Lord Shitfucker did not wish Tahl a long life and good health. Tahl gave him a look that said he was vividly imagining shortening his life, much less his health, with his own two hands. Then they walked past him, into the forest of stone.

At least, that was the description that came to mind.

It would have impressed Tahl, if it didn’t totally disgust him. The columns gave the feeling of being in an ancient grove, where the trees were so old they’d outlived empires, the canopy so high it was obscured in mist, making even a grootsland seem small. But instead of trees there was just cold marble, plastered all over with obviously exaggerated pictographic stories about the guy in the big chair. The figure in the paintings towered over his subjects and his foes, flexing dramatically. When they reached the dais, Tahl noticed that he would likely have an inch or two on him, if they stood side-by-side. Not to mention breadth.

Of course, they didn’t stand together, or stand at all. Anapa fell to his knees and Tahl followed suit, even though it absolutely killed him.

Gods above, he hated royalty.

They stood again – or cowered, rather. Tahl felt obliged to slouch. He also felt an intense desire to stuff his hands in his pockets, so that he wouldn’t risk visibly flexing and clenching them into fists, but was sure that would be considered too casual. Thinking about them so much made them feel huge and awkward, and threatened to spark black fire along his veins. The concentration required not to explode with frustrated magic made a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, despite the cool interior of the room. It was a nightmare scenario. Stress vibrated through his body.

The King said something. It took a few beats before Tahl realized he’d been speaking about him, if not addressing him directly. He wracked his brain, trying to remember the words.

“I’m fairy,” he supplied roughly, glancing quickly between Anapa and his father, who clearly sucked even more than Zetana did. “And…the Prince’s bodyguard.”

Why did he say that?

Tahl frowned, trying to catch Anapa’s eye without anyone knowing it, which was of course impossible. It was a stupid lie, but Tahl had felt compelled to say something that might make these pricks think twice about talking to his friend that way, dismissing him, patronizing him. Anapa was the only noble he had ever met that had never been shitty and condescending. He didn’t deserve this treatment. He deserved their respect.

Zetana thought otherwise. Tahl could feel his sneer before he saw it, splitting into a sharp-eyed grin. Like he’d won something. Like he’d caught them.

That was the moment he snapped.

“Something funny?” he bit out, a ripple of shadowy flame appearing and disappearing over his forearms. Zetana appeared not to have seen it, and gave him a contemptuous look. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but Tahl interrupted with a dagger-sharp look of his own. “The correct answer is no.” His voice was deep and strange, reverberating in the vast space.

He held out his hand, and twisted it into a fist.

The motion was instinctual. Zetana went rigid, then began to shrink, growing thinner and shorter, arms retracting into his body as his mouth gaped in astonishment. Inside, Tahl was horrified by what he’d done, by the discovery of this new magic he’d never known he had. But on the outside he was cold and calm, eyes turning black. As if he were possessed.

Lord Asshole slumped to the floor, folding in on himself. Writhing. Coiling. And then he was not a Lord of Canids anymore, but a small, spotted snake.