Not anger.
Not fury.
Something far worse.
Because anyone who could hurt her like that—anyone who could make this sweet, soft creature feel that kind of terror—deserved to suffer for it.
Violently.
I’d never really let myself indulge in rage before.
Not fully.
Not honestly.
Because males like me did not have the luxury of emotional recklessness.
Every feeling I experienced carried consequence.
Anger could become gravitational collapse.
Fear could distort ley lines.
Grief—grief had once cracked three lunar mirrors in Asgard and nearly swallowed an entire observatory wing into shadow.
So I learned restraint early.
Control.
Containment.
But this?
This was different.
What I felt sitting beside Amrin on the floor of my quarters was not wild fury.
It was focused.
Precise.
Cold enough to cut worlds apart.
The image of thirteen-year-old Luna trapped inside a dark mausoleum while moths swarmed her soft little body burned through me with horrifying clarity.
Crying.
Alone.
Terrified while her sisters laughed outside.
My vision flashed white again.
Not red.
White was worse.
White meant my power was listening.
