The prince of fear was not afraid of death or pain. He was afraid of no living soul. But irrational things caused anxiety to creep up his spine, clawing at his consciousness and allowing no room for sleep or rest. He never slept for more than a few minutes at a time. It had been a very long time since he’d closed his eyes and willingly sunk fully into oblivion. He didn’t dream. He didn’t sleep. While awake wraiths crept into his vision, touching him and raking nails along his flesh like the gentle caress of the wind through his hair.
Perpetually, he was seemingly on the edge of an adrenaline rush, ready to strike out and murder anything in sight. But he remained outwardly composed. He was the predator, and a single show of anything faltering would draw the hounds of hell to his throat, tearing him to shreds. The she-wolf spoke, speaking a name that immediately captured his interest. Deadpan face, the unexpected shock of such familiarity from such a creature left him momentarily uncertain how to regard her.
“I am,” he returned, yet unmoving from where he stood, stock-still. “Who are you?”