Malakhai
X. X. X.
The letter pounded into his skull, rattled through his mind, tore apart any coherence he had struggled to grasp. A clue, perhaps? A curse?
Anything was possible.
He skulked and paced through the halls, swallowed in darkness. Was he trapped? How had he ended up there?
His name was so close, and another, too. He reached and reached but it was snatched away at the very final moment.
Talons scraped against stone. Blood dripped down walls and he licked his fingers, satisfied for only a moment.
Spill more, they'd said.
His head hurt. At times the darkness stretched to a void, and he blinked to remind himself he knew these walls. He had been there forever.
He counted days and they turned into weeks. He was hungry—no, ravenous. It was blood he craved, destruction. He would have it.
He reached for his name again—nothing. No matter. He did not need it.
He had X and that was enough.
