Bright cerulean eyes crouch over my sleepy self, sparkling with the only reflections that exist on a dead night.
With each blink, with each impatient gasp, the eyes gradually take over my field of vision, approaching with the wariness of a stalker.

Not a sound is heard in the depths of darkness. The predator's nimble legs are too light to emit them, and it glides through the cloudy, imperfect air like an wraith.

I exude desperation, but my fragile body prevents me from moving. The azure sight of that demon reflects my afflicted face, and I can imagine how he licks his lips, expecting me to faint. He is one of the Night Lords, soul thieves of those who wander aimlessly in the realms of Morpheus.

Rejoicing in my suffering, he leaps from the abyss and through the safety of the window pane. I can feel him emanating caustic cold from his fur as he lands on top of me. The deepest silence enlivens the coven.

His eyes, those bright, infernal, cerulean eyes skewer my gaze, with an unnerving wisdom that does not correspond to his species, like someone who knows that on the edge of the night, between dreams and consciousness, my body is inert but my soul is exposed like a fat minnow in a small fishbowl. Like someone who knows that nothing will be of the future, and beings without destiny deliver their spirits to to whoever wants to devour them.