He stalks into the room. He does not move with his usual liquid grace; he moves with the raw, jerky momentum of a man fighting his own limbs.
He reaches the heavy desk near the window—the place where he spent the last two weeks plotting his political maneuvers in the silence I provided. He stares at it for a second, his hands twitching at his sides.
Suddenly, he explodes.
With a roar that sounds torn from a raw throat, he sweeps his arm across the surface.
Scrolls, inkwells, and heavy crystal paperweights go flying. They smash against the far wall, ink splattering the silver tapestry like black blood. He grabs the heavy chair—solidmahogany that would take two servants to lift—and hurls it. It crashes into the vanity, shattering the mirror.
Shards of glass rain down onto the carpet, glittering in the dim light.
I flinch, stepping back until my calves hit the frame of the bed. I fold my arms around myself, gripping the loose thread on my sleeve, twisting it until the skin of my finger turns white.
He cannot use magic. I am here. My presence is a dampener, a wet blanket smothering the fire of his Chaos. This violence... this is just a man. A man with the strength of a Khuzuth warrior and the temper of a scorned god.
He spins toward me, breathing hard. He stands amidst the wreckage of his own sanctuary, his chest rising and falling.
"Are you satisfied?" he snarls, stepping over the broken chair. "Is this what you wanted, witch? To see a Lord of Lliandor reduced to a toddler throwing a tantrum because his toys are broken?"
"I saved you," I whisper. My voice is thin, trembling, but I force the words out.
"Youhumiliatedme!"
He closes the distance between us in two strides. He grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging into the silk of the gown he bought me. He shakes me, his head snapping back, his teeth bared.
"Do you know what it felt like?" he hisses, leaning down until his face is inches from mine. I can smell the wine on his breath, sharp and sour. "Sitting there. Naked. Powerless. While that brute Malek flexed his aura like a club."
"He would have crushed you," I say. I don't look away. I watch his hands. They are clenched so tight on my shoulders I think he might snap my bones, but he doesn't strike. "He knew you were weak. He was going to kill you."
"I would rather have died!" he roars. "I would rather have let him carve the heart from my chest than accept the charity of a slave!"
The air moving through the room feels pressurized, thick with his rage. But beneath the anger, I feel it—the leak in the dam. I feel the torrent of his shame. It is a cold, slimy thing, curling in his gut. He hates himself right now more than he could ever hate me.
"You are not a slave to me anymore, are you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet register. "That is the truth of it. I am the one in chains. I am the one addicted to the poison you drip into the air."
He releases one of my shoulders to grab my jaw, forcing my head up. His thumb presses against my cheekbone, hard enough to bruise.
"I should kill you," he murmurs. His eyes search mine, frantic and wild. "I should snap your neck right now. It would be so easy. A twist of the wrist. A snap of bone. And then the silence would end. The Serpent would return."
I stop breathing. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. I can see the pulse beating in his throat. I can feel the intent radiating off him—hewantsto do it. He wants to destroy the source of his weakness.
"Do it," I challenge him.
The words bypass my fear. They come from that deep, ancient place in my blood, the Purna heritage that refuses to bow.
"If I am a poison," I say, voice steadying, "then cure yourself. Kill me. And when Malek comes back to finish what he started, you can die with your pride intact."
Imas freezes. His grip on my jaw tightens, pain flaring white-hot.
He stares at me. For a long, agonizing moment, I think he is going to do it. I think I have pushed him too far.
Then, a shudder runs through his entire body. His hand drops from my face. He steps back, looking at his own palms as if they are covered in filth.
"I can't," he whispers. The admission is a broken thing. "I can't."
He looks at me with pure loathing. "I hate you. I hate the way you make the world quiet. I hate that when I look at you, I do not see a corpse, I see..."
He cuts himself off. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands.
