Emris Malachai (The Character)

Emris Malachai lived for strength. At the Academy for the Young and Gifted, hidden far from the ordinary world, he was known as the strongest, the senior student whose reputation preceded him. He was the son of the Academy's founder, a man who measured value in terms of power and victory. Emris knew that his father's gaze was always on him, but it wasn't the gaze of a proud parent; it was the cold, calculating stare of a commander assessing a weapon. Love was a foreign concept-his father had seen to that. Emris's mother had been a whisper of a memory, gone from his life long before he could form words. In her absence, his father's expectations were all he knew.

Each day was a relentless cycle of training and discipline, with little space for anything else. He pushed his body to its limits, channeling every ounce of his power until his muscles ached and his mind grew numb. The other students admired him, but admiration was a poor substitute for companionship. They feared him more than they respected him. No one dared to get close to him, to see beyond the mask of invincibility he wore like armor. He felt hollow, as if he were nothing more than a shell, existing solely to fulfill his father's ambitions.

Then he met someone who changed everything-a friend who could see beyond the walls he'd built around himself. This friend had a way of laughing that cut through Emris's guarded silence, a smile that was both kind and mischievous. They'd sit on the rooftop late at night, trading stories and stargazing, their voices hushed as if the world were asleep. For the first time, Emris began to understand that there was more to life than strength and fear. Friendship filled a void he hadn't known existed; it made him feel alive in a way that power alone never had.

But then everything shattered. His friend, seduced by the allure of dark powers, betrayed the Academy. The betrayal cut deeper than any wound, shaking Emris to his core. He could not comprehend how someone who had once stood by his side could now become his enemy. But when the moment came, he did not hesitate. His training took over, his father's voice echoing in his mind, reminding him that weakness was not an option. The battle was fierce, fueled by a storm of emotions Emris hadn't even realized he was capable of. He felt rage, yes, but also a profound sadness that pierced through him like a blade.

In the end, he emerged victorious, but it was a hollow victory. His friend lay defeated, and the only person who had seen him as more than a weapon was gone. Yet, despite his power, Emris felt powerless. He could break bones and wield unimaginable force, but he could not change the past, could not erase the betrayal, or bring back what he'd lost.

And then, one day, he met his own demise. Emris, the strongest and most feared, fell to an unforeseen force that swept him away. He felt the cold embrace of death, a darkness that wrapped around him like a shroud. It was quick, almost surreal-an end he hadn't anticipated. He was the hero, the one meant to protect and conquer, yet his life was snatched from him before he could understand the true meaning of it all.

In his final moments, he felt an overwhelming sense of loss, as if he had been robbed of something precious. He was gone, and with him, the last remnants of the boy who had once yearned for more than strength and power. Emris Malachai had been the Academy's star, its greatest warrior, but in the end, he was nothing more than a tragic figure-a symbol of unfulfilled potential and a reminder of how even the strongest can fall.

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𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚 𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢 (The Author)

I've always felt like an outsider. While everyone around me laughs and cries, I remain untouched, watching like a spectator at a play. Emotions? They confuse me. I don't understand why people get so worked up over things that don't matter.

Growing up, my parents constantly told me I was "different." I didn't see the world the way they did, and they never let me forget it. I was the black sheep, the problem child. They yelled, they blamed, but I learned to tune it all out. Their disappointment became background noise, an irritation I could easily ignore.

When I took matters into my own hands, it was a revelation. I didn't feel remorse when I hurt Diago, our dog, for biting me. I fed him chocolate, knowing it would harm him. I wanted him to hurt like I did. The looks on my parents' faces when they found out were worth it. They were horrified, but I found amusement in their outrage. I didn't care that they called me a monster; their words were just noise.

Neglect followed, like a shadow. They distanced themselves from me, unable to accept what I was. Their attempts at control only made me more determined. I started plotting, watching, calculating my moves. I realized that if they couldn't love me, they didn't deserve to be in my life.

As I grew older, I discovered a new outlet: writing. It became my sanctuary. In my stories, I created worlds where I had control, where my characters could suffer and die at my hands. I could unleash the darkness I felt inside without any real-world consequences. The anonymity of it all was intoxicating. I could be anyone, create anything, and no one would know my true identity.

One afternoon, I sat at my desk, sunlight streaming through the window, fingers flying across the keyboard. My latest novel featured a strong hero, but I found more joy in killing him off than in his triumphs. I crafted a scene where he faced an unexpected betrayal from his closest ally. The moment I typed the words that sealed his fate, a thrill coursed through me. The character I had nurtured and developed was gone, and I felt invincible.

When I revealed his death in a dramatic twist, the backlash from readers was instantaneous. My social media, under my pseudonym, erupted with outrage. "How could you do this?" "You're a monster!" they screamed, flooding my notifications with their emotional chaos. I laughed at their frustration. They couldn't understand that the chaos of their emotions only fueled my creativity.

Instead of feeling guilt, I felt empowered. Their hate became my motivation. I plotted new stories, new characters, and I let my imagination run wild. Each death, each twist was a way to assert my dominance over them, just like I had done with my parents. I reveled in their discomfort, using it as inspiration to craft even darker narratives.

After the uproar from the last book, I decided to lean into the chaos. I held a live Q&A session under my pen name, expecting a mix of hostility and curiosity. When the comments flooded in, I relished the anger directed at me. "You're sick!" someone typed. I smiled, responding, "Art is meant to provoke." The more they lashed out, the more invigorated I felt.

I started to explore different genres, taking on thrillers and horror. With each new character I created, I felt the excitement of potential destruction. In one story, I introduced a family of four. I meticulously planned their demise—each character with a unique, brutal end. A car crash, a poisoning, an accidental drowning. The idea of weaving their fates together filled me with anticipation.

When the story published, I watched as readers were taken aback by the brutality. Their reactions were priceless—some were horrified, others fascinated. I fed off their responses, diving deeper into the darkness. I pushed boundaries, writing characters that mirrored the worst of humanity, only to snuff them out without hesitation. Each time I did, the rush grew.

One evening, while sitting in a café with my laptop, I overheard a group discussing my latest work. "Can you believe what she did to that character?" one said, incredulous. I smiled to myself, knowing they were talking about me, oblivious to my true identity. The thrill of their reactions was intoxicating.

Now, I live in a world that's finally mine, free from judgment and expectation. I embrace my nature, unburdened by guilt or remorse. I am who I am, and I thrive in it. The more they hate me, the more motivated I become to push their buttons, to create and destroy at will. In the end, it's just me and my pen, cloaked in anonymity, and I wouldn't have it any other way.