He belonged underground. It was some sort of wretched, unbreakable hold on life that kept him alive at this point. He’d decayed into nothing more than a walking, breathing corpse that only faintly resembled who and what he’d been three years prior. Physical illness hadn’t helped. It was unlikely that he’d ever fully recover—he, quite simply, didn’t have the capacity. He couldn’t see the light when he writhed in darkness so, as he did. In some ways he had become pathetic.
He was the madman, ostracized from everything. Inferni would no longer welcome him with open arms despite the loyalty he’d—reluctantly—shown for so long. It meant nothing now. Only Kaena recognized him now. “Then help me,” he hissed, voice as slick and gruesome as wet blood. Her hand reached for him and he moved to take it, pulling her closer.