As he speaks, that thing inside me rises, drawing from the endless well of power living and the earth. A silver film closes over my vision as a blazing heat builds beneath my skin, but I can hardly feel it. All I want—all I need—is to end this abomination, here and now and forever. And through the fog, only one sound breaks through. Laughter.

“I knew it,” Zairn whispers, his tone full of awe. “You are one of them.”

I blink, and all the energy is sapped from my veins, snuffed out like a light switch and causing me to slump back against the wall, utterly exhausted. My eyes find Zairn’s once more, and I’m not sure, but it looks like a hint of fear enters his gaze.

It's gone in the next blink.

Before I can react, Zairn’s hand snaps to my neck, his fingers curling around the circumference as jagged claws scrape against my pulse point. “I should just kill you now—have it over and done with. Slaine would be angry for a time, but it would be worth it.” His vision mists over with a faraway look as his voice lowers, taking on a trancelike state. “I can see it… all the misery you’ll bring… all the blood… the rivers and rivers of red⁠—”

“I think that’s quite enough, Zairn.”

Malice’s sinful tone slinks into the room, and my blood turns to liquid fire as it licks my skin, drawing out the wicked desires always lurking in the dark corners of my soul. “Rivers of blood? What nonsense—there’s no need to terrify the poor little thing.”

“There’s nothing poor about it,” Zairn snaps, turning his hateful gaze onto Malice. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you. Does Slaine know you’re down here?”

Zairn scoffs, waving Malice away, though fear slices across his gaze once more. “It matters not. I have free rein of the palace.”

“Not here, you don’t.” The voice that flows across the room is nothing like earlier, filled to the brim with authority and laced with something much darker. Deadlier.

Zairn cringes before schooling his expression and stepping back, and though he turns to give Malice his attention, he never looks him directly in the eye. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Zairn shuffles toward the door, casting one last withering glare in my direction before slipping out of the cell. Only when the door slams shut and he’s sure no creepy torture masters are eavesdropping does Malice turn his attention back to me.

Instead of speaking, his voice enters my mind, hollow but undeniably Malice. His tone is different this time—soft and cautious—so unlike him, it startles me into silence.