Malzahir's hands shook slightly as he set the last needle-pen down. The circle of recruits sat slumped in their chairs, each one with a fresh tattoo etched into their arm, back, chest—wherever they had chosen. The ink still faintly glowed, alive with power, casting pale light across their weary faces.
He drew in a heavy breath, the sound muffled by the mask covering his nose and mouth, a precaution to shield others from the corrosive properties of his body. Layered coverings sealed every inch of his skin, trapping heat, making him feel suffocated and confined. Yet he forced himself to continue, this was a moment to repay and prove to Kain that he was right in his decision to take him in. That he had an invaluable way to help Kain that Darius and the others could not.
