The moment the door clicked shut behind Ylva and Jason, Thalion's eyes shot open.
There was nothing peaceful in that gaze. No lingering exhaustion. No softness from sleep. His pale irises, usually dulled by centuries of suffering, now burned with something sharp. Something hungry. Something sinister.
And it wasn't Tauriel watching through him. This wasn't the mark on his neck transmitting images to that sadistic elf. This was all Thalion.
Because at his core, the years of trauma, the years of torture had twisted something in his soul. He was no longer the same elf who had once walked into that palace with dreams of adventure. He was not a nice person. He was not pure. If anything, he was the opposite.
Thalion sat up slowly on the bed, his silver hair falling across his gaunt face. His hands—still trembling, still weak—clenched into fists. He stared at the empty space on the floor where Ylva had been lying. Where Jason had been lying beside her.
