‘Did you hear that?’

How could I not?

Through the dimness of our cave, I can see your bright eyes narrow at the bite of my mental voice, hear the low, throaty growl that slithers through bared fangs as you rise. On large paws you come over, resting to sit not far from where I lay. Abruptly your fire magic ignites along your shoulders and back, orange flames flickering to light up the darkness, casting playful shadows across your beastly face. The flames are close enough to touch—I could feel their heat, perhaps, if I was capable in this deadened body. ‘Are we going to heed her call?’ I lift my head, tattered ears slanting forward before my mouth twists into a leer, fetid lips cracking and rotten blood oozing down my chin.

Of course, brother. I shift, the sound of bones grinding against bones creaking through the winter air, knobby knees and cracked hooves groaning to support my weight as I rise. We must play obedience for a little while, in order to gain power for eternity. My ghastly smile deepens, revealing foul milk teeth; but you already know that. You are far more patient than I; you have honed that fire of my impatience, directing it only where we might burn those who oppose us, torture and eliminate those who doubt us. You have taught me well.

‘Thank you, brother.’

Exhaling a wet, rattling breath, I call upon the heat of my magic. I feel the flare spark across my body, transforming death that it might hide behind the silken guise of beauty. It is strange to tower over you as I do now, when you are meant to be at my shoulder, but you are at my side nonetheless—together, we will seize what is meant to be ours.

As one, we step from the dim cave, trailing the mountains’ shadows as we slide closer to where the golden mare has summoned us. She is easily recognized among the white-washed woods, and strategically I place myself at her side, refusing to be overlooked. Fixing my bright, glowing eyes upon the skinny old man, my lips twist into further displeasure, remembering his outbursts at the meeting (one of many, squabbling like children). “And for an old man,” my voice slips like poisoned velvet from these perfect lips, thorns swathed in silk just as death is swathed in beauty, “you’re awfully fond of stirring up trouble.”

It is as pointed however much he would like to perceive, the black, macabre thoughts churning just beneath the surface. As I look at him—thin, angular, old, and weak—I think of how his bones would snap like toothpicks between your powerful jaws, how his warm, beating flesh would taste between my teeth. ‘Tough.’ You grumble, unimpressed with an aged meal. I cannot disagree, returning my attention to the gilded mare with a sharp flick of my tail. In any case, we cannot dismiss potential so easily. We know better than anyone how deceiving appearances can be.

Don’t we, brother?


notes; He's in his potential form, no wings.
“Speech.”

evil angel

nothing but lies and crooked wings