Echoes of the Past

The flickering flames of the brazier cast dancing shadows across the cold, obsidian walls of my chamber. Each spark that ascended was a testament to the inferno I commanded, a silent roar of my dominion. Yet, tonight, the usual comfort of my power felt like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. It was Evan. Always Evan. He occupied my thoughts like a persistent, unwelcome guest, a phantom limb I couldn’t quite grasp.

He sat across from me now, a stark contrast to the infernal opulence surrounding us. His hands, unblemished by the marks of torture or the grime of Hell, rested lightly on his knees. His gaze, though wary, held a certain placidity, a stillness that unnerved me more than any defiance could have. He was a blank canvas in a world painted with the blood of ages, and the very emptiness of him gnawed at my composure.

“Where did you come from, human?” My voice, a low rumble accustomed to striking fear, felt strangely hollow. The question, repeated countless times in various forms, yielded the same frustrating answer: nothing.