Instinctively, his hoof closed the ground that her backward step sought to put between them. The Elephant General in him would not let her backdown— would not let her put space between himself and her accusations. She would face him, and the consequences of her words. Had he not dedicated his previous life to making others face their consequences? Alysanne was no different.

But she was. The ebony face, etched in beauty and lined with disdainful anger, stared into his enraged one. For all her backwards steps, she still answered his questions, his accusations. “We are both capable of sinning and I can’t believe you’re naive enough to believe two wrongs actually make a right.” Answering with words that shook him. Did he not believe that? Did he not make wrongs (numerous wrongs) both in Dorobo to make it fall, and in Helovia when wronged by Rexanna? When finding himself not the father to Nyx’s children? Did he not react violently, angrily, wrongly? He snorted, eyes widening, as he allowed her to place space between them, no longer following her backwards steps and lean.

“That you are the king while these things happen. That is the part I dislike!”

Disbelief at her words, at how shortsighted her vision was for the Edge, drew angry and uncensored words from his mouth. "Would these things happen if I was not King? If I was not the man that disgusts you?” But as his words hit is own ears, they pin back flush with his skull as the undercurrent of egotism purrs in them— it hits to close to home. To the fervent speeches of the Makutano— did they not say similar things? He takes a step backwards, ears pinned and eyes narrowed— but his hatred and anger is turning inward now, as it always does. Now, especially after Alysanne dragging the very foundation of his being over the hot coals of truth— leaving him raw and exposed. So, after unclenching his jaw, he followed his questions with," “Would you prefer these things to not happen, while I am King? Would you rather see the Edge ablaze and in ruin?” His voice is harsh, but softer than before, as darkened eyes loose their flame and grow hard as he stares at her.

His neck lowers his head, no longer at its proud height as demons of doubt and fear and grief begin to claw from his barrel, into his chest, and up his throat. They scrape along the ice binds around his magic in his chest— but (thankfully) it holds strong. Desperately he tries to gain control of his darkness— before he had lost control to his anger, but this was something else entirely.

But whatever tenuous control he might have had was shredded as her snapping teeth, fearful eyes, and snarling words goaded his demons. They laugh and cackle, in the back of his mind, seeing a challenge in the piebald beauty before them. They push is muzzle out, returning the snapping teeth in kind, as they loudly clack on thin air.

A deep, uneven breath passes through his flared nostrils— a long and slow blink as a clenched jaw slowly releases to speak. “As long as you do not pray for the gods to smite me, I welcome your prayers,” he leans only slightly towards her, “And, yes, I’d like a 'prize', Alysanne,” he snorts, “provided I not end on my knees, again.” His hard, navy eyes glitter in a dare and a reminder— no, he would not let her forget that part of their last encounter soon.

He paid for his sins. He was saved.

But some sins haunt us no matter how much we pay.