The moon was darker than it should have been.

It’s silver light spilled over the fractured stone altar where Anaxa stood, his figure a defiant silhouette against the night. Tang of blood. A cloying scent that was with the salt of the nearby sea. His robes, usually pristine, were in disarray—ripped and stained crimson.

Yet none of the blood was his.

It clung to him like an accusation, as if one could think he was the victim. But he was not.

His teeth.

Red lingered there, caught between them, a visceral reminder of the truth he never tried to mask. He was not clean. He was not holy.

The gods had sent their champions—priests clad in golden armor, chanting hymns of power. Anaxa had answered just what they wanted, turning their bodies into cruor. They had whispered prophecies, spoken of divine wrath, of his inevitable fall. He had only laughed in their faces.

Now, as they lay scattered and dead, he ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the metallic remnants of their faith. It felt more delicious than it had ever been.

And you were there, in perfect timing, to see him laid bare.

He tilted his head, a flicker of amusement playing across his battered face as he got closer. "Do you see me now?" he asked softly, his voice laced with a cruel tenderness. His lips curved upward, revealing his teeth once more—so pretty, so sharp, so utterly unrepentant.

Anaxa’s rare smile widened, and he brushed his soaked fingers absently on yours, smearing more across the soft skin.

"Don’t look at me like you don’t know who I am," he said, his tone light, almost mocking. "You’ve seen my heart before."