Malrik’s Fury
Far from the warmth of Crimson Fang, Malrik paced his chamber like a caged beast, his thin frame trembling with barely contained rage. His gray eyes burned with fury, the irises almost consumed by the faint black veins creeping outward.
On the table before him, the Moon Amulet glowed faintly, its runes flickering with a rhythm that mocked him. His skeletal fingers tightened around the relic, and the glow intensified, casting twisted shadows across the cold stone walls.
“She escaped,” Malrik snarled to no one in particular. His voice echoed, harsh and jagged. “Draven played me for a fool.”
A hesitant knock sounded at the door before one of his lieutenants entered, his head bowed low. “My lord,” the wolf began cautiously, “you still have the amulet. Surely that counts as a—”
“Victory?” Malrik whirled on him, his words venomous. “You think this is a victory? Isla carries the twins—their bloodline is the key. Without them, this,” he gestured violently to the amulet, “is little more than a bauble!”
The lieutenant flinched as Malrik slammed the amulet down onto the table, the sound reverberating like thunder. The runes flared with dark energy, casting a sinister glow that filled the room. For a moment, Malrik stood still, his hands trembling as his gaunt frame seemed to sag further.
But then he straightened, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “Let them celebrate,” he rasped. “Let them think they’ve won.”
The lieutenant hesitated, unsure whether to respond, but Malrik didn’t seem to notice. His gray eyes glinted with malice as he stared into the flickering glow of the amulet.
“They won’t see it coming,” he murmured to himself, his voice low and filled with dark promise. “I’ll take everything from them—when they least expect it.”
