His eyes were alive.
Smoldering.
And then—he moved.
The first to fall was the woman.
Her lips parted in a breathless gasp—but it never became a scream.
His hands closed around her throat.
No hesitation.No mercy.
Her body convulsed, the death rattle barely leaving her lungs before the silvery coil of her essence began to rise.
Drifting from her skull, curling, shimmering.
Amir breathed it in.
His muscles tightened.Swelled.Strength surged through his veins.
His hunger was no longer a whisper.
It was a storm.
And he was just getting started.
The remaining staff stumbled backward, their faces carved in sheer terror.
But I did not move.
I stood still—watching.
Captivated.Entranced.
This was no mere slaughter.
This was art.
Every motion of Amir’s body was precise, the embodiment of lethal grace.
And when he fed?—
It was reverent.
A ritual long-practiced—devotion to the darkness within him.
And something within me…
Stirred.
In the farthest corner of the dungeon, two figures huddled.
The last of them.
One was slight and ugly, his body curling inward like a worm trying to burrow itself into stone.
The other, a heavier man, his breath wheezing from lungs filled with too much fear.
