Calum is not immortal.
He is not chosen.
And he is not a savior.

He’s just a man.

Dragged from violence into exile, Calum becomes an unwilling traveler through history’s darkest moments—wars, purges, trials, and collapses where suffering is not an accident, but a system. He survives where others do not, bearing witness to cruelty, faith, fear, and power as they repeat themselves across centuries.

What Calum does not yet understand is that history is not merely human—and that some evils do not rage or tempt. They watch.

This is a series about endurance without redemption, faith without certainty, and the terrible cost of seeing clearly when the world prefers blindness.

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Salem is where Calum finally tries to intervene.

Arriving in a town already hardened by fear and certainty, Calum cannot stand aside. He argues. He pleads. He schemes. Again and again, he attempts to disrupt what he believes must be evil—and again and again, he fails. The trials proceed. Accusations multiply. The innocent die.

At the gallows, as bodies sway in the cold air, Calum turns on the presence that has followed him across years and continents.

Demon, he calls Azariel. Torment me if you must—but why must these innocents suffer?

Azariel offers no defense. Only a reminder:

What is to be written must first be witnessed.

As Salem consumes itself, Calum begins to realize that his outrage changes nothing—and that witnessing, once framed as obedience, has become a punishment. Yet in a moment of quiet, unsettling clarity, Azariel speaks again—not as command, but as acknowledgment.

I am not concerned that you are dismayed by what you have seen, it tells him. I would have concern had you not.

Thou Shalt Not Suffer… is a descent into moral futility and theological unease, where good intentions fail, evil requires no monsters, and the first doubt emerges that Azariel may be something far more complex—and far more dangerous—than Calum has believed.

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