Word Count: 363
Something had happened, in the time since his aunt-mother had vanished. Larkspur could attribute this to nothing outside of the can tah, and he granted it his faith as blindly as he had the woman who had saved his life. The eagle spoke to him in a quiet voice, whispering in one ear, teaching him how to behave. The bird spirit was not one of nobility—it was a true eagle, intent on crushing those that stood in its path. If he had to don the mask of subversion to make this happen, he would do so. Had he believed it might further his cause, Larkspur would have taken Kaena Lykoi’s breath from her throat; though he could not, due to that unshakable loyalty he carried to Misery. Anything she might frown upon he would not touch, as if some taint was carried with it.
The beast did not see beyond ultimate slaughter, and had he been educated in the fact, Larkspur might have called him the second, and known him as War. Certainly, Gabriel de le Poer did. What Larkspur knew was only the Khalif, and what they had given to him. Devotion to Tak, whom at the same time they feared, knowing him as their devil. Lark wore his mark, and wore his signs. He was nothing less then a walking scripture. It was indifferent to the coming of the end; both the can tah and Larkspur D’Angelo could sense that the end of days was swiftly approaching.
He stared at the self-crowned king, and found that his question begged devotion and obedience. Dimly, the black wolf was aware of his inability to deny such a thing, but a louder and stronger whisper silenced this. “I’ve seen both,” his accented voice rumbled. “And you ain’t seen half of ‘em yet. Y’give me what I need and I’ll do better n’falla ya.” Somewhere, behind his orange eyes, a dark light began to burn. There was no promise, no admittance—he could give him only so much. But it was not a matter of loyalty, for by all accounts Larkspur was a follower…rather, a matter of whom he followed, in the long run.
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