“I would not have?—”
His brows lift.
I stop.
He snorts. “Growth.”
“You have no idea what this may become.”
“No,” he says, and the admission scrapes more truth into the yard than his jokes ever could. “I don’t.”
The targets creak in the damp wind. Somewhere inside the house, a cupboard closes; Sable moving through ordinary tasks, trusting the morning to remain ordinary because we have all conspired to present it that way. The knowledge sits between Corin and me like a blade laid on a table.
I step closer. “The resonance is infernal. Interwoven in your blood. Your pulse carries a demonic echo.”
His face goes very still. “How poetic.”
“It occurred during the healing and stabilization. You absorbed backlash while anchoring the circle.”
“Ah. Heroism. Terrible habit. Leaves stains.”
“This is not a stain.”
“What is it, then?”
I have no answer clean enough to offer.
His expression shifts when he sees that. Not fear exactly. Corin is too proud to hand fear over plainly. But something in him tightens, and for once he cannot polish it into wit quickly enough.
“I am not becoming him,” he says.
I understand immediately who he means.
Maltherion.
“No,” I say.
“Say that again without the royal diplomacy.”
“You are not becoming Maltherion.”
His breath leaves him through his nose, controlled but audible.
I continue, because he needs the truth even if he resents its teeth. “There is no trace of his corruption in the resonance I saw. What is inside you resembles the stabilized infernal current from the bond, altered by your own essence. It is not parasitic.”
“Comforting.”
“It may still be dangerous.”
“There we are.”
“It may change your strength, healing, senses, and longevity. It may also affect appetite, temper, shadow response, and susceptibility to infernal law.”
His mouth quirks despite the tension. “Appetite? Should I worry about raw goats?”
“I will know to worry when goats begin lodging complaints.”
“That would require you to listen to goats.”
