In the darkness there is liberation.
The quiet, creeping black tenderly embraces you, swallows your mortal flesh and brittle bones. It cloaks you, baths you, purifies you. Skin, marrow, and blood become a feast–your body is an offering. The shadows devour you so that you may shed your imperfect vessel. Molt your fleshly prison and be free.
People fear what they cannot see. The stalking blackness in the corners of dark and dusty rooms, the inky outlines that are discarded as tricks of the mind, the chills that shudder a person when they are alone in silence and in shadows. The horrors of the night that turn warm blood to ice–that is what you will become. To the Others, you are the terrors that lurk in the dark. But you have seen the truth. You walk with the shadows and the darkness is your sanctuary. It is the only place in which you are whole and safe and loved.
They will call you a monster. They will fear you as you turn their corpses into sacrifices. Each lamb you slaughter sates something deep inside of you. The hunger you feel is not your own. The Whisper calls you to kill, to bleed the sickness from the light, to turn ugliness into beauty.
In the embrace of darkness, you need not fear pain.
You need not fear death.
You need only surrender.
“Now, my child, will you accept Umbra’s gift?”
Hart stared back at the robed figures encircling him. His gaze darted across their hooded faces, strayed to the daggers they held at his throat, then fell on the pale hand, nearly gloved in hard, obsidian scales, outstretched to him.
He wet his cracked lips and pushed his words through a hoarse throat.
“And if I refuse?”
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