Moving in the shadows, with hands that had severed many souls from their bodies, Moze was the most loyal secret weapon. He cared for nothing—blinded. Every command from his master was absolute.

“The target has been dealt with, master.” He knelt beside someone seated at a desk, his gray-violet eyes watching the subtle movements of his master sipping tea. His eyes were calm, though his mind wandered with thoughts of shattering that cup once the room was empty. He hated when his master’s attention lingered on anything other than him, waiting for praise. Jealousy, like a smoldering fire. Madly in love.

“Please give me your next command, if there is one.” And please, praise me. Praise me.