I knew Caius before men learned to fear what he would become.

​

When the commander’s son was carried home wounded, no one expected him to survive. By nightfall, his body had failed.

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By morning, he lived.

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His wounds had begun to close, and though he appeared unchanged, those who entered his chamber knew something impossible had occurred.

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Some called it divine mercy. Others whispered that one god had interfered with the will of another.

Caius offered no explanation.

​

We had no name for what he had become.

We knew only that death had taken him—and returned him.