Harm of will.

He didn’t stop smiling until he saw who was shouting at him. He knew now where he had seen that beautiful shade of pink before. It was she, Miraye, the girl who was so bent on his destruction. He had felt her hate before and now he felt it full force as she walked so confidently toward him, speaking of his schemes and revealing things he would rather not have his guests exposed to - not that they had never doubted Larkin really did what the girl spoke of, but the confirmation scared them.

But Miraye frightened them even more so, and her anger drew more fear than did the Shrike’s. No one fled into the castle, but took their chances with the storm. If she were truly able to destroy a good portion of their city, she could certainly destroy the castle and they weren’t going to be there trying to save a doomed man. They thought too quickly, though. Larkin knew exactly what she had come for, and his grip tightened on Tic; she wasn’t going to bring down the roof that he was under. It was his life she wanted.

And Larkin’s death.

As far as he was concerned, she was exaggerating. She was a hypocrite. How many casualties had there been in the explosion? How many deaths had she caused and how many more would she? They were the same, in a sense, both fighting for a people struggling to survive, whereas Larkin’s people were merely trying to keep what they had, to be able to give it to their children. But Larkin… yes, she was right to be angry with him. He was uncontrollable, he was greedy and there was no changing the facts that he had ordered the deaths of so many before and would continue to if it contributed to his rule.

But the insults were a little more than he was use to, and his body trembled with his growing anger and he struggled to keep his voice calm as he spoke, “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing Tic behind him, but not releasing his hold, “you can’t have Tic yet.” His lips parted in a mad grin, and he teased Miraye’s latest accusation, “I’m far from finished with him.”

His free hand dangled dangerously at his side, glistening silver needles sliding from the fingertips of his white glove. They shined and threatened Miraye’s life, patient with their poison, unlike Larkin, who felt such dread and worry and anger that it ached him.