"Well... this is astounding."
Those were the words that slipped from Azriel's lips as he looked at Dorian, who was crouched on the floor before him.
Dorian had raised his hands—or rather, what remained of them. There were no hands left at his wrists anymore, only mangled flesh. Skin and bone were caught between his teeth, and when Azriel glanced down, he noticed a thumb beneath his feet, half-submerged in a pool of pure black blood.
It was almost funny, Azriel thought, how he felt so little.
No disgust.
No horror.
Nothing at all as he watched the prince cry there in pathetic misery, black veins spreading visibly across his face and body like cracks in poisoned marble.
"Soul corruption, huh..."
One of the most dreadful fates that could befall a living being.
That said, Azriel looked utterly incapable of caring.
He merely walked toward Dorian with calm, measured steps. Each footfall echoed through the corridor, and with every one of them, Dorian flinched.
Flinched.
