"He's coming for you"
These are the words that constantly plague Miranda Evahearts mind. A young detective whose sole purpose in life , is to uncover the truth behind her mother's 'accidental' accident .
However , as Miranda ventures into the mirror...
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Rouland shrieked in agony. Rivulets of blood trickled down the planes of his body before pooling around his ankles. His sweat soaked mane clung to his scalp. The thick matted tendrils rested on his nape, adding extra weight to his current predicament. His chest heaved in exhaustion, his breaths sharp and raspy as he dodged between bookshelves and paintings, desperately searching for a hideout. The air, thick with dread and fear, hung over him like a blanket, suffocating his already exhausted Lungs. The room was silent, cold. The crunching of his leather boots echoed of the concrete walls, causing Rouland to pale even further. His quivering body resembling a white linen sheet.
He cautiously stalked, wiping away a bead of sweat that dared to roll down his forehead. His ears perked upwards, eagerly listening to locate the whereabouts of the courageous fool who dared to challenge him.
Blood oozed out of his fresh wounds. The heady scent of sweat and blood made Rouland dizzy. His body growing weak and lethargic as he crept behind an old bookshelf.
He breathed in deep, attempting to calm his pounding heart. Thoughts fluttered through his panicked mind, cluttering it as he awaited his destiny.
Painted images of himself surrounded him.Suffocating him.Their soulles eyes staring back at him. Triumphant smiles, morphing into scowls. They mocked him, taunted him. Reminded him of the fearless leader he used to be. Instead, here he sat cowering behind a bookshelf. The dusty books and cold walls being the only witness to his defeat.
A foreign emotion filtered through his bloodstream. His body awoke, pricked with awareness as it tried to decipher the unknown pathogen. Fear!? Was Rouland experiencing fear?
The emotion that used to swim in his victims eyes, overflowing from their pores. The emotion that used to once soothe him to sleep, now taunted him. Rouland felt weak, vulnerable, exposed.
He tasted the foreign emotion on his tongue, allowing it to fully consume him. Rouland was shocked. He hadn't tasted fear in years. The last he felt it was when he discovered his father's secret and he feared being abandoned. Yet here it was, coarsing through his veins, reminding him of the life he once led.
All his past actions weighed down on him. A burden he could no longer carry. His acts of cruelty and hatred flashed beneath his closed eyelids. The faces of his prey haunted him. Their cries and pleas for help ashamed him.
All his dreams and ambitions crumbled, merging with the dust that coated the books. His empire which he painstakingly crafted and fashioned collapsed.
He stared at a reflection of himself. An image of a ruined and weakened king stared back at him. Its pitch black orbs penetrated deep through his soul. He looked pathetic. His armour which used to once glisten with the blood of his victims, was now stained with his own blood.
The thick, sticky liquid coated his armour crimson. Tainting it with the memory of his defeat. His damp hair framed his sweaty face. His mouth sagged in pain. His eyelids drooped in exhaustion.
Rouland sighed, allowing himself to enjoy his last moments of peace, before being sent to rot within the deep, dark pits of hell.
The sound of boots scuffling against concrete snapped him out of his depressed thoughts. His eyes trained on the fog that enveloped the room.
From within the fog emerged a figure. It's black armour glinted in the light. It's body emitting an aura of dominance and power. The figure advance toward Rouland. It's fiery red hair, swaying in the gentle breeze, standing out amidst the darkened backdrop like a black dot against white paper.
Its hair swayed, burning bright like a candle. Rouland gulped, edging deeper into the wooden bookshelf as the figure neared.
Its hand rested against it waist, before unsheathing a massive, silver sword. The beast glowed, eagerly awaiting its next feed.
Rouland eyed the sword with interest. His mouth flapping like a fish, eyes widening in recognition. Rouland knew that sword.He could never forget it. That sword was his constant companion. It's silver surface bleeding a tale of death and destruction.
How ironic.! Rouland thought bitterly. A man who lives by the sword, dies by it. The smooth, cold surface teased his neck, drawing blood. Beads of crimson dribbled down his neck, staining the collar of his white tunic. The figure paused, it's mouth curling into a malicious smirk.
Hell and the burning fire beseech you!.
With that being said, the blade cut through his skin. Swiftly separating his head from its shoulders as it rolled down the stone, cold floor.
