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“Move,” I command.
Thalindor steps forward, placing his body as a physical wall between the viper and us, should I slip past his king.
“No.” Theron grips my shoulders. “You will not attack him here.”
I try to sidestep, but he matches my movement. “Get out of my way, Silver King. This isn’t your fight.”
“It became my fight the moment I claimed you as an agent of my sithe.” His fingers tighten on my shoulders, not painful but unyielding. “You represent my court now, whether you accept it or not.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “I represent myself.”
“Then represent yourself with intelligence rather than blind rage.” He leans closer, ensuring the reprimand goes no farther than me. “We stand in the heart of the Dark Sithe, surrounded by enemies waiting for any excuse to strike. Your vendetta will get us both killed before we can save Elionn.”
The rational part of me agrees with him, but the court roars through my blood, demanding violence, retribution, and blood. I strain within Theron’s grip, my body still angled toward Kelaros as he stands unaware of how close he came to death.
“He deserves it,” I hiss.
“Yes,” he agrees, and surprise stills my struggles. “But killing him now serves no one but the Dark King, who will use your actions as an excuse to imprison us both. Is revenge worth leaving Elionn trapped forever?”
The question breaks through the red haze, and I withdraw my magic from the dagger as I stop fighting his hold. “Let go of me.”
Theron studies me for a long moment before releasing my shoulders. “Put the knife away.”
“Don’t command me as though I’m one of your subjects.”
“Then stop behaving as a feral child,” he counters. “We came here with purpose.”
My lips curl back from my teeth. “My purpose is clear.”
“Your purpose,” Theron says, each syllable deliberate, “is becoming corrupted by what you carry.”
The accusation shocks me back to myself. I blink, awareness filtering back through the bloodlust. My hands shake, skin burning hot then cold in waves.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Theron asks, watching me come back to myself. “The court is using your anger for its own ends.”
I flatten my palm over the fragment burning within me. “It’s hard to separate which rage is mine and which belongs to it.”
Theron’s hand settles over mine. “Your anger is justified. But this bloodlust that blinds you to consequence comes from elsewhere.”
I peer around Thalindor’s considerable mass toward the spot where Kelaros stood, but he’s gone, vanished into some side passage. Relief and disappointment war within me.
“The court wants him dead for stealing me away,” I admit. “It’s pushing me toward violence.”
“And you’re giving in to its influence without resistance.” Concern creases his smooth brow. “Which leaves me to question what else it might compel you to do.”
My head snaps up. “It doesn’t control me.”
Theron’s hand lifts, hovering over the shard as it throbs within me. “The court borrowed your senses to experience the world around it. How much control do you have?”
I go rigid at the question.
How much of me is still entirely my own? Where does Amalia Wolf end and the Opal begin? I fought all my life to be my own person. I will not become a puppet now.
Thalindor clears his throat, breaking the moment. “Your Majesty, we should continue if we wish to speak with the armorer tonight.”
Theron steps back, royal composure settling over him once more. “Yes. Let us proceed.”
I fall into step beside him, fingers still tingling with the phantom need to throw my knife. The corridor ahead warps slightly in my vision, crystal architecture ghosting over the obsidian walls.
