Teorin’s expression hardens. “This was never about the bond,” he says. “It was about something far more interesting.”
He steps closer to the throne. “Something that frightens you.”
A pause. “Doesn’t it?”
Fyris does not answer.
Teorin’s smile returns. “The games are over,” he says. “For all of you.” He turns slightly, already done with the conversation. “It is time she learned the truth.”
A flicker of something darker passes through his expression. “And when she does…” His voice lowers. “She may finally stop confusing her hate with want.”
“The girl—” Fyris chokes.
Teorin does not look back. “I am going to Veynar.” The words sound like a death sentence. “And I am taking everything that belongs to me.”
He pauses. Just long enough. “And while I am there…”
His smile deepens. “It is time Asharin Rathmor learns who her real father is.”
The throne room goes still.
“Teorin—please?—”
“Prepare my ships," he barks. His voice sounds neither human nor Thren. Crimson now floods his eyes completely.
Without warning, the doors at the far end of the chamber open.
A prince steps inside. Dark green eyes. Maroon and black hair, coloring close enough to Teorin's to be unsettling. He takes in the room without hurry, his gaze moving from the bodies to the creature to Teorin with equal disinterest.
"Where are you going?" he asks smoothly.
“Veynar.”
The prince’s raises his eyebrows. “Will there be killing?”
Teorin does not hesitate. “Nothing in our path will remain living, Prince Evernan.”
The prince smiles. “Well then,” he says, already turning, “I suppose I’ll come too.”
He lifts his voice, and calls in a voice that sounds almost amused. “Brothers.”
They arrive like shadows peeling from the walls.
One. Then another. Then more. Nine princes step into the chamber, each one smiling in a way that suggests they have been waiting for this.
“You bring too many of my heirs,” Fyris protests, his voice almost frantic.
"Father," the green-eyed prince says pleasantly, "there are seventeen of us, and mother is expecting another as we speak. We can hardly be considered the losing side."
“Besides,” another prince says. “Avaneer is your crown prince, and he isn’t coming.”
“Probably off spending coin,” the king mutters.
He turns to Teorin. “My sons are not known for discretion. If you insist on killing, consider the risks of the trail of undead you will leave behind?—”
Teorin does not look at him.
He simply says— “Rise.”
