His Turn
TEORIN
He had not been back an hour from the Border when he was summoned by King Fyris. The throne room of Thrykis feels airless. Jagged columns rise toward a ceiling lost in shadow, the air thick with heat and something older.
King Fyris does not sit easily on his throne. “Teorin,” he says, voice measured, though it strains at the edges, “I hear that you provoked the princess of Yorali. Why would you do this? Your connection to her is already dangerous enough.”
Teorin does not answer.
Fyris leans forward slightly. “You know what she is capable of. If she commands those creatures the way your brother Sevrin does—” His face darkens. “Our people are exposed. Yorali is already a threat, do not make it worse. You will think before you act.”
Silence. Then—
A soft, disappointed sigh. “I’m so disappointed in you, Teorin.” The human woman at the king’s side steps forward, all silk and false softness, her voice lilting as though she has the right to speak his name.
Teorin turns toward her slowly. He smiles.
It is the last thing she sees. He moves too fast for the room to follow.
His hand catches her throat, and then his mouth is there, tearing into her neck with a violence that is not human.
Blood spills hot across his hand, across the polished floor, her scream cut short before it could fully form.
The court freezes. Her body collapses at his feet. Teorin straightens. For several seconds, there is only the sound of blood dripping onto the floor.
When he lifts his head, his eyes burn crimson.
He looks at his Uncle, who stands in horror and says smoothly, "You should thank me. I hear your Queen returns from the springs tomorrow, so your little human had less than a day to live anyway."
“Uncle,” he adds quietly, “I am tired.”
No one moves.
“I am tired of the games.” His voice deepens, something older pressing through it now. “Tired of the secrets. Tired of being told to wait.”
He steps forward. “Now tell me.”
King Fyris grips the arms of his throne.
“What happens,” Teorin continues, almost conversational, “when a feeder makes a creature?”
Fyris swallows. “A… Morrak.”
“And when a Thren steals a soul?”
“…An Undead.”
Teorin’s smile sharpens. “Exactly.”
He tilts his head slightly. “And what,” he asks, voice soft now, “happens when something that is both makes a creature?”
The color drains from Fyris’s face. “No—”
Teorin snaps his fingers.
The woman on the floor convulses. A breath—one that should not exist—drags into her lungs. Her skin darkens. Pale to gray. Gray to black. Cracking, shifting, something unnatural taking hold beneath it.
Then—
Wings tear from her back. They burn red, like something dragged from the heart of fire. Then her eyes open, black and endless.
The room erupts. Guards surge forward, but they are too late.
Teorin lifts his hand once more. Another snap.
The creature moves.
What happens next is not a fight, not even close. One guard is lifted from the ground, his body folding in on itself before it is thrown aside. Another tries to summon flame—fire bursts against the creature’s form and vanishes as though swallowed whole.
The third does not even reach his weapon. The fourth dies screaming.
Silence crashes back into the room. The creature stands at Teorin’s side.
Waiting.
King Fyris stares at it, then at him. “How many,” he manages, voice shaking, “do you have?”
Teorin smiles. “More than you can count.” He reaches up and pulls his hood back, shadows shifting away from his face. “As I was saying,” he continues, stepping forward, “I am done waiting.” His voice carries now. Through the room. Through the stone. “I am taking everything that is mine.”
Fyris shakes his head. “The Alarnan bond—”
“Fuck the bond.”
The words crack through the chamber.
Teorin’s expression hardens. “This was never about the bond,” he says. “It was about something far more interesting.”
He steps closer to the throne. “Something that frightens you.”
A pause. “Doesn’t it?”
Fyris does not answer.
Teorin’s smile returns. “The games are over,” he says. “For all of you.” He turns slightly, already done with the conversation. “It is time she learned the truth.”
A flicker of something darker passes through his expression. “And when she does…” His voice lowers. “She may finally stop confusing her hate with want.”
“The girl—” Fyris chokes.
Teorin does not look back. “I am going to Veynar.” The words sound like a death sentence. “And I am taking everything that belongs to me.”
He pauses. Just long enough. “And while I am there…”
His smile deepens. “It is time Asharin Rathmor learns who her real father is.”
The throne room goes still.
“Teorin—please—”
“Prepare my ships," he barks. His voice sounds neither human nor Thren. Crimson now floods his eyes completely.
Without warning, the doors at the far end of the chamber open.
A prince steps inside. Dark green eyes. Maroon and black hair, coloring close enough to Teorin's to be unsettling. He takes in the room without hurry, his gaze moving from the bodies to the creature to Teorin with equal disinterest.
"Where are you going?" he asks smoothly.
“Veynar.”
The prince’s raises his eyebrows. “Will there be killing?”
Teorin does not hesitate. “Nothing in our path will remain living, Prince Evernan.”
The prince smiles. “Well then,” he says, already turning, “I suppose I’ll come too.”
He lifts his voice, and calls in a voice that sounds almost amused. “Brothers.”
They arrive like shadows peeling from the walls.
One. Then another. Then more. Nine princes step into the chamber, each one smiling in a way that suggests they have been waiting for this.
“You bring too many of my heirs,” Fyris protests, his voice almost frantic.
"Father," the green-eyed prince says pleasantly, "there are seventeen of us, and mother is expecting another as we speak. We can hardly be considered the losing side."
“Besides,” another prince says. “Avaneer is your crown prince, and he isn’t coming.”
“Probably off spending coin,” the king mutters.
He turns to Teorin. “My sons are not known for discretion. If you insist on killing, consider the risks of the trail of undead you will leave behind—”
Teorin does not look at him.
He simply says— “Rise.”
And the world answers. Far beneath Thrykis, the ground splits. Across the city, stone cracks. From darkness, from earth, from places long sealed and forgotten—
They come.
Creatures surge upward into the open air, bursting through streets, through courtyards, through the bones of the kingdom itself.
Wings ignite the sky, red and endless.
Teorin pulls his hood back into place. “My turn,” he murmurs.