The rain does not care that she is in danger; the thunder rumbles only because it is in its nature to rumble, and not in response to the thick, intoxicating elation that throbs within the Prince’s veins. The earth is soaked around them, and the glass does not reflect darkness. The clouds have isolated them, those children and their hate, and the rain is a silver, silken canopy that drapes atop their nest of detestation.

He laughs again—her body bounces off of the marble pillar, a clumsy, rust-colored ragdoll, and he snarls a vicious, nasty laughter at her, spitting at her, baring his teeth and tearing at her shadow—for even her shadow manages to offend him. The world throbs around him, red and hot, and the rain is forgotten, the comfort of the thunderheads wiped from his memory. His head pounds; the thing that has been rising inside of him, bursting from the deepest depths of his psyche, has started to bloom into a blood-red, stone-laced flower, petaled with daggers and poison, and hell’s fire-pit its nectar. He does not think; her body steams, but it’s her bellowing cry that pierces through the veil of blood and a furiously pounding heart. He feels her scream—and never before has he felt such a release from the terror of an enemy. Surely she should be destroyed; surely his victory must be complete!

Fire flickers in his eye; the wind howls, the fields burn, and the sky teases a storm. Someone screams; they’re caught in the flames, nothing but a coltling, perished in the flames of terror and childish fancy—and Reginald stalks away, looking for his mother.

Fire flickers in his eye; he snorts, his hooves digging into the still-pure marble tiles of the rotunda, stopping his mindless charge at the maddening female. His eyes focus; the flower petals die, naught but the promise of something great one day, were he to control it. He gazes down; the brown rat of a thing demonstrates its shocking power; it dances within its whirlwind of fire, protecting his mistress, turning the air before Reginald into a fine, pearlescent steam. He comes back to himself—and is faintly shocked at the heaviness of his breath, how the breeze cuts through his soaked pelt—soaked not with rainwater, but his own sweat.

He stares at the rat and its whirling fire; he turns his lidded gaze into the girl’s ugly face—she dazzles with the flash of sparks and flashing fire stars, erupted, perhaps, from the sheer loathing he stares at her with: The Grey-Eyed Prince does not think too clearly yet. “My evil…?” he spits, rumbling in his throat, the hint of mockery still laced on his tongue. “But it’s all for you, my dulcet bitch!”

He lunges—but not for her. He has decided that this rat would not throw a good pelt—it is far too sparse, far too small, much too ugly-- but it would be worth it to wear its pitiful bonnet, just to watch her spirit shatter and break at his hooves.

His hooves rake the air; they fall toward the rat and its flames. He knows flames; his fear has evaporated in their heat.






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