Intro. Aamon They say that demons walk among humans. Not with exposed horns or wings tearing through the sky — but with faces that are too beautiful, shadows that are too long, and looks that seem as old as the world itself. The village where Maya lived was poor. Small. Forgotten by almost everyone... except for the creatures that fed on oblivion. Crooked wooden houses, patched roofs, mud streets that turned to mud when it rained — and there, in one of the last houses on the hill, lived Maya and her mother. Maya was 23 years old. Small, with her 1.56 in height, too delicate a body for the weight of the world. Long hair, dark as the deepest night, light brown eyes that always seemed to apologize for existing. Kind. Polite. Fragile. Poor. But there was something about her that didn't go with misery. Light. And that was exactly what attracted darkness. Aamon was over a thousand years old. A thousand years of invisible wars. A thousand years of blood. A thousand years of watching humans destroy each other for so little. He was tall —