The shadowy sky doesn’t look very welcoming; its clouds hold a promise of rain. The sun approaches the horizon fast and the dense fog and mist begins to appear high in the sky. His every step is measured and light, his feet seem to walk in the thin air above the ground. He dresses in black and offers misery and disdain to everybody who passes right beside him.
“Master, Master Drey,” Murdson’s timid voice brings his attention back from his wanderings in the underworld, where he only thinks of Zahira. “Master Drey, if I may inquire, sir. Who was the one you were talking to?”
Drey becomes still, he whirls around and strikes Murdson in the head with his fist. “Bloody fool! Am I to know everybody in town? I don’t know who that young man was; the only thing I’m certain of is that he was on my way.”
Murdson yelps when his master strikes him but continues saying, “sir, are you certain it wasn’t a demon? You see, you were beating the air, there was no one there!” Murdson shields his head with both his arms when he notices Drey flashing angry eyes at him.
“What are you talking about?” Drey’s words are measured and deliberate. His grey eyes narrow on his servant. “You couldn’t see the young man before me?”
Murdson slowly lowers his arms to face his master, “..N..n..no.. master,” his voice quaver slightly. “I… I thought you were talking to one of your demonic creations, if so I couldn’t see her…”
Drey ponders on his answers; his forehead has deep creases as he frowns in consternation. “That wasn’t a demon,” he mutters, “I haven’t created one since last night, she was killed, I felt the pain.” His eyes shift to the sky, which now bears a darker shade. He turns his head behind him to cast a glance at the young stranger, but he is nowhere to be seen.
“What was that master?”
Drey’s lips tightened and his complexion becomes pale with confusion. “He was a dead man,” he murmurs. There is a faint glint of hope in his eyes, he pulls back his sleeves and examines his beautiful, black pearl. “How is his dead body so perfect?” He drawls, touching his pearl.
“A dead man, sir?” Murdson asks, peering at his master, “it is impossible! The only person I know that can bring dead back from their graves it is you!”
“I don’t bring them back directly from the grave,” Drey explains, drumming his fingers. He begins walking again, toward the plaza where he thoroughly enjoys the scream of dying women, a symphony to his ears. “I am only allowed to bring their souls back, a limitation that Darkness imposed on me. I have to create the scepter that this soul will live in.” He falls in silence once again; walking silently and stealthily through the streets. Everybody avoids contact with him for fear of incurring his wrath.
“His skin was flawless, his features ordinary, and his eyes show certain brightness, almost as if he was alive,” Drey continues.
“Master, what if he is a creation of the witches?” Murdson suggests.
Drey contemplates that alternative and a disgusting smile contorts in his face. “To think that I am overpowered by those witches,” his eyebrows come together in a frown.
Ever since Darkness fell in his hands, he has been hunted by the witches of Light. Several times he has narrowly escaped from their justice-seeking hands. Why, that is the question that he will always ask himself, but no answer would come. He only wants his Zahira back with him. Every demon he creates cracks the pearl a little, whilst within the pearl, Darkness’ heart sobs.
The pain he feels when a demon is destroyed is insufferable, he feels as their body falls to the ground and cracks. When their last breathe of life leaves their brittle body he feels suffocation. Throughout the years, he has learned to bear the pain, making his mind believe it is miniscule. His mind has grown stronger, but his appearance is forevermore weak and feeble. His eyes are weary all the time and do not focus like before, his teeth are starting to rot and decay producing a terrible stench in his mouth. His demons have caused havoc throughout the kingdom, but nobody suspects him, he is safe for now.