It was already half past dawn. The city outside was asleep—if it still knew how—and inside my apartment, the only sound was the constant buzzing of the computer, as familiar as the thoughts that kept me from sleeping. The blue light from the screen tinted my face, reflecting dark circles that were not resolved and the restlessness of someone who wasn't exactly looking for what they said they were looking for.
At first, it was just another search. A keyword, an academic document, perhaps another e-book about magical foundations or esoteric theories lost in obscure forums. But my curiosity, as always, had a mind of its own. And it took me to a place I hadn't expected.
At the top of the tab, among half-broken links and suspicious ads, a title jumped out at me like a provocation: "The Compendium of Nihra Kur ."
I smiled, almost in disbelief. The name was direct, almost uncomfortable—like an ancient whisper coming from the cracks of the world. One of those that makes most people close the tab immediately, clearing their history with trembling hands and whispering prayers to the Holy Flame of the Redeemer to assuage their guilt.
But I wasn't like most people. My faith in such entities had long since died—if it had ever been born. The light they offered me was harsh, cold, imposing. It was more obscuring than illuminating. And since I moved away from it, I've learned to look at the shadows with different eyes. I clicked.
The site itself was... old. Dark-toned, symbols swirling around the edges of the screen, typography that looked like it had been etched in stone before being digitized. But the content... the content grabbed me. Not because of its form, but because of its intent.
There, among enigmatic texts and passages translated from forgotten languages, there was something that sounded like a silent rebellion. Not against a specific entity, but against everything we have been taught to fear. They spoke of the "Ancient Sovereigns"—beings of ancient power, rejected by modern religions, which portrayed them as demons or corruptions. But, according to the Compendium, they were archetypes of freedom, wronged by a history written by those who wanted control.
I started reading with skepticism. I read for hours. They talked about personal spirituality, about breaking involuntary pacts with inherited doctrines, about rediscovering the power of intention and self-will. They spoke of creation, of meditation, of the symbolic invocation of inner forces. Some of the texts were delirious, yes—but others... others had a raw, strangely familiar voice. The voice of someone who, like me, had grown tired of bowing down.
It was then that I found a guide. "Awakening Ritual for Kur'Nahar ." The sentence sent a chill down my spine, but my eyes didn't look away. It described, in detail, a simple and direct ritual. Preparation of space, concentration of intention, symbols to be drawn, invocation phrases. No sacrifices or cheap theatrics. It was... methodical. Almost clinical.
My hand hovered over the mouse. I could try. It was all there. A candle. A ritual line drawn with precision. A name to be called with respect. A price to be considered. All I had to do was follow the steps.
But then something stopped me. A thought.
— What if it works?
The fear wasn't of failure. It was the opposite. It was the fear that it would work. That something would answer the call. And then what?
"What if I lose myself?" a voice inside me whispered, low and relentless. What if I can't even be worthy of that?
The room suddenly seemed darker. The light from the screen seemed colder. I backed away slowly, as if the computer itself could sense my hesitation. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for a command I couldn't give.
Maybe I was weak. Or prudent. Maybe I was still too attached to the fear I inherited from the Flame.
But... maybe not. Maybe just the fact that he considered it was already a sign. Because at that moment, I realized something important: It wasn't about summoning. It was about searching.
About daring to imagine a spirituality that was mine. Even if built with fragments. Even if born in the shadow. I closed the tab. But I didn't forget the name.
He would still be there. Like a scar. Or a lighthouse. And I would move on. With doubt. With the will. With the certainty that there was no way back. Just the road ahead, and the shade that, more and more, began to look like shelter.
◇ ◇ ◇
I don't know exactly when it started. Maybe after that text. Maybe before. Maybe it had always been there, but now I was able to name it. It was a feeling — or an annoyance. Whenever someone tried to push me back into that system, that ritual disguised as politeness, the discomfort would arise. It happened in the most banal interactions, disguised as affection and custom.
Like when I would extend my hand to greet someone and the person, smiling, would say: " Bless you ?" And before I could react, the automatic response would come: "May the Sacred Flame of the Redeemer bless you." Or at night, when someone would say goodbye with forced sweetness: "May the Redeemer give you sweet dreams."
Soft, almost affectionate words ... but which, to me, sounded like disguised orders. Like prayers imposed on me, even when I had already refused to be part of that choir.
My hands were tingling. The skin that touched the other seemed to be touched by something viscous, sticky, subtle like a thread of warm air, but present. It was as if a veil had been thrown over me—a ceremonial cloth steeped in imposition and guilt.
At first, I thought it was psychological. A reflection of the discomfort I already felt. A figment of my mind. But even rationalizing, the feeling persisted. Too persistent to be ignored. I had to deal with her. I had to find a way to react without necessarily reacting to others.
I began to visualize. I assigned shapes and colors to sensations so that I could manipulate them mentally. It was easier to deal with the invisible when I gave it contours.
The malaise became a fabric—a yellowed cloak, woven with sacred threads that seemed to vibrate with forced prayers and recycled morality. It wrapped itself around my skin whenever the ritual occurred. It covered me. It suffocated me. And I… I needed to burn it.
That's when I remembered what I read in Nihra 's Compendium Kur . About how the mind can be used as a tool, as a temple, as a battlefield.
I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I saw myself standing alone in the dark. And then the flame appeared. It wasn't a raw fire. It was a soft, dancing, translucent flame. Violet.
The flame enveloped me—not to consume me, but to cleanse me. The golden fabric was falling apart on her, breaking apart like dry leaves. The symbols faded away one by one, and with them, that invisible discomfort dissipated. I felt my skin free again. I could feel my whole body breathing.
During that moment, I whispered to myself. It wasn't a prayer. It was a statement. A choice.
— "I refuse the shackles of faith that have been imposed upon me. Burn the dogmas, dissolve the lies. May Kur'Nahar , symbol of my freedom, recognize me. And may I one day become worthy of the truth I have chosen to seek."
This sentence has changed a few times. With each repetition, she adjusted. Because it wasn't about worshiping an entity. It wasn't idolatry. It was resistance. It was recognizing that what I was told to fear... was what I needed to keep standing.
I didn't kneel. I stood up. Even if it was just in thought. Even if it was just for a few seconds.
In the end, he opened his eyes. And everything was still there — the world, the city, the people, the churches. But inside me, there was clean space again. There was air. There was ground.
I didn't know yet what the next step would be. It wasn't even a question of whether there was a right path. But each time I repeated this gesture, I felt a little less of the dirt they were trying to stick on me. And that was enough to keep going.