When, at last, everyone had left him, enveloping the medical bay in a dead silence, Altair took a seat on the bed, folding his legs over the other. His breathing followed the monotonous pattern of the Ninth Form, Aeron. In moments of shallow breaths, a hellscape of madness capable of driving mortal minds to insanity bore witness through eyes.
'What was madness?' he wondered, unsure if there was such a word that could capture the sensation currently swallowing him. Morals that once made the man dwindled before its withering might. Oaths taken before Heaven and Earth were now meaningless words echoing from distant pasts.
'The Rotten Vale' The words hung through his mind, vanishing into a mist before they could be understood.
When, at last, Altair opened his eyes, the emerald flames of Irkalla filled his sights alongside the ashen king upon his throne. Red eyes so old they reflected oceans of blood now stared back at him, measuring some sort of reaction.
