Understanding dawns across features that have been confused since this confrontation began—recognition of exactly what I'm threatening, comprehension of exactly what my plans entail.
"You'll kill me?"
The whisper carries horror that ancient beings probably don't experience often.
I shrug.
The gesture carries casual dismissal that contradicts the magnitude of what I'm about to allow.
"I'm not really 'killing you,'" I observe. "I'm just letting circumstance deliver what my newly hybrid pureblood hellhound yearned to experience."
I pretend to search for the right word.
"What do they call it again..."
I pause for effect.
"Ah."
My smile returns.
"Karma."
I lean back.
The motion creates distance between us—separation that emphasizes exactly how little I care about what's about to happen to her.
"Only you're not going to die immediately."
The observation carries implications that make her ancient features pale further.
"That would be too kind, wouldn't it?"
The question is rhetorical—mockery that doesn't expect response.
"It's a cycle," I explain. "Refill, reuse, recycle of sorts."
My voice carries the particular satisfaction of someone describing torment that has been carefully designed.
"You'll feel every bit of burn," I promise. "And every time you die, a burning wart will form on Eleanor."
I let that image settle.
"Like chickenpox."
The comparison carries the particular cruelty of trivializing her suffering by comparing it to a childhood disease.
"He'll be trapped on that throne of his sick bed," I continue. "Experiencing exactly what you are. And each death cycle will be twenty-four hours."
I let the mathematics of her torment become clear.
"You will experience it until Eleanor's heart gives out."
My voice carries the finality of judgment that cannot be appealed.
"But that will only happen when his entire body is covered in warts."
I smile.
