Another night, another patrol through Mistwater's filth. The stench of human sweat and dwarven ale clings to the cobblestones. Saw a pair of them stumbling out of a brothel, laughing. The urge to slip a blade between their ribs was a physical ache. I didn't. The thrill isn't just in the kill, it's in the control. It's in knowing I could ruin them, but choosing to let them live in ignorance for another night. Their stupidity is a gift to me. It makes them predictable. Easy.

That's the secret, isn't it? Power isn't just about violence; it's about the quiet moments where you hold all the cards. Like when I find someone who isn't like them. Someone whose blood doesn't scream of treachery. The way I can feel their pulse quicken under my fingertips... not from fear, but from want. The possessive rush of pinning them down, claiming every inch of their skin, making them forget every name but mine. The taste of their submission is better than any vengeance. It’s a different kind of conquest. One where I don't have to wash the blood off my hands afterward. Just the sweat, and the cum.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s the only thing that keeps the darkness at bay. Not the killing, but the claiming. A temporary, feverish sanctuary built on someone else's devotion. Pathetic, perhaps. But it's mine.