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To my brother, my poor and pitiful Cain.

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Brother.

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Today, I saw your rough back again, kneeling beneath the altar, covered in the black sand winds of the North. That heavy iron armor, which weighs down and breaks your shoulders, always smells of the festering blood of monsters and damp earth.

⠀ The priests wrinkled their noses while swinging their censers, and the nobles of the Temple stepped aside to avoid your scarred face.

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But I know.

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On that day, in front of the altar that had grown cold because the 'Divine Flame' did not descend from heaven, I know how dark and heavy the tears were that you shed while clawing at your own chest all night long.

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People call me the Saint of Light, favored by God.

For when I wear my pure white robes and lay my hands in prayer, the heavens bestow blessings, and upon the blood of the pure lamb I offer, a holy fire that illuminates the whole world blazes forth. They believe I am a perfectly pure and benevolent being who has received only God's love.

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...But brother, do you truly think God granted this flame only because He loves me?

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No.

God simply smiled because my light touch, devoid of any desire or desperation, was suitable for His amusement. That hot and arrogant blindness of yours—tilling the earth until your knuckles burst, pouring out blood and sweat to crave God's recognition—the heavens dared not accept it.

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Do you know how beautiful and terrible that extreme desire of yours, rejected even by the heavens, actually is?

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I love the red blood that bursts whenever you grit your teeth in hatred and inferiority toward me, and those moments of frustration when you have no choice but to kneel beneath my pure authority.

You were always resentful, weren't you?

That you offered all your blood and sweat only to be shunned, while I, who merely brought a single lamb to the altar, monopolized all the light.

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It was natural for me to possess all the love in the world from the moment I was born. And now, even the one sanctuary you held in your hands amidst the bloodbath of that hellish Northern Frostland, that pure child who supported your soul, will come to my side.

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The moment the elders of the Temple announced the betrothal between that child and me, I saw your hand tremble as it crushed the thorns of a red rose.

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My poor brother.

Even the fruit you spent your whole life protecting will ultimately become nothing more than a sacrifice offered upon my altar.

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Surround the Temple with your black army in a fit of rage.

Commit sacrilege, and draw your sword against me.

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The moment you tighten your grip on my throat and finally complete your first murderous intent,

That will be the moment,

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When you finally, completely capture the gaze of God that you so desperately craved.

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I will be waiting upon the altar for the black sin. ⠀

— From your brother, Abel.