"Has the world always been red?" Donovan murmured, stepping out of his cell with a calm that belied the bloodshed he just committed moments ago.
His voice was low, contemplative, as if the murder was merely a passing thought.
Releasing a sigh, his head tilted slightly, following the direction the gaoler had fled. He could feel the gaoler's fear, his panic, his heartbeat, hence, a sinful smile ghosted across his lips, its malice deepened by the faint glow of the dark runes etched into his skin. As he stretched his hand forward, crimson-streaked palm opened to reveal thin, shimmering dark threads unraveling from his fingertips. They slithered through the air like living things, weaving into the shadows in pursuit of its prey.
The gaoler, drenched in his own sweat and consumed by terror, sprinted through the labyrinthine halls with every ounce of strength he could summon.