Page 31 of Realms of Swords and Storms (Empire of Vengeance #3)

" S tay back," Tarshi gasped, his voice distorted and strange. Blood trickled from his lips where teeth—too sharp, too long—had pierced the skin. "Don't—don't look at me."

I froze for only a second before moving toward him. This was Tarshi—my Tarshi—and whatever was happening, I wasn't about to leave him to face it alone.

"Tarshi, what's happening? Are you in pain?" I asked, reaching for him.

He turned his face away sharply, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller. "Get out!" he hissed at me.

"Tarshi—"

"Get out now!"

His words slammed into me, but I planted my feet more firmly. I'd faced down seasoned gladiators, imperial guards, and dragons. I wasn't about to be driven away by fear—not his, not mine.

"No," I said simply.

His head whipped around, and I finally saw what he'd been trying to hide.

His face had changed—features sharpened, jaw slightly elongated, eyes glowing an eerie amber in the dim light.

But the expression in those transformed eyes was pure Tarshi—pain, fear, and a desperate love that made my heart ache.

"I said get out!" he growled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest.

I took another step forward. "And I said no."

He backed away, pressing himself against the wall, his transformed hands—clawed and bluish—held out as if to ward me off. "You don't understand," he said, his voice cracking. "I'm becoming a monster. A beast. It's been happening for weeks now, getting stronger each time. I can't control it."

That explained so much—the distance, the secrets, the way he'd been pulling away from me. Not because he no longer cared, but because he was terrified of hurting me.

"You're not a monster," I said firmly, taking another cautious step toward him.

He laughed, a bitter sound that held no humour. "Look at me, Livia! Look at what I'm becoming!"

"I am looking," I said quietly. "And I still see Tarshi."

Something flickered in those glowing eyes—hope, perhaps, quickly extinguished by another wave of pain that made him double over, a groan escaping his lips.

When he straightened, the transformation had progressed even further.

Blue-tinged skin now covered most of his visible body, the claws on his hands more pronounced, ridges appearing along his spine.

"This is why I've been staying away," he said, his words slurred around teeth too large for his mouth. "Why I couldn't tell you. I couldn't bear it if I hurt you. If I lost control completely..." He shook his head. "Please, Livia. If you love me, leave. Now. Before it's too late."

Instead, I closed the remaining distance between us and reached for his transformed hand.

He tried to pull away, but I held firm, capturing his wrist and turning his palm upward.

The hand that had touched me so tenderly minutes before was now a fearsome weapon—fingers elongated, nails hardened into curved talons that could tear flesh from bone.

"Don't," he whispered, trying to pull away again. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," I said with absolute conviction, and placed my palm against his, fingers interlacing with those transformed digits. His claws pricked my skin, but he was careful, so careful, even in this state. "See? You're still you."

His eyes—those beautiful, frightened, amber eyes—searched my face. "How can you not be afraid?" he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

"Because I know you," I answered simply. "In the arena, in battle, even at your most violent, you've never lost yourself completely. Your control is part of who you are, Tarshi. This—" I gestured at his transformed state, "—doesn't change that."

A tremor ran through him, and for a moment I thought the transformation was worsening. But then I realized he was fighting it, his jaw clenched with effort, his free hand balled into a fist so tight that blood welled between his fingers where his own claws cut into his palm.

"That's it," I encouraged, placing my other hand against his face, feeling the strange texture of his transformed skin—rougher, almost scaled in places, but still warm, still him. "You can control this. Focus on my voice, on my touch."

His eyes locked with mine, and I poured everything I felt for him into that gaze—my love, my trust, my absolute faith that he would never harm me. Slowly, so slowly, his breathing steadied. The glow in his eyes dimmed slightly, the tension in his body easing degree by degree.

"Breathe with me," I said softly, demonstrating a slow, deep breath. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

He followed my lead, matching his breathing to mine. With each exhale, the transformation seemed to recede slightly—the blue tint fading from his skin, the sharpness of his features softening, the claws retracting incrementally.

I continued to hold his gaze, one hand still clasping his, the other cupping his cheek. "That's it. You're doing wonderfully. Just keep focusing on me, on us, on this moment."

Minutes passed, or perhaps it was longer—time seemed to stretch and compress in that strange, charged space between us.

Gradually, Tarshi's features returned to normal, the glow fading from his eyes until they were once again the warm brown I knew so well.

His hands, still held in mine, were human again, though I noticed with concern that the effort had left him trembling, sweat beading on his forehead.

When the transformation had fully reversed, he slumped against me, exhausted. I guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, his weight heavy against my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I never wanted you to see that."

I knelt before him, taking both his hands in mine. "Don't apologize. Not for this, not ever."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "You don't understand what's happening to me. I'm becoming the very thing I've been taught to fear my entire life. The demon blood—my father's cursed legacy—it's growing stronger. Soon I won't be able to control it at all."

"Demon blood," I repeated, pieces clicking into place in my mind. "Is that what you think this is? That you're part demon?"

He nodded miserably. I took a deep breath, weighing my options.

There was so much Tarshi didn't know, so much that had been kept from him—from all Talfen.

The truth about their nature, their heritage, what they truly were.

Sirrax had shown me, had explained it all when our bond had deepened.

But it wasn't my secret to share freely.

And yet, looking at Tarshi now—broken, frightened, hating a fundamental part of himself—I knew I couldn't keep the truth from him any longer.

"Can you walk?" I asked, standing and offering my hand.

He looked up, confusion creasing his brow. "What?"

"There's something I need to show you. Something important."

"Now?" He glanced toward the window, where night had fully fallen. "It's after curfew."

"This can't wait," I insisted. "Not after what just happened. Please, Tarshi. Trust me."

He studied my face for a long moment, then nodded, accepting my outstretched hand. "Always."

He winced as he stood, his injured leg clearly still causing him pain. "The transformation seems to make the wound worse," he admitted when he caught my concerned look. "As if the energy it requires diverts from healing."

"We'll take it slow," I promised, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him.

We dressed quickly and simply—just enough to be decent if we encountered anyone on our journey. Then, with Tarshi leaning heavily on me, we slipped from our quarters and into the darkened corridors of the academy.

This late, most of the staff and students were asleep, but imperial guards still patrolled the grounds. I guided us through servant passages and hidden corridors I'd discovered during my weeks here, avoiding the main hallways where we might be spotted.

"Where are we going?" Tarshi whispered as we paused at a juncture, waiting for a patrol to pass.

"The dragon stables," I answered, pressing forward once the way was clear.

I felt him stiffen beside me. "Why?"

"You'll see."

The journey took longer than it should have, with Tarshi's injury slowing us and the need to avoid patrols. By the time we reached the vast stone building that housed the dragons, sweat was running down Tarshi's face, his breathing laboured from the effort of walking.

"Just a little further," I encouraged, helping him across the final courtyard.

The stables were dimly lit and mostly quiet at this hour, just a few grooms on night duty to tend to the dragons' needs. Most of the beasts were asleep, massive forms rising and falling with each breath behind the bars of their enclosures.

I guided Tarshi past these toward the rear of the building, where the largest and most dangerous dragons were kept. Where Sirrax had been assigned after I'd chosen him as my mount.

Sirrax, I called mentally as we approached his enclosure. Are you awake?

The response was immediate, a warm presence filling my mind. Little warrior. Late hour.

I need your help, I replied, sending him an image of Tarshi's transformation, the fear in his eyes, the self-loathing in his voice when he'd spoken of "demon blood."

Understanding and something like sadness flowed back to me. Bring.

I unlatched the heavy door to Sirrax's enclosure, ignoring Tarshi's startled protest. "It's alright," I assured him. "He won't hurt us."

Inside, Sirrax waited in his dragon form, massive and beautiful, scales gleaming like polished onyx in the dim light. His golden eyes, intelligent and ancient, fixed on Tarshi with an intensity that made my companion shift uneasily.

"Sirrax," I said aloud, "this is Tarshi."

Remember arena, Sirrax replied in my mind. And thoughts. You care.

I nodded, then helped Tarshi to a bale of hay where he could sit, his injured leg stretched before him. "Tarshi is Talfen," I said, both for Sirrax's benefit and to begin the conversation. "But he doesn't know what that truly means."