"Huhu…," Miraak's chuckle was quiet, almost airy, but it twisted through the air like a snake. He stared at the deep wound carved across his chest, where dark blood spilled slowly, thicker than ink, refusing to stop.
"This… is really surprising," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He gently touched one of the bleeding gashes, eyes narrowing.
The blood clung to his fingers like melted tar, "Not healing..." His lips curled into something between amusement and disbelief, "How long has it been… since something like this has happened?"
He wasn't just shocked—he was intrigued. For someone like him—an Elite Demon whose body could shrug off spells and blades alike—this pain wasn't just rare.
It was impossible
They were only surface wounds—but for someone like him, even that was unthinkable.
When anger boils past the breaking point, it either erupts in chaos—or freezes into silence. Some rage makes you reckless. Some turns you into something far more dangerous.
