The words on the page were a chilling validation. A voice from the grave that confirmed his darkest suspicions.
He sat by the flickering fire in his hidden small hidden area. The ancient journal was a heavy, portentous weight in his hands. He began to read.
The author never gave his name. He simply signed his entries "A Scribe of the Damned." A kindred spirit. A fellow traveler on this dark, forbidden path.
The journal was a fragmented, desperate chronicle. A life spent in the shadows. A life remarkably, terrifyingly similar to his own. The Scribe had also been a user of a "forbidden" class. He didn't name it.
But from his descriptions of consuming the essence of his foes, of the corrupting whispers, of the constant, gnawing hunger, Edward knew. The man had been a Soul Devourer. Just like him.
