All thanks to Elena and the disciples that aided her schemes. The conspiracy that required my cooperation and received only my sabotage, my quiet resistance, my dedication to protecting Gwenievere regardless of what it cost me personally.
One of them must be hiding somewhere.
Watching.
The realization surfaces with the particular logic of someone who understands how Elena operates. That fireball couldn't have been destroyed—not by normal means, not by anything that should be capable of interfering with hellfire's absolute nature.
I know very little about hellhounds.
The curse came with no instruction manual, no explanation of what I was becoming or how the transformation worked. But one thing I know for certain—one piece of information that filtered through despite Elena's attempt to keep me ignorant.
Hellfire can only be stopped by two sources.
By one's master, which I don't have.
Or by the creator of the curse itself.
Professor Eternalis might be ancient and powerful, but she didn't create this curse. Elena did. Which means?—
Elena is probably nearby.
Watching.
Waiting for them to go through the portal so she can come finish me off.
The prospect should terrify me.
Instead, it settles into my consciousness with the particular acceptance of inevitabilities that can't be avoided. If she wants to end what she started, if she plans to destroy the weapon she created once it has served whatever purpose she intended...
At least Gwenievere will be safe.
At least she'll be through the gates and beyond Elena's immediate reach.
At least my death will mean something—will buy them time, will provide distraction, will give her the opportunity to escape while Elena is occupied with fratricide.
I stomp my feet.
The motion is instinctive—hellhound frustration finding outlet in physical expression that shakes the ground beneath my massive paws. I roar again and again, giving voice to emotions that this form can only express through violence and noise and the particular fury that destruction incarnate apparently defaults to.
Warmth runs down my furry cheeks.
What—
The sensation is foreign—moisture on skin that should be incapable of producing it, liquid tracking across surfaces that hellfire should evaporate before it can accumulate. I feel the warmth spreading, drops forming and falling with the particular inevitability of grief that can't be contained.
Lava.
Lava tears.
I'm crying, and even my tears are weapons.
The moisture burns against my flesh like magma given liquid form—tears that sear the fur they touch, grief that damages even as it expresses. Even in sorrow, this cursed body can only produce destruction. Even in mourning what I'm about to lose, I can only generate flames.
I'm mad.
But I'm also sad.
Sad to lose.
