When he lifts his head, his eyes burn crimson.
He looks at his Uncle, who stands in horror and says smoothly, "You should thank me. I hear your Queen returns from the springs tomorrow, so your little human had less than a day to live anyway."
“Uncle,” he adds quietly, “I am tired.”
No one moves.
“I am tired of the games.” His voice deepens, something older pressing through it now. “Tired of the secrets. Tired of being told to wait.”
He steps forward. “Now tell me.”
King Fyris grips the arms of his throne.
“What happens,” Teorin continues, almost conversational, “when a feeder makes a creature?”
Fyris swallows. “A… Morrak.”
“And when a Thren steals a soul?”
“…An Undead.”
Teorin’s smile sharpens. “Exactly.”
He tilts his head slightly. “And what,” he asks, voice soft now, “happens when something that is both makes a creature?”
The color drains from Fyris’s face. “No?—”
Teorin snaps his fingers.
The woman on the floor convulses. A breath—one that should not exist—drags into her lungs. Her skin darkens. Pale to gray. Gray to black. Cracking, shifting, something unnatural taking hold beneath it.
Then—
Wings tear from her back. They burn red, like something dragged from the heart of fire. Then her eyes open, black and endless.
The room erupts. Guards surge forward, but they are too late.
Teorin lifts his hand once more. Another snap.
The creature moves.
What happens next is not a fight, not even close. One guard is lifted from the ground, his body folding in on itself before it is thrown aside. Another tries to summon flame—fire bursts against the creature’s form and vanishes as though swallowed whole.
The third does not even reach his weapon. The fourth dies screaming.
Silence crashes back into the room. The creature stands at Teorin’s side.
Waiting.
King Fyris stares at it, then at him. “How many,” he manages, voice shaking, “do you have?”
Teorin smiles. “More than you can count.” He reaches up and pulls his hood back, shadows shifting away from his face. “As I was saying,” he continues, stepping forward, “I am done waiting.” His voice carries now. Through the room. Through the stone. “I am taking everything that is mine.”
Fyris shakes his head. “The Alarnan bond?—”
“Fuck the bond.”
The words crack through the chamber.
