A scent, a voice, a nightmare; sun's rays speared the trees casting a dappled pattern of light and dark. Shadows swirled restlessly under branches which grew bare. The air itself seemed stale, despite the briny wind drifting through his home. It felt empty, vacant, a gaping void mirrored by his heart. Snö, and his pet stallion, were missing. Slowly their numbers were dwindling. The King jumped at shadows, paranoia clawing at his head at night and tormenting him with thoughts at day; he'd sent Seiren away for breeding with winged filth, and he couldn't help but feel like Lotus wanted to push Tamlin onto the throne and leave Mauja in the dust. Keahi had set his forest on fire, and everything, just pretty much everything, felt like it was going to hell. Not even the odd warmth of an egg resting against his chest could cure him of it, and when a scent that niggled at his memories swept in on the breeze, a deep restlessness took a hold of him.

He listened to her voice. The lilting shift of it, the nuances, processed the mere sound of it before allowing her words to sink in.

And once they had, they were etched in his memory forever, much akin to the mark left by a flame on wood.

For many moments, the King remained stoic and still, feeling the seas of emotion heave in his soul and threaten to sweep him aside. Months of frustration had left him ragged, raw and dispassionate, and when this foolish ultimatum came, he felt simply like groaning, calling it another nightmare - roll over, sleep again. Pretend the threat isn't on your doorstep. He wanted to sink through the earth or "stumble" off the cliff. Where was d'Artagnan when you needed him?

In the fucking Throat.

Mauja walked, a wraith among the dark trees, mind detached and disconnected from his moving body. A pale mask of cold ire sheathed the lifelessness of his face, a blue spark shielding the apathy of his eyes. The air felt dead in his lungs. Arathea swept up beside him for a moment, and the King left his precious egg in her care. She, too, became a ghost in the forest, sinking back into the vegetation.

He did not put on a show for the massed army, did not arch his neck or prance. He simply moved, passing Faelene and Lloyd. Ulrik had angled himself tactically against the army, and Mauja, finally starting to awaken, placed himself next to the bronzed beast. Irritation crept into his veins, forcing the listless darkness aside.

He ought to be angry. He longed for the dark rage, the kind of fury which numbed the mind and body and lent you strength and passion. But the King merely flicked his tail, voice clear, not even a growl. "What is even the point of me answering your ultimatum?" Wake up wake up wake up. "It seems to me you've made up my mind for me." Again, his gaze swept their line. She was a dragon. So what? He could still kill her. If it hadn't been for Akaith, mayhaps he would've doubted what he saw.

"You were there when I opened my borders to those who followed the Moon, yet you did not take me up on my offer. Unrest in my herd caused me to vow to never again issue such a decree, no matter how severe the situation." An army on my doorstep is pretty fucking severe. I wish I did not recall my words so perfectly. "You had your chance. You didn't take it. That's your burden to bear." Idiot.

Know, dickheads, what fool you follow. Either she is as incompetent as every equine mare is proving to be, or she merely thirsts for war.
He saw those from the Throat in the midst of her army.

At that moment, his only regret was that he had not had the opportunity to backstab Kri before she backstabbed him.

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Mauja Frosthjärta