He is nothing but an extension of the darkness around him. His body—limbs, toes, and all—is consumed by the shadows that shift around him. It is all-consuming, suffocating, as he wanders blindly throughout the darkness. The crimson glow of the moon—though bold against the darkened sky—does little to illuminate his way. In fact, the most it appeared to do was make the shifting blades of grass and the faraway trees nothing more than a terrifying silhouette in a sea of black.

Amaris shivered past the chill that raced down his spine, and when his voice called out—a feeble attempt to cure his own gripping anxiety—it was the scoff that resounded back to him that gave him pause.

Enough to make his paws halt against the unfamiliar ground and his guard hairs to rise as he stared, rather sightlessly, into the dark.

The Thing responded.

And Amaris shuddered.

Rarely had his demons ever responded to him before—and the last time they had, he was forced to conduct a hasty exorcism. At least then, he had the moon’s glow to guide his way; here, he was blindsided and at a loss.

His body shifted as his paws twisted himself into a tighter circle, a head swinging from either side in an attempt to locate the position of the voice—the not-demon, as it had called itself.

With a swallow to hide the quiver in his voice, the Moonchild spoke out as sunlit gaze descended into narrow slits against the darkness, If you are not a demon, then what are you?