Steam curled and wreathed around Kaelen, rising from the surface of the hot water in the large, claw-footed bathtub.
The scent of herbs and oils, a futile attempt to mask the lingering metallic tang of blood that clung to his skin, filled the air.
The battle was over, the Crimson Hand shattered, their leader now a soul slave bound to his will. Victory was his, but the taste was ashen, bitter, the whispers a mocking chorus in his ears, demanding, chanting, begging for more.
More.
He closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the scalding water, seeking solace, a moment of respite from the relentless demands of leadership, from the gnawing hunger of the Voidwell.
The heat soothed his aching muscles, but it did little to quell the turmoil within him, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of memories, strategies, and the ever-present whispers of the darkness that now resided within him.
