Dorian’s head tilted, the motion as fluid as a thought slipping into place. He regarded Hadama with something like fondness—a teacher’s patience for an overreaching student. "My, my," he murmured, voice like velvet pressed against a knife’s edge. "That’s quite the mantle you’ve wrapped around your shoulders." He let the moment breathe, stepping closer to where the shoreline melted into seafoam, as though he were simply taking in the view.
"You govern Torchline," he continued, lightly, almost distracted. "But your concern for those beyond your reach...how touching." His gaze flicked back to Hadama, and this time the smile that touched his lips was small and cold. "And how naive. A king rules those who he reigns over. Perhaps those you don't are deliberately not under your thumb."
Then came the shift—the crack in the mirror-glass. Dorian stilled. For the first time, something in him twitched. Not a flinch. Not quite. But as if some unseen string had been plucked a note too sharp. The smile broke—fractured into a sneer so brief and bitter it might have passed as a trick of the heat-haze. He exhaled once through his nose, sharply, and turned his back to the demigod, as if to compose himself. When he spoke again, his tone was smoother, even indulgent—but it glinted now with something darker beneath the polish.
"Dahlia is not of your world, Tidebreaker. She did not rise from your soil, nor draw breath from your waters. She has burned through galaxies and brushed her fingers through the fabric of dying stars. She was made for more than these soft-lunged mortals who cling to sunlight and sentiment like driftwood in a storm." He turned back, slowly. The breeze caught at his coat, carried the scent of sea and void alike. "To call her human is to chain a tempest to a teacup. She is not yours to define. She is mine to reclaim."
His voice dipped, now rich and warm as honey—almost kind. Almost. "And I am not in the habit of letting go of what belongs to me."
"You govern Torchline," he continued, lightly, almost distracted. "But your concern for those beyond your reach...how touching." His gaze flicked back to Hadama, and this time the smile that touched his lips was small and cold. "And how naive. A king rules those who he reigns over. Perhaps those you don't are deliberately not under your thumb."
Then came the shift—the crack in the mirror-glass. Dorian stilled. For the first time, something in him twitched. Not a flinch. Not quite. But as if some unseen string had been plucked a note too sharp. The smile broke—fractured into a sneer so brief and bitter it might have passed as a trick of the heat-haze. He exhaled once through his nose, sharply, and turned his back to the demigod, as if to compose himself. When he spoke again, his tone was smoother, even indulgent—but it glinted now with something darker beneath the polish.
"Dahlia is not of your world, Tidebreaker. She did not rise from your soil, nor draw breath from your waters. She has burned through galaxies and brushed her fingers through the fabric of dying stars. She was made for more than these soft-lunged mortals who cling to sunlight and sentiment like driftwood in a storm." He turned back, slowly. The breeze caught at his coat, carried the scent of sea and void alike. "To call her human is to chain a tempest to a teacup. She is not yours to define. She is mine to reclaim."
His voice dipped, now rich and warm as honey—almost kind. Almost. "And I am not in the habit of letting go of what belongs to me."
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
it took you a lifetime to destroy
