Never Rakk the Sorcerer. Never Rakk whose power could reshape reality if he stopped holding back.
They wanted to see me lose control? Wanted to test my leadership by targeting the one thing in this world I would burn everything to protect?
Let them see what happens when I stop pretending to be less than I am.
I find Drogath first—his emotional signature burning with satisfied vindication over what he believes is a successfulexecution. He thinks Serah is dead. Thinks he's saved the clan from the weakness of human-orc mating.
My magic wraps around him like a noose.
Then Ipull.
Drogath drops to his knees with a strangled scream. Not from physical force. From the sudden, overwhelming weight of every cruelty he has ever inflicted upon others.
The soul-binding taught me how to absorb pain. How to channel suffering into myself and bear the cost so others don't have to. But magic flows both ways. If I can take pain, I can alsogiveit.
I make Drogath feel every whipping he supervised. Every human slave he brutalized for sport. Every warrior he broke through intimidation and violence masquerading as discipline. Decades of inflicted suffering compress into seconds and crash through his nervous system with the force of divine retribution.
He collapses completely, convulsing against the canyon stone.
Korr falls next. Then the three warriors who helped box Serah in during the race. Their screams echo through the canyon—high and animal and utterly broken.
Good.
Let the entire clan hear what happens to anyone who touches my mate. Let them understand that mercy has limits and those limits were crossed the moment someone decided Serah's life was negotiable.
"Rakk!" Kaelen's voice cuts through my fury. "Brother, you have to stop! You're going to kill them!"
Part of me—the part still clinging to sanity—registers that I'm currently kneeling in a spreading pool of my own blood. That my ribs are shattered. That the soul-binding is destroying me from the inside out even as I channel catastrophic magical force through a body barely holding itself together.
I don't care.
Let me die here if that's what it takes. As long as everyone understands that Serah ismineand harming her means pain beyond comprehension.
Drogath's lieutenant—Korr—stops moving. His body goes slack against the stone, chest no longer rising with breath. The other three warriors still twitch and whimper, but their suffering has crossed from conscious agony into shock-induced unconsciousness.
Drogath himself remains on his knees, gasping. Alive but utterly broken. He'll never lift a weapon again. Never speak against my leadership. The magic has scoured something fundamental from inside his mind, leaving behind a hollow shell where defiant confidence used to burn.
Distantly, I know I should feel remorse. Should be horrified by what I've done.
I feel nothing except savage satisfaction that they'll never threaten Serah again.
"Rakk."
Her voice.
Soft. Shaking. Close.
The fury consuming me stutters like interrupted flame.
I force my eyes to focus through the blood and magic and pain. Find Serah pushing through the crowd of warriors who have backed away in terror from the heir who just revealed himself as something far more dangerous than they ever imagined.
She's covered in dust. Her clothes are torn. But she's walking. Moving. Alive.
Alive.
The relief hits harder than any physical blow.
The magic stutters again. Wavers. My control has been slipping for weeks, but seeing Serah whole and breathing givesme something to anchor to that isn't just rage and protective violence.
