Merlin wanted to scream, to throw the words back, to bury his blade in that calm throat—but the weight of those steel-grey eyes pressed him still.
He whispered instead. "…Why me?"
The man's lips curved, not a smile, not even a smirk. Just the faintest twitch of recognition.
"Because the last one burned too hot."
Merlin blinked. 'The last one… Rathan.'
The man turned his head slightly, as if he had heard the thought. "He was fury without end. He carved war into the bones of this world until even gods bled. But in the end, he was nothing but fire. Fire burns out."
Merlin's stomach churned. He remembered the war memories, the screams, the villages turned to ash, the gods dragging Rathan into eternal suffering. He remembered the feel of that fury searing into his soul.
And now this man spoke of him like a discarded torch.
Merlin's voice cracked, sharp. "And me? What am I supposed to be? Another piece on your board? Another—"
"No."
