The 4th writing. . .

As Zalam recalled the night of his embrace, he burned with hatred. This hatred was scalding hot, so fiery that he could barely contain himself. He yearned to bury his blade in Claudius Giovanni along with the rest of the Conspiracy of Isaac. And topping that list, Augustus Giovanni. He breathed quietly to himself: “One day, I will have my revenge.”

The truth was that Zalam had never felt powerlessness like he felt that night, even back in his days at the orphanage. His twisted birth was at the hands of the orphanage. But the misery he had experienced during the Feast put that birth to shame. Just what kind of twisted abomination would be born from the Feast?

Zalam thought back to his recent dreams. Just who was the man in black whose hatred matched his? The power that man wielded seemed born from an infinite hatred that spanned eons. Zalam was no stranger to power born of hatred. For Zalam, his course seemed set. And yet, here he sat captured by the enemies of his enemies.

If only Zalam could convince them of his desire for vengeance and his alignment with whatever goals they had. He would use all his flowery language to speak on his behalf against the Conspiracy. He had to hate the Conspiracy more than his captors, after all, he was a victim of their depravity. And every night, he would forever wake with the marks of that depravity, reminding him of his impotence against their power.

Further, Zalam hated his new awakening. He hated his loss of control. He prided himself on being a monster, but a monster in control. Whatever they had done to him that night, they had taken his control. Zalam vowed to not lose himself again. Zalam would beat back the monster inside himself. He would control it. He would use it. He would allow it to rage only when it suited him.

And finally, Zalam thought of his fellow captives, all victims of the Conspiracy. He knew that he could not be alone in his desire for vengeance. Would his companions join him in his campaign of vengeance? If they would not, so be it. But if they stood in his way? They were as good as dead.