jamie
from the destruction, out of the flame
Her answer is swift, short. But he finds no comfort in it. Because he has already planted the seed of bitterness. He knows that their magic is comparable, Beyza’s and his mother’s. It is up to him now to decide if he will let it make him resent her. He slides his gaze back to Beyza’s face as she continues, speaks of destruction. It is not the first thing that has made him wonder if his mother created him by design. Built him out of her darkness. But it is the first time he has wondered if this is the life she had wanted for him all along. If she had wanted him to suffer.
He trembles with a new ferocity. But he does not succumb to his bitterness. He is weak, certainly, but he is stronger than the impulse to succumb to his temper.
He studies her a long moment, but he does not ask for details about the things his mother taught her. He knows enough of the shadow magician to have an idea. He knows the creatures she keeps, the way she commands them. He knows enough of her thirst for ruin.
He drags in another rasping breath. And, instead of asking her to elaborate about her lessons, calling his unwillingness to allow her to heal him back into focus. His magic pales in comparison to hers, certainly, but he understands the mechanics of facial expressions well enough to know that his explanation had offered her little insight.
“To become addicted to the feeling,” he pauses long enough to catch his breath, “would almost certainly mean becoming addicted to you.” There, a shark-tooth smile. “I would not wish that on you.”
you need a villain, give me a name
