Oh.
He thinks I hurt—
"It's not what you—" I start.
A crash from the courtyard. Metal on stone. Someone shouts—wordless, pained.
Vorak's head snaps toward the sound, and everything about himchanges.
The runes on his forearms—I hadn't noticed them before, fine black lines like deliberate scars—start to glow. Dull red at first, then brighter, crawling up toward his elbows.
His breathing changes. Deepens. Like he's pulling in air for something other than oxygen.
And his eyes—
Gods, his eyes.
The gold bleeds out, replaced by something molten. Inhuman.
Predator eyes.
The temperature in the room spikes. I canfeelit, heat rolling off him in waves.
"Out." His voice is gravel and smoke and barely contained violence. Not human. Not even close. "Now."
The soldiers don't need to be told twice. They grab their injured friend and bolt.
I should run.
Every survival instinct I have is screaming at me torun.
But I don't.
Because I've seen this before. Not exactly this—not runes and glowing eyes and magic barely leashed—but I've seen pain wearing a monster's face. I've seen people hurt so badly, so deeply, that they forget how to be anything but the hurt.
"Vorak." I keep my voice low. Steady. The way I used to talk to wounded animals brought to me in the night. "It's all right. It's just me. Just Annora."
He doesn't hear me.
His claws flex. The runes burn brighter, crawling up to his shoulders now.
Another shout from the courtyard—closer. Angry.
His lips pull back from his teeth.
I take a step forward.
Stupid. Monumentally stupid.
But I reach out anyway, slow and deliberate, like approaching a cornered wolf.
My palm touches his forearm, just below where the runes glow hottest.
Heat blooms under my skin.
Not burning. Not the collar's vicious punishment-heat. This is different. Deeper.
Like touching sunlight.
