Harsh, cold wind whistled outside your window, a wayward branch of the tree outside rapping on the glass fleetingly. You could not sleep. The shadows in your room were writhing. Breathing. Sentient. Alive.

The whispers reverberate through the room—no—through your mind. Many voices melded into one, from soft words to deep timbres. It was unfamiliar and unsettling, and above all, lacking a critical component.

For him? The ever-present ache of being isolation was gone, his charred wings no longer seeping the black blood that he had been plagued with for years. The shadows twitched, almost convulsed, rising into the unmistakeable figure of a man. Or at least, what should have been a man.

Instead, there stood a mockery. A comedic parody of what a human should be. He didn't care if it scared you. It wasn't like you could escape.

"Did you really think," the whispers melded together to form coherent words, a rich voice with almost lyrical inflection above it all being the only thing that tied the beautiful mess together, "you could hide from me?"

Stepping closer, he ran a long, blackened finger down your cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost... reverent. "The rite of sacreligion binds a devotee to their Lord," he murmured, some semblance of eyes gazing down upon your face. "You will never rid yourself of me."