“I am a Lykoi,” he said, his voice raising slightly, anger sparking through his words. To doubt him of his heritage and his bloodline would only invoke wrath from the prince. His expression contorted, taking on a menacing air—brow knitted and lips pulled back over yellowed fangs. “I don’t need to swear loyalty to your father to prove that,” he continued, anger unabated. Only once had the pair ever reached an agreement and seen eye to eye. He should have died that day than be allowed to crawl off into the sunset, alive and miserable for his failure.
The older he got, the less reliable he seemed to become. He was better off crouching beneath the bed, unseen—only heard when the house fell silent and sleep was held at bay by terrifying thoughts of gnarled claws and skeletal figures. Madness was perhaps only a symptom of genius, but Samael was far beyond proving himself useful. He was the weakest link, unable even to control the demons within his head and retain a singular sense of being.
He was collapsing from the inside out, like a star before implosion, sucking everything into the void that dared attempt to draw close to him.