The dusty marble floor, unused and uncared for, emanates a light of its own, a last narcissistic wish before tainting its surface with sinful sacrifices. The shadow of the window frame plays with the shimmering effects from the moonlight filtering through the filthy window, and strikes the smooth surface with grave tranquility. A door, hidden behind tapestries of antiquity, bursts open creating gusts of moldy air which lifts the unattended dust from its dormant state. Quick steps echo through the room, hastily making its way toward the drapes of the large picture window. Thin fingers clutch at the velvet, violet-colored drapery and conceal the faint light from the night with a swift and angered movement.
“How many times have I told you,” Drey growls menacingly, “that I want every drape from every window closed! What if the witches decide to inconveniently peek inside every window in Atala until they find the correct one, eh? They will discover my hideout and possibly burn me down with their enchantments.” He feebly spins around and faces his cowering servant. “Waste no more time and bring me the witch!” He swerves his arm over the round tabletop of the tall and narrow table, knocking down the silverware to the marble floor. The clatter of silver striking the floor is piercing and thunderous, causing the minion to jump and scamper out of the room with timid words of compliance toward his enraged master.
Drey is left alone to pace the dark room quietly; the only glow in the abyss of darkness comes from the resplendent black pearl in his finger, grudgingly waiting for the moment in which its supreme power will be use to destroy the soul of an innocent to bring back from the dead the soul of the one he desires the most.
“What is the extent of your power, Darkness?” he spoke softly, stroking the pearl covered with slim cracks. “Long ago you fell in love with me but I couldn’t return your affection, you feed my greed and loneliness with your embrace and made me long for Zahira when you kissed me. Who else is there to blame but yourself, for your selfishness and delusions?” He walks toward the end of the room and stands before a mirror; expressionless eyes stare back at him. He smirks and places his palm on the glass, amused at how it covers his wicked face. His fingers contract toward the center of his palm, as if attempting to enclose something, finally balling his hand into a fist. With little effort, the mirror shatters into many pieces, falling to the floor like stardust falling into Earth.
He returns to the center of the room and waits; the blood from his knuckles softly falls on the marble floor.