the first months of her life, Zariah remained with Oya, learning to control her dual nature and master the arts that would make her an effective guardian. She discovered that in her human form, she possessed strength and speed beyond mortal limits, as well as an intuitive understanding of magic that allowed her to weave protective spells with minimal effort. In her hound form, she became something altogether more terrifying—a force of nature that could tear through demonic defenses like paper and devour the essence of evil creatures, growing stronger with each victory.
 But perhaps most importantly, Zariah learned about sacrifice. She watched Oya grow frailer with each passing day, the toll of the creation ritual slowly claiming the life force that had sustained the great protector for so many decades. Oya spoke often of duty, of the price that came with power, of the loneliness that awaited those who stood as guardians over others. These lessons carved themselves deep into Zariah's nascent soul, shaping her understanding of what it meant to be a protector. When Oya finally died, peacefully in her sleep after imparting the last of her knowledge to her successor, Zariah felt the weight of the world settle upon her shoulders. She buried her creator with all the honors due to a fallen hero, then set out to continue the mission that was now hers alone.Zariah's early years as a protector followed the pattern Oya had established. She traveled constantly, following rumors of demonic activity, arriving in villages and towns just ahead of supernatural disasters. Her methods were efficient and ruthless—she would scout an area in human form, identifying threats and weaknesses, then transform into her celestial hound to eliminate anything that posed a danger to innocent life. Unlike her creator, however, Zariah discovered that she possessed a particular gift for blending into human communities. Where Oya had always remained somewhat apart, viewed with a mixture of gratitude and fear by those she protected, Zariah found that her supernatural beauty and ethereal presence made her welcome in ways that surprised her. People were drawn to her, sensing something divine in her nature even if they couldn't identify it precisely.
 This ability to connect with humanity became both her greatest strength and her most dangerous vulnerability. Through her interactions with the mortals she protected, Zariah began to understand not just their fears and weaknesses, but also their capacity for joy, love, and hope. She witnessed acts of selfless courage that rivaled her own, saw parents sacrifice everything for their children, watched communities come together in the face of impossible odds. These experiences began to change her in ways that Oya's memories had not prepared her for. The cold, focused purpose that had driven her creator was slowly warming into something more complex—a genuine love for humanity that went beyond mere duty. She began to linger in communities after eliminating threats, helping with reconstruction, sharing meals with families she had saved, even participating in celebrations and festivals.
 It was during this period that Zariah first began to experiment with music. She discovered that her supernatural nature gave her an innate understanding of harmony and rhythm, and that songs could serve purposes beyond mere entertainment. Music could soothe frightened children, rally discouraged adults, and even serve as a medium for protective magic. She began incorporating musical elements into her guardian work, using songs to strengthen the spiritual defenses of the communities she protected. For nearly a decade, Zariah wandered the world in this manner, following demonic activity from continent to continent, learning about human nature while fulfilling her protective mandate. She battled creatures in the forests of Europe, cleansed corrupted temples in Egypt, and faced down demon lords in the mountains of Tibet. With each victory, her power grew, but so did her understanding of the world she fought to protect.
 It was this growth, this deepening connection to humanity, that would ultimately lead her to Korea.Zariah arrived in the peninsula that would one day be known as Korea during the autumn of 1603, drawn by reports of unusual demonic activity in the region. The Joseon Dynasty was at its height, a time of cultural flowering and relative peace that made the supernatural intrusions all the more jarring. Demons were appearing in places they had never been seen before, targeting not just isolated villages but major population centers, as if testing the defenses of civilization itself. What Zariah discovered upon her arrival was both fascinating and troubling. Korean spiritual traditions were remarkably sophisticated, with shamanic practices that bore similarities to techniques she had learned around the world. The concept of han—deep, abiding sorrow that could transcend individual experience—resonated with her own understanding of the cosmic forces that shaped existence. But despite this spiritual sophistication, or perhaps because of it, the demonic intrusions were more organized and purposeful than anything she had encountered elsewhere.
 She quickly determined that the demons were not acting randomly. They were probing, testing, searching for something specific. Their attacks followed patterns that suggested intelligence and coordination at a level that made Zariah deeply uneasy. In all her years of fighting such creatures, she had rarely encountered strategic thinking of this caliber. Her investigation led her to a small village outside what would later become Seoul, a community that had suffered three separate demonic attacks in as many months. The villagers spoke of a local family—a young street musician, his mother, and his younger sister—who seemed to be at the center of the supernatural attention. Each attack had focused on their modest home, though the demons had slaughtered indiscriminately once their primary target proved elusive.
 Zariah arrived on a night when the fourth attack was already underway. She found the village in chaos, buildings burning, people screaming as shadow-creatures poured through the streets like a dark tide. At the center of the devastation, she saw them: a young man desperately trying to protect his family while wielding nothing but a worn bīpa as an improvised weapon, his mother and teenage sister huddled behind him as he sang protective songs with a voice that seemed to shimmer with untapped power, somehow keeping the demons at bay through sheer force of will and love. The sight triggered something primal in Zariah's nature. Here was everything she had been created to protect—innocence, love, the desperate courage of mortals facing impossible odds. Without hesitation, she transformed into her celestial hound form and plunged into the battle.
 The demons had never faced anything like her. Where they were creatures of corruption and decay, she was living divine wrath given physical form. Her fangs tore through their essence like it was mist, her claws scattered their forms back to whatever hell had spawned them. Within minutes, the attack was over, the surviving demons fleeing back to the shadow realm they had emerged from. When the smoke faded and Zariah returned to human form, she found herself face to face with the family she had saved. The young man—who would later tell her his name was Jinu—stared at her with a mixture of awe and gratitude that made something twist unexpectedly in her chest. His mother, despite the terror they had just endured, bowed deeply and invited Zariah to share their humble meal, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to welcome a divine guardian to their dinner table.
 That night, as they sat around a simple fire and shared what little rice and tea they had, Zariah learned their story. Jinu was a street musician, gifted with a voice that could move listeners to tears and a skill with the bīpa that was remarkable despite his worn and battered instrument. But his talents earned them barely enough to survive, and the family lived in constant worry about having enough food for the next day. Despite their poverty, there was something beautiful about this small family. Jinu's devotion to his mother and sister was absolute—he would go days without eating to ensure they had food, and would walk miles to find work that might earn them a few coins. His mother, despite their hardships, maintained a grace and dignity that spoke of inner strength. His sister, young but wise beyond her years, helped however she could while dreaming of a world beyond their small village. Together, they created a pocket of love and music in a world that had given them very little reason for hope.
 Zariah found herself inexplicably drawn to this small family. There was something about their genuine love for each other, their willingness to sacrifice everything for the sake of staying together despite grinding poverty, that resonated with parts of her nature she hadn't known existed. For the first time since her creation, she felt truly welcome somewhere, not as a guardian or protector, but simply as herself. She decided to remain in the village for a few days, allegedly to ensure that the demons would not return, but actually because she was reluctant to leave. During those days, she discovered the depth of Jinu's musical knowledge and the surprising sophistication of the protective techniques he had been instinctively using. His songs weren't just melodies—they were actual magical workings, crude but effective methods of creating spiritual barriers. More importantly, she discovered that making music with him and his family felt like coming home.

What began as a few days stretched into weeks, then months. Zariah found herself settling into the rhythm of village life in ways that surprised her. During the day, she worked alongside the other women, helping with household tasks and seasonal labor, her supernatural strength making her invaluable during harvest time. More importantly, she began contributing to the family's income, using her abilities to take on work that would have been impossible for ordinary humans. In the evenings, she would join Jinu, his mother, and his sister for their musical sessions, contributing her own voice to their harmonies and sharing songs she had learned in her travels around the world. She found herself taking on the role of older sister and teacher, helping Jinu's sister develop her considerable vocal talents and sharing stories of the wider world beyond their small village. It was during these musical collaborations that Zariah first began to understand the true depth of her feelings for Jinu. His voice, when raised in song, seemed to reach parts of her soul that she hadn't known existed. When they sang together, creating harmonies that no purely human throat could produce, she felt a connection that transcended the physical world. Music became their shared language, a way of communicating emotions and ideas that went beyond mere words.
 Jinu, for his part, was clearly fascinated by Zariah's otherworldly presence. He would spend hours asking her about the songs she knew, the places she had traveled, the cultures she had encountered. His mother and sister often joined these conversations, their minds eager to absorb knowledge of the world beyond their village boundaries. Rather than feeling like an outsider, Zariah found herself becoming an integral part of their family unit. The four of them began collaborating on increasingly complex musical pieces, works that incorporated elements from across the world with traditional Korean forms. Zariah found herself sharing not just songs but stories, describing the contexts in which she had learned various musical traditions, the people who had taught her, the celebrations and ceremonies she had witnessed.
 For the first time in her existence, Zariah experienced something approaching domestic contentment. She helped with daily household tasks, contributed to the family's wellbeing through her supernatural abilities, and found herself thinking less about the broader mission Oya had given her and more about the immediate happiness of the people she had come to love. But it was Jinu who occupied more and more of her thoughts. She found herself memorizing the way his hands moved across the strings of his bīpa, the expression on his face when he was working out a particularly complex melody, the gentle way he spoke to his mother and sister. She began to understand, with growing alarm, that what she felt for him went far beyond friendship or artistic collaboration.
 The realization that she was falling in love came gradually, then all at once. One evening, as they sat by the fire working on a new composition while his mother and sister prepared for sleep, Jinu looked up from his instrument and caught her staring at him with an expression she hadn't meant to reveal. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and Zariah saw her own feelings reflected in his eyes. The knowledge was both exhilarating and terrifying. Zariah had been created for a specific purpose, and that purpose didn't include personal happiness or romantic love. More importantly, Jinu had responsibilities—a mother and sister who depended on him for survival, family obligations that she couldn't ask him to compromise. But as the weeks passed, it became clear that Jinu's feelings for her were as deep as her own. He began seeking opportunities to spend time alone with her, walking with her to the market or sitting together by the stream where she would tell him stories of her travels.
 Their conversations grew more intimate, more personal, as they shared their hopes, fears, and dreams for the future. It was Jinu's sister who, with the intuition that comes from youth and a lack of adult inhibitions, first acknowledged what was developing between them. One morning, as Zariah was teaching her a new vocal technique, the girl looked up with bright, knowing eyes and said simply, "You love my brother, don't you?" The directness of the question caught Zariah off guard, but she found herself nodding, unable to deny what had become so obvious. The girl smiled, an expression of pure joy. "Good," she said. "He's been happier since you came than I've ever seen him. And mother likes you too—she says you have kind hands and a good heart." Indeed, Jinu's mother had been watching the developing relationship with approval rather than concern. Despite the family's circumstances, she possessed a sharp mind and a deep understanding of her son's needs. She could see that Zariah's presence had brought a lightness to Jinu that had been absent during their years of struggle and hardship.
 One evening, when her children were outside practicing a new song, she spoke quietly to Zariah about love, family, and the different ways that households could be formed. "I see how you look at my son," she said softly, "and I see how he looks at you. I also see the way you care for our family, as if we were your own blood." Zariah tried to explain the complications of her nature and purpose, but the older woman listened with the patience of someone who had learned to accept life's unexpected turns. "You have brought us protection and prosperity," Jinu's mother continued. "My children are happier and safer than they have ever been. If you wish to make this arrangement permanent, you would have my blessing."
 The conversation that followed was unlike anything Zariah had ever experienced. Jinu's mother spoke of her hopes for her children's future, her understanding that love could take many forms, and her growing certainty that Zariah's arrival in their lives had been a gift from whatever benevolent forces watched over struggling families. When Zariah expressed her concerns about her supernatural nature and the potential dangers it might bring, the older woman smiled with quiet wisdom. "All love carries risks," she said. "But some risks are worth taking for the right person."With his mother's blessing and his sister's enthusiastic support, Jinu and Zariah's relationship began to develop more openly. What had been careful glances and stolen moments became deliberate courtship, conducted with all the proper formalities that Korean tradition demanded but infused with a supernatural element that made everything feel touched by magic. The village itself seemed to approve of the match. People had witnessed Zariah's protection of their community, had seen how the family's circumstances had improved since her arrival, and had heard the extraordinary music that the four of them created together. When Jinu formally asked for Zariah's hand in marriage, following the ancient rituals despite the unconventional nature of their situation, the community's response was overwhelmingly positive.
 For nearly two years, Zariah experienced a happiness she had never imagined possible. She and Jinu created music together that seemed to resonate on multiple levels of reality, songs that could heal emotional wounds, strengthen spiritual defenses, and bring communities together in celebration of their shared humanity. Their performances became legendary throughout the region, drawing audiences from distant villages who came not just for entertainment but for the sense of hope and renewal that their music provided.
 Zariah found herself changing in fundamental ways during this period. The cold, focused purpose that had driven her guardian work softened into something warmer and more nuanced. She began to understand that protection could take many forms—not just the dramatic battles against supernatural threats, but the quiet daily work of nurturing and supporting the people she cared about. She also began to explore aspects of her nature that Oya's memories had never prepared her for. In her relationship with Jinu, she discovered that her supernatural abilities could be channeled in ways that had nothing to do with violence. Her enhanced senses allowed her to read his moods and needs with uncanny accuracy, her strength made her invaluable in their domestic life, and her divine nature seemed to enhance their physical intimacy in ways that left them both awed and grateful. Perhaps most importantly, Zariah learned to see herself not just as a weapon against evil, but as a complete being capable of growth, change, and happiness. The rigid sense of duty that had defined her existence since creation began to evolve into something more flexible and nuanced—an understanding that true protection sometimes meant allowing herself to be vulnerable, to love, to build something worth defending.
This transformation didn't go unnoticed by the supernatural forces that had been tracking her activities. From the shadow realm, ancient powers watched with growing interest as one of the most formidable guardians in existence allowed herself to become domesticated, to develop emotional attachments that could be exploited.
 The demon lord known as Gwi-Ma had been observing Zariah since her arrival in Korea, recognizing her as the source of the protective power that had been frustrating his agents' activities in the region. He had initially planned a direct assault, gathering forces sufficient to overwhelm even her considerable abilities. But as he watched her relationship with the human musician develop, he realized that a more subtle approach might prove far more effective. Gwi-Ma understood, as few beings did, that the greatest weapons against creatures of light were not darkness or violence, but corruption and despair. If he could turn Zariah's love into a source of pain rather than strength, if he could make her protective nature the instrument of her own damnation, then he would not only eliminate a powerful enemy but gain a valuable ally in the process.
The trap he set was elegant in its simplicity and devastating in its execution.

The attack came on what should have been one of the happiest days of Zariah's existence. She and Jinu had decided to formalize their relationship with a traditional Korean wedding ceremony, a celebration that would recognize not just their love for each other but their commitment to caring for his mother and sister and building a life together. The entire village had been involved in the preparations. Zariah had been amazed by the warmth and acceptance she found in the community—people who had initially been awed by her otherworldly presence had come to see her simply as Jinu's beloved, a woman who had brought stability and protection to their small corner of the world. Even the village elders, who might have been expected to disapprove of such an unconventional match, had embraced Zariah as a daughter-in-law worthy of their respect.
 The ceremony itself was beautiful, held in the village's central courtyard under a canopy of spring blossoms. Zariah wore traditional Korean wedding garments that had been lovingly crafted by the village women, her supernatural beauty enhanced by the communal love that had gone into every stitch. Jinu, resplendent in his finest robes, sang traditional vows with a voice that seemed to make the very air shimmer with emotion. As they performed the ritual bows that would make them husband and wife in the eyes of both heaven and earth, Zariah felt a profound sense of completion. This was what she had been created for, she realized—not just to fight demons, but to protect and nurture the things that made life worth living. Love, family, community, the simple human connections that gave meaning to existence.
 The celebration that followed was everything she could have hoped for. The entire village turned out to honor the couple, sharing food and drink, music and stories, laughter and joy that seemed to light up the night. Jinu's sister, now officially Zariah's sister-in-law, glowed with happiness as she performed a traditional dance in their honor. His mother, dignified and proud, offered blessings that carried the weight of genuine affection. Zariah found herself overwhelmed by the acceptance and affection she encountered, the genuine happiness that people felt for her and Jinu's union. As the evening wore on, she made a decision that would prove fateful. For the first time since arriving in the village, she allowed herself to completely relax her supernatural vigilance. She had been maintaining constant awareness of potential threats for years, her divine senses always alert for signs of demonic activity. But on her wedding night, surrounded by people she loved and trusted, she let that guard drop entirely.
It was exactly what Gwi-Ma had been waiting for.
 The demons struck just after midnight, when the celebration was at its peak and most of the villagers were too intoxicated by joy (and rice wine) to react quickly to danger. They came not as the crude shadow-creatures that had attacked before, but as sophisticated infiltrators who had spent weeks studying the village's defenses and weaknesses. The first sign of trouble was screaming from the eastern edge of the village, where the demons had begun their assault on the homes of families with young children. By the time Zariah realized what was happening and began to transform into her celestial hound form, the creatures had already begun their systematic slaughter. What followed was the most brutal battle of Zariah's existence. The demons had come prepared for her intervention, armed with strategies specifically designed to counter her abilities. The battle raged for hours, dancing flames illuminated scenes of carnage that would haunt her for the rest of her existence. She fought with desperate fury, her celestial nature blazing at its full power as she tried to save as many villagers as possible. But the demons had planned their assault too well, and there were simply too many of them.
 By the time the last demon fell, more than half the village was dead. Zariah, exhausted and wounded, transformed back into human form to find herself standing in the ruins of everything she had come to love. Bodies lay scattered throughout the courtyard where she had been married just hours before, including many of the people who had celebrated with such joy. But the worst was yet to come.Zariah found Jinu, his mother, and his sister huddled in the wreckage of their home, all three miraculously alive but deeply traumatized by what they had witnessed. The girl was conscious but in deep shock, her young mind struggling to process the carnage she had seen. Jinu's mother sat in stunned silence, her dignity maintained even in the face of such horror. Jinu himself was awake but in a state of profound trauma, his eyes unfocused and his hands shaking as he held his family protectively. When he saw Zariah approaching, still partially wreathed in dancing smoke of her divine form, still covered in the ethereal blood of demons she had slaughtered, his reaction was not what she had expected. Instead of relief or gratitude, she saw something that made her heart stop: fear.
 Not the rational fear of someone who had just survived a demon attack, but something deeper and more primal. He was looking at her the way the villagers had once looked at the demons—as something alien and dangerous, something that brought death and destruction in its wake. "Jinu," she whispered, reaching out to him with hands that still glowed with residual divine power. "It's me. It's Zariah. You're safe now." But he recoiled from her touch, pulling his mother and sister closer as if to protect them from her presence. His sister, seeing her brother's reaction, looked at Zariah with dawning horror rather than the love and trust she had always shown before. His mother, despite her earlier acceptance, now gazed upon Zariah with the wariness of someone who had finally understood the true nature of what she had welcomed into her home. "What are you?" Jinu asked, his voice barely audible but carrying a weight of horror that cut through her heart like a blade. "What have you brought to us?" The question hit her with devastating force because, on some level, she knew he was right. The demons had come because of her. Her presence in the village, her happiness with Jinu, her moment of vulnerability—all of it had painted a target on the community she had tried to protect. Every person who had died tonight had died because she had allowed herself to forget what she was. Around them, the surviving villagers were beginning to emerge from their hiding places, and Zariah saw the same expression on every face: the dawning realization that their protector had also been their doom. Some looked at her with accusation, others with simple fear, but none with the warmth and acceptance she had grown accustomed to.
 One of the village elders, a man who had blessed their marriage just hours before, spoke the words that would haunt Zariah for centuries to come: "You brought this evil to us. You pretended to be human, but you're no different from them. You're all monsters." The accusation struck her with physical force. In that moment, Zariah understood with crystalline clarity that everything she had built here was gone. The love she had shared with Jinu, the family they had created, the community that had accepted her—all of it was tainted now by the blood that had been spilled because of her presence.
 She looked at Jinu one more time, hoping to see some flicker of the love they had shared, some recognition of the woman who had held him through the night just hours before. Instead, she saw only a stranger staring at a monster, and she understood that the man she had loved was as dead as the demons she had slaughtered. His sister, the girl who had called her "big sister" with such joy, now pressed her face against Jinu's shoulder, unable to even look at the creature she had once trusted completely. His mother, who had given her blessing to their union, now stared at Zariah with the horrified understanding of someone who realized they had invited death itself to their dinner table. Without a word, Zariah turned and walked away from the village, away from the life she had built, away from everything that had given her existence meaning. Behind her, she could hear Jinu's sister beginning to cry, calling not for the woman she had known as family, but for protection from the monster who had destroyed their world.
As she reached the edge of the village, she heard footsteps behind her and turned to find Jinu following at a distance. For a moment, hope flared in her chest—perhaps he had come to his senses, perhaps their love could survive this horror.
But when he spoke, his words extinguished that hope forever.
"Don't ever come back," he said, his voice hollow with grief and rage. "Don't ever let us see you again. You've brought enough death to my family." The finality in his tone broke something fundamental in Zariah's nature. She nodded once, unable to trust her voice, and continued walking into the darkness. Behind her, she heard him return to his family, hearing them whispering words of comfort to each other as they began the long process of rebuilding their lives without her. It was then, in her moment of absolute despair, that she heard the voice.
"Such a tragic end to such a beautiful love story," came a whisper from the shadows, rich with false sympathy and genuine amusement. "But perhaps it doesn't have to end this way."Zariah turned to find a figure emerging from the darkness—tall, elegant, with an aura of power that made the air itself seem to recoil. She recognized him immediately from Oya's memories: Gwi-Ma, the demon lord who had orchestrated tonight's massacre.
"You," she snarled, her divine nature blazing to life as she prepared for battle.
But Gwi-Ma raised a hand in a gesture of peace, his smile never wavering. "Now, now. There's no need for violence. After all, I come bearing gifts."
"Gifts?" Zariah's voice was poisonous. "You destroyed everything I loved."
"No," Gwi-Ma corrected gently. "Love destroyed everything you loved. I simply... facilitated the revelation of truth. Tell me, my dear guardian, what do you see when you look back at that village?"
Despite herself, Zariah found her gaze drawn back toward the settlement she had just abandoned. The fires were still burning, casting an orange glow against the night sky. She could hear the sounds of weeping, of people calling out for loved ones who would never answer.
"I see the consequences of my weakness," she whispered.
"Precisely," Gwi-Ma purred. "You allowed yourself to become soft, domesticated, vulnerable. You forgot your true nature in pursuit of human affection, and look what it cost you. Look what it cost them."
The demon lord circled her slowly, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality. "But I offer you something different. I offer you the chance to embrace what you truly are—not a protector of humans, but something far greater. Something that transcends their petty morality and fleeting emotions."
"You want me to serve you," Zariah said flatly.
"I want to free you," Gwi-Ma corrected. "From the burden of caring for creatures who will only ever fear and reject you. From the pain of love that leads inevitably to loss. From the weakness that comes from attachment."
He gestured toward the village. "They called you a monster tonight, didn't they? The same people who celebrated your wedding, who welcomed you into their homes, who sang your praises when you saved them from lesser demons. The moment they saw your true nature, they recoiled in horror."
Zariah said nothing, but her silence was enough.
"Join me," Gwi-Ma continued, "and you'll never have to experience that rejection again. Serve me, and I'll give you power beyond imagination, purpose without the complications of human emotion, strength without the vulnerability of love."
"And what would you ask of me in return?" Zariah asked, though part of her was already beginning to understand.
"Nothing you haven't already done," Gwi-Ma replied with a smile. "You were created to be a weapon. I simply offer you the chance to wield yourself with precision rather than stumbling blindly through a world that will never truly accept you."
The offer hung in the air between them like a poisonous flower, beautiful and deadly in equal measure. Zariah found herself considering it despite everything she had been taught, everything Oya had instilled in her about duty and protection.
"There's just one condition," she said finally.
Gwi-Ma raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"I want to forget," Zariah continued, her voice growing stronger with each word. "All of it. The love, the pain, the hope, the loss. If I'm to serve you, I want no memory of what came before. I want to be the weapon you say I am, without the burden of remembering what I gave up to become it."
The demon lord's smile widened, revealing teeth like polished obsidian. "And what of the young musician? Should he forget as well?"
"Especially him," Zariah said, though the words felt like glass in her throat. "Let him remember a different story. Let him remember me as something that was never real, never meaningful. Let him be free to build a life without the shadow of what we had."
"Such exquisite cruelty," Gwi-Ma mused. "To erase yourself so completely from the life of someone you love. I confess, I didn't expect such ruthless efficiency from someone so recently domesticated."
"Is it a deal?" Zariah demanded.
Gwi-Ma extended one elegant hand, power radiating from his palm like heat from a forge. "Oh, my dear Zariah. It's so much more than a deal. It's a rebirth."
As their hands touched, Zariah felt the memories beginning to fade like morning mist. The last thing she remembered clearly was Jinu's voice, calling her name with love instead of fear, before even that was swept away into darkness.
 When she awakened, she was something new—Gwi-Ma's Prized Possession, a weapon without conscience, a guardian turned predator. The celestial hound who had once protected humanity now served the very forces she had been created to oppose. And in a small Korean village, a young musician named Jinu woke from troubled dreams, unable to remember why his heart felt so empty, or why he sometimes found himself humming melodies that seemed to carry the echo of a voice he had never heard.Four hundred years would pass before their paths crossed again. Jinu, transformed by his own deal with Gwi-Ma into something between human and demon, would find himself drawn to a half-demon hunter named Rumi, never knowing that the ache in his chest came from a love story that had been carefully erased from existence. And Zariah, now known only as Gwi-Ma's most trusted lieutenant, would watch from the shadows as history repeated itself—love blooming in impossible circumstances, hope struggling against despair, the eternal dance between light and darkness that defined the war between hunters and demons.
 Sometimes, in the quiet moments between battles, she would hear echoes of music that seemed familiar, melodies that stirred something deep in her reconstructed soul. But she would dismiss these fragments as meaningless noise, never knowing that they were the last remnants of a song she had once helped create—a harmony born of love, lost to the price of power, and destined to remain forever incomplete. The celestial hound had learned to hunt in service of darkness, and the world was poorer for the choice she had made in a moment of ultimate despair. But love, once true, leaves traces that even the most powerful magic cannot entirely erase. And sometimes, in dreams neither of them could remember upon waking, a young woman and a young man would find each other across an impossible distance, creating music that existed nowhere but in the space between memory and hope.

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