The cold wind whipped around Anathema, his light brown hair obscuring his vision. Icy drops of drizzle sprayed his delicate human skin. He cursed the need to remain discreet, to trudge so slowly across the land, his weak body labouring over every tiny step. He longed to stretch his wings and burst free from the frustrating confines of his disguise.
In a fit of rebellious anger, he had marched from the Belkeep throne room, hatred and cruelty consuming him with the desire to damage Vincent and Phantom. He needed to let them know that he was not a pawn to use as they desired. He should not be cast aside so easily, a useless commodity, only utilised when no other option was available. He was frenzied with the idea of revenge, consumed by a thirst to inflict pain, but a cold truth gnawed at th
