Andre looked away from the destruction, feeling the pressure of the fallen soldiers on him like a haze of smoke. He walked slowly towards the castle's intimidating outline, his claws crunching on the blood-covered stones. The smell of decay filled the air, serving as a nauseating memory of his evil actions.
He felt a sudden shock when he heard a rustling sound coming from the trees nearby. He turned quickly, his unnatural eyes searching through the shadows. A shape appeared from the darkness, draped in the recognizable white garments of a priest.
Andre spoke hoarsely as he addressed "Father Michael" his voice a deep growl that caused him to shudder. The man in front of him, had facial features marked with the wrinkles of a life devoted to belief and practice.
Father Michael halted a short distance from Andre, his aged visage showing a blend of sadness and resolute determination.
"Andre," he said, his voice a quiet growl that contrasted with his fragile appearance. "You have... you have grown."
Grown? Andre sneered, emitting a rough, guttural noise that reverberated in the quiet of the night. With his clawed hands flexing involuntarily, he growled, "Father, this is who I am now."
Father Michael looked out at the bloody battlefield, taking in the destruction with a deep sigh. "This... this is not who you are, Andre. This is something different. "Something... evil."
Andre's demonic features twisted into a grimace. "This is who I am," he bellowed, his voice causing a tremor that rattled the stones below. "This is what they made me become. "
Father Michael stood firm, maintaining eye contact with Andre. He put his hand into his robe and pulled out a well-used leather-bound book – his grimoire. Upon opening it, a subtle, mystical radiance shone from the pages, illuminating his face with an unearthly light.
"Next," Father Michael stated, his voice strong even as his hands shook, "I am obligated to make an effort to bring you back." To drive out the demon that is inside you.
Andre squinted his eyes, a deep growl sounding from his chest. He remembered the previous occasion when Father Michael had tried to accomplish that task. Five years ago, Elian, the boy he used to be, had been taken over by an entity he couldn't command. Five years of suffering, of feeling trapped in his own body, fueled the anger that was now flowing through him.
"Do you believe you can stop me, Father?" he croaked, his voice filled with poison. "Do you believe that your God can resist the strength that currently courses through me?"
Father Michael raised his head, his gaze unwavering. "There is only one true power, Andre," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "And I will not let you be consumed by its darkness."
He raised the grimoire higher, the ethereal glow intensifying, bathing the battlefield in an otherworldly light.
Andre let out a deafening roar that felt like it was ripping through the essence of existence before charging at Father Michael. The elderly priest, with his determined expression visible on his worn face, remained steadfast. With the grimoire tightly in hand, he raised his hand and spoke the ancient words of an exorcism with a powerful voice.
"Chains of Adhara, banish this fiend
And spread his ashes with the wind!"
Golden chains appeared from the grimoire pages, shining with celestial light as he finished speaking the last syllable. They quickly fired at Andre, while the demonic creature displayed unnatural speed. He turned and bent in strange positions, with the chains passing through the empty space where he had last been.
Father Michael, with a fierce anger in his eyes, remained unwavering. Reaching into his robe, he retrieved a small talisman intricately carved. He flung it at Andre with a quick flick of his wrist. The talisman, filled with the energy of numerous blessings and sacred ceremonies, hit Andre directly on the back.
A blinding flash of light erupted, momentarily engulfing the battlefield. it subsided, the world around Andre had shifted. The ground tilted beneath his feet, the sky swirling above him like a distorted reflection in a shattered mirror. The air itself crackled with an unnatural energy, pushing against him with an unseen force.
And after that, the internal transformation took place. The terrifying shape that had taken over him, the sharp claws, the wings made of leather – all started to vanish. Andre tripped, his sinister characteristics twisting in bewilderment and agony. A primal fear took over him, a raw instinct fighting back as his monstrous power unraveled.
Looking at his hands, he saw that they were now human again, with the blood of the fallen soldiers still visible on his skin. He gazed at Father Michael, the elderly priest standing proudly, his tired face showing a blend of weariness and somber contentment.
Father Michael's voice was heavy with emotion as he rasped, "Elian." Its you. It has always been you."
Andre, his thoughts spinning from the abrupt change, could only gaze back, a glimpse of his former self fighting against the anger still present in him.
"What have I done?" he whispered, the words barely audible above the ringing in his ears.
Father Michael moved closer, extending his hand." You've been lost, Elian. But there is still time. There is still a chance for redemption."
Andre observed the hand, a representation of the religion he had previously believed in, the religion that had let him down during his time of greatest need. He saw the destruction all around him, evidence of the terrible deeds he had done.
Embarrassment, an emotion that had not been felt by him for a long time, suddenly engulfed him. He had taken great pleasure in his dominance, in the havoc he had caused. Now without that power, he realized the real consequences of his actions.
His gaze returned to Father Michael, brimming with a blend of hope and despair. Reaching out with his quivering human hand, he took hold of the hand that was offered to him.
"Help me," he croaked, his voice barely audible. "Help me."
Father Michael's grasp grew stronger, silently conveying a pledge between them. The journey towards redemption had only just started, marked by feelings of guilt, remorse, and the difficult process of repairing what he had severely damaged.