Consecration

He pulls the knife across his own skin, lightly parting the flesh above his navel. Blood wells up but does not quite spill over. He uses the tip of the blade to complete the sweeping arc of a symbol that represents just one of his sins. There are dozens of others like it, all fresh, all across his body, all carved by his own two hands.

Blood weeps from his wounds, but little of it trickles down his skin. All of the cuts are light, shallow, for this is no true confession.

No, this is heresy.

He completes the last of his carving, reverently setting down his blade and extending his arms to admire his handiwork. He has etched all his sins, including this one, into his own flesh.

He grins to himself, an expression that is both feral and carnivorous. A breath, and then his smirk widens as his glistening bloods becomes luminescent lava.

It takes him a moment to recognize the sound of his own laughter, longer still to realize he is powerless to stop it. Not that he wants to.

His skin tingles with anticipation.