continued from here for tracking purposes. | @twistedgrace
Eirik’s hand twitched at her words, fingers curling and uncurling into a fist at his side. Her defiance was a dagger, twisting in the hollow space where his heart once roared with certainty. The arrogance of her protest stoked the embers of his fury, but the pain in her voice—raw, unfiltered—struck a chord that he despised for its familiarity. He turned to her again, his shadow falling long and heavy over her trembling form. “You dare to speak of what I’ve lost,” he bit out, his voice sharp and low, like the growl of a predator pacing too close. His eyes narrowed, dark as the ocean before a storm, boring into hers. “You think to lecture me on the futility of vengeance? You, who were sheltered by the very man who made a mockery of my honor, my life?!” His words broke, harsher than he intended, but the storm in his chest raged too fiercely to contain. And yet, even as he spoke, the image of her burned into his mind—a woman stripped of her family, her freedom, her future. The anger he so desperately clung to twisted into something he could not name, something unwelcome. He hated that she reminded him of himself, just enough to make his resolve tremble. Eirik took a step closer, looming over her. “You think I want words from you?” he hissed, though his voice faltered at the edges, his exhaustion slipping through the cracks. He reached for her arm, dragging her to her feet in one swift motion. “Do not speak to me of what I will or will not feel. If vengeance leaves me hollow, then so be it. You,” he spat, though his grip softened almost imperceptibly, “are merely the first step.” His voice dipped quieter, hoarser, as though speaking to himself. “And if that is not enough, then the gods have truly cursed me.”
