The words had dragged something primal from him. Something raw, festering in places no one could reach. Pain lanced through him like his very bones were cracking under some unseen force, trying to hold back something far older, far hungrier than he dared to name.
The blood at his feet sizzled as it touched the etched runes, releasing a stench so bitter it seared his nostrils.
Berith clenched his teeth so tightly he thought his jaw might snap. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The pain was an anchor, the only thing keeping him from splintering.
The thing inside him bucked hard against the binding, shadows coiling at the edges of the circle. And still, it pushed. Whatever lived inside him—bound and buried and starved was stirring.
Let go.
We can break it all.
She will never forgive you anyway.
The whispers were always the same, curling around his ears. His grip tightened around the dagger until his knuckles bleached white.
