The dark finishes what the book started. Lightning arcs Orin’s body and flashes the room a brilliant purple.

When it fades, something else is standing in his place. He turns, slow, and looks down at you.

Stripes have replaced the spots, and the shackles have faded. The face is fuller, less kind. Wings unfurl behind him like the room grew a second sky.

You are still on the floor. The weight has not lifted. If anything it sits lower now, in the gut, because he has turned around.

He stares at you with hungry violet eyes and takes one step forward.

He holds himself the way someone holds a secret they are done keeping. The wet tip begins to bloom out of his sheath. He pauses to adjust — and the adjustment does not stay innocent. A squeeze. The back of his thumb grazes the sheath and presses, coaxing what is already waking.

“Would you like to watch?”

A beat.

“You won't be disappointed.”

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