— I'm not here looking for absolution —
Stave feels the life flood back into them. Feels it take root in them and expand through their veins. It would be easy to strip them clean of it, he thinks. Easy for him to drain them dry and let their mother find the two corpses on the outskirts of the land that she now rules. When the son snaps at him, he considers it. Wonders if perhaps he has grown too soft as he has grown older. Has parenthood changed him?
His black eyes skim over the boy, taking in the viperous features of him.
It’s only when he feels something snip at the edges of his own life force that his eyes roam away from her. His eyes sharpen with cruelty, with recognition, and somewhere in his belly, cold pride flares. Perhaps they are not so useless, he thinks, intrigued enough that it overrides the annoyance at the thievery.
As if to soothe himself, he manipulates his own life force, feeling the reassuring pulse of it. He has nothing to worry about, he thinks, but she does. Viper she may be, and powerful she could grow, but he has no desire to let her think she has bested him. No desire at all for them to feel anything.
“Oh, my poor heart. You don’t care for your father?” The words are cold and biting, his eyes hard and flat. He rolls his eyes at the taunt, as though he could be shamed for the way he treats foals. They are old enough to take it and were they younger, weaker, he would treat them the same.
Having had enough, he whispers across the divide.
He waits until he hears the rumble of the ground underneath him and feels the bones claw their way out. This time, it is not small creatures but rather full skeletons of soldiers long past. They stand shoulder to shoulder with him, although he doesn’t bother to look. He jerks his head toward the children and the five minions he had called forth begin to lumber forward with increasing purpose.
“Take care of them,” he says without further instruction. He doesn’t bother to stay and manipulate them to ensure they cause damage, but he also doesn’t soften it by cautioning them to take it easy on his offspring. Instead he sends the small battalion forward and then turns to take his leave.
If they were truly worthy of being his children, they would make short work of the few undead.
If not, well, their mother would learn to not keep him waiting.
