Dezel had never felt so alive. Despair, rage, shame, dread, and revulsion all jumbled into one, whipping up a tempest inside him. He screamed and thrashed, his breath rasping as he heaved between screams. He knew full well it did nothing but satisfy Symonne, but he couldn't stop. Everything hurt. He kept thinking, over and over, a never ending stream of fragmented thoughts; I can't stand this anymore, I deserve this, I'm going to die and I deserve this, I can't take one more second, I'm sorry Lafarga I wasn't strong enough, I'll kill her, I want to die, I'LL KILL HER FOR THIS, but time went on, uncaring.

He couldn't know how long he'd been suspended in this hell, smothered by malevolence, but he knew it didn't matter. In the eye of the raging storm, in the centre of it all, hollowness and apathy ruled. The winds of passion, no matter how fierce, couldn't erode the stronghold of desolation.

He'd never felt so dead.

All he could hear was his screaming and ragged breathing, all he could feel was his raw throat and the malevolence weighing down on him, pricking him like needles, and all he could taste was coppery blood in his mouth. With the wind he couldn't observe anything outside this bubble of malevolence, assuming there was an outside, because malevolence distorted and dispelled any attempt he made to use his power.

For the first time in his life, Dezel was well and truly blind.

If he hadn't been bonded to Sorey, he'd have transformed into a hellion within seconds of being entrapped. A small part of him wished he could—then everything would stop. Hellions didn't have to think or feel anything, or at least he didn't think they did. From that desire alone, he knew he was going insane. Sometimes he even hallucinated a presence, an ethereal figure much bigger than his own consciousness, nudging him. Calling to him. And the longer he remained, the louder the calling buzzed in his soul.

I want to die, I deserve to die, I've earned this, I'm sorry Rose, there's no end only this, I want to die, Rose, can't stand it, I'll rip Symonne's heart out with my own hands, I'll—

In a moment, everything vanished. Dezel hit the ground with a grunt, falling on his hands and knees. The power of the wind, the awareness, rushed at him. His mind still murky, the suddenness of the return of his powers overwhelmed him. His immediate relief at being free was checked by the stifling amount of malevolence that still surrounded him, thick as a fog.

"A pathetic creature," said a deep voice.

An immense hellion stood before him, human in shape but with the features of a lion. Thick malevolence emanated from the hellion, and the sheer amount of which could only mean one thing: this was the Heldalf, the Lord of Calamity. Beside him stood Symonne, tiny as a mouse next to a cat.

"Is this wretch really worth something to the Shepherd?" Heldalf continued.

Dezel didn't say anything—he was just trying to breathe.

"This seraph is his Sub Lord," Symonne replied. "If he wasn't, he'd have surly turned into a hellion by now."

"I know that," Heldalf snapped.

Symonne bowed her head. "I apologize, Master." Dezel found the submissive way she simply took Heldalf's thinly veiled contempt extremely satisfying. "Perhaps the fact that the Shepherd has not yet chosen a worthier candidate means this one still holds some worth for him."

"You may be right," he said. "The Shepherd is weak, indeed, to cling to such an inferior comrade. Corrupting him should not prove difficult."

Dezel raised his head. "No matter what you do," he said, his voice hoarse, "the Shepherd won't be swayed. He's too honest for the likes of you."

"Brave words, from a coward who fled his duty," Heldalf said with a sneer.

Dezel mustered what little moisture was left in his mouth and spat bloody saliva at Heldalf's feet. With one fluid movement, Heldalf approached him and kicked him in the face, sending him flying backward. Dezel landed on his back, sending a shock wave down his spine. He clutched his smarting, broken nose, warm blood spurting between his fingers, but the pain was worth it. Definitely.

Heldalf turned, his attention already diverted, to look off in the distance. "That blasted light. The Shepherd draws near." He sighed, wincing slightly. "He should arrive within the week."

"When the time comes, shall I obscure this one from his sight?"

"Do as you see fit," Heldalf said dismissively. "For now, restrain him again. His panting is beginning to weary me."

Dezel's entire body went slack. Before he could consider what was coming out of his mouth, he rasped, "Wait, please—"

Heldalf's booming laugh reverberated across Aifread's Hunting Grounds. "Please? So even one as proud as you will resort to begging." He shook his head. "A pity for you, to be tethered to such a worthless vessel. You would be far better off to be not cut off from malevolence, but to be granted the freedom it gives. You would make a fearsome dragon." He laughed again.

Dezel couldn't say anything. He only shook.


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