Oh shit.
Dorian's expression morphs from grim determination and rage into desperate and profound emotional pain. In shock, he staggers back and away from Muirgen, his grip on the stake he'd jerked from her slipping. It falls from his slack hands to crash on the muddy ground at his feet.
"No." He gives a fervent shake of his head, backing further away with a shambling step.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Bent at the waist, I get to my feet silently, swaying drunkenly with the pain in my side. In grim horror, I watch as Muirgen does the same, even clutching her gaping wound with a delicate hand in a brutal mockery of my own gestures and movement. The malevolent presence inside the citrine gem at her forehead gleams and winks in time with the measure of her anemic lips, spinning her devastating tale with siren magic.
