The dark small, humble Temple bedroom was ominously silent, only faint, occasional grunts and exhales would travel through the cold, still air and shake the space like distant thunderstrikes.
Altair was standing on his knees on the cold wooden floor, his tightly clenched fists pressed against his thighs, dark blood dripping from the long, thick wounds carving the skin of his naked back.
Slowly, as if led by a string attached to his right wrist, he moved his arm up and pressed his open palm against the hot skin on the back of his back, slightly moving it up and down, smearing more blood over it, as if in an attempt to feel something with his fingers.
At last, he raised his head once more, confronted by the sinister, almost demonic voice emanating from the darkness around him.
