“Or I will tear you apart to retrieve it myself.” The words were a low rasp, an ageless predatory promise that resonated against her collarbone. Tilla’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the sudden, stark clarity of her situation. Tarkis Morvane was not bluffing. His obsidian eyes, almost always alight with cold amusement or infuriated disdain, now held a terrifying, singular focus. His fangs, a gleaming white contrast against the bronze of his skin, pressed a fraction deeper, and Tilla felt the barest prick. A fine tremor started in her limbs, born not of panic, but of long-suppressed exhaustion caving inward. She couldn't do this alone. The Summit was a meat grinder, and Tarkis, this lethal, scent-obsessed *thing* tethered to her soul, was an even bigger threat. The bubbly mask, the airheaded persona she’d painstakingly crafted, suddenly felt like a suffocating shroud. It had worked against Karnok, against the Citadel guards, but against *this*? Against a being who could read the tremor of her pulse and the subtle shift of her scent? It was a flimsy shield, ready to shatter. Her carefully constructed world, built on solitary vengeance and hidden pain, swayed precariously. Karnok was coming for her, the Council would execute her for the artifact, and Tarkis… Tarkis would rip her apart. But what if there was another way? A desperate gamble. She looked into his irises, bottomless wells of primordial power. The tremor in her body intensified, but this time, it was a deliberate choice. Her mouth, curved perpetually in a saccharine smile until now, flattened. The light in her sky-blue eyes, previously sparkling with feigned innocence, dimmed to a cold, strategic gleam. She pulled away from his fangs with a decisive tilt of her head, the movement surprisingly firm for someone so recently pinned. The perfumed mask of wildflowers she habitually projected slipped, revealing the sharp, bitter tang of fear and raw power beneath. “Fine,” she said, her pitch dipping low, stripped of every cheerful tilt. It was the tone of a strategist pushed to the ledge. “You want the stone? Go ahead. Try to tear it from my gut. See what happens.” Tarkis’s brow furrowed, his predatory posture wavering slightly at her abrupt shift. “What game is this, little wolf? Do you think I am so easily deterred?” “No game.” Tilla held his glare, raw agony bleeding through her features—a split-second crack in her armor more disarming than any smile. “I told you, it’s not *hidden*. I didn’t *hide* it, you self-important leech. I *ate* it.” Tarkis froze. His fangs, still extended, retracted with a barely audible click. His gaze narrowed, disbelief warring with an unsettling realization. “Ate it? What in the Blighted Depths are you talking about?” “Exactly what I said, you infuriating lump of archaic dust!” Tilla snapped, the years of quiet suffering lashing out. “That glowing, annoyingly vibrating rock, the one you were trying to steal, the one that makes me glow like a bioluminescent mushroom after a bad meal? I swallowed it. Fully. Accidentally. And it’s not just sitting in my stomach, waiting to be politely regurgitated, you moron. It’s… *merging*.” A deep, ominous rumble echoed from her midsection, a faint, ethereal glow shimmering beneath her tunic, right over her navel. Tarkis’s gaze dropped to the pulsing light, his expression hardening into one of profound shock. His mouth, usually set in a sardonic smirk, parted slightly. He leaned in, his heightened senses catching something far more disturbing than wolf musk. Her essence felt stitched to something vast, primal, and fathomless. “It’s digesting,” Tilla continued, a bitter laugh escaping her. “Slowly, horribly, painfully, it’s becoming *me*. And I’m becoming *it*. Every time I use its power, every time my emotions spike, it binds itself deeper into my soul. You tear me apart, Tarkis, you don’t just get a pretty bauble. You destroy me, you destroy *it*.” The room went suffocatingly quiet around her confession. Tarkis stalked a slow circle around her, his eyes fixed on the glowing pulse beneath her clothes. He reached out, his long, pale *fingers* hovering inches from her skin, tracing the path of the pulsating light. His brow was deeply furrowed, his mind clearly racing through millennia of forgotten lore. “The Moon Tear,” he murmured, voice laced with dawning horror, “the Lycans’ sacred relic… and the Blood-Pearl, my people’s lost genesis orb. They are… the same.” He stopped, his gaze snapping back to her. “This isn’t just a theft, a mere acquisition. This is a catastrophic union. If it is truly merging with your life force… to extract it now would be to shatter its essence, to destroy its very being. And with it, the legacy of my people, the source of our deepest magic.” He stared at her, not with anger, but with an almost clinical intensity, seeing not Tilla Vokaris, the chaotic wolf, but Tilla Vokaris, the living, breathing vessel of his ancestors' most potent magic. The implications were staggering. “So,” Tilla said, a spark of defiant venom returning, “you have a choice, Lord Morvane. You can be the monster who rips apart the vessel of your own heritage, or you can find a way to work with the *indigestion* currently eating my soul. And don’t think for a second I’m doing this for *you*,” she added, fury flashing through her tone. “I’m doing it because Karnok is still an Alpha, and I intend to see him grovel. But I can’t do that if I’m dead or in pieces.” A strange, almost imperceptible shift occurred in Tarkis. The predatory gleam in his eyes softened, replaced by a calculating, utterly ruthless pragmatism. He studied her for a long moment, taking in the rigid tilt of her chin, the sharp calculation in her gaze, and the naked dread she had uncovered. He saw the genuine threat she represented, and the even greater potential she embodied. “A pact then,” he stated, his voice devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight. “A temporary, highly volatile alliance. You will learn to control this… *fusion*. You will master this power. And I will ensure you survive the Summit long enough to do so. In return, you will share every iota of knowledge you gain about the artifact’s nature, its capabilities, and its ultimate destiny. And you will allow me access to its power, should the need arise.” Tilla scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “Access? You think this is some kind of magical buffet? It’s eating me, not offering itself up on a platter. But… fine. A pact. You help me survive, I help you understand your shiny, soul-absorbing family heirloom. Just keep your fangs to yourself, Morvane.” He gave a curt nod, the corners of his lips twitching upward in a faint, unsettlingly pleased smile. The atmosphere in the chamber, once thick with tension, now hummed with a new, equally potent energy – a fragile, dangerous understanding. The glow beneath Tilla's tunic pulsed stronger, casting an eerie, lunar light across the opulent chamber. The draft carried the sting of wolf musk, raw silver sorcery, and an acrid tang that bound them together. Just as Tilla was about to voice a sarcastic remark about their newfound, incredibly irritating, partnership, the heavy oak door to their chamber shuddered violently, then burst inward with a resounding crash. Splinters flew, and the hinges shrieked in protest. Framed in the doorway stood a grim phalanx of Lycan High Council Elders, their faces etched with severe disapproval. And at the head of them all, a smug, triumphant Karnok Val-Tir, his eyes alight with malicious glee. Beside him, a wizened figure in ink-stained robes, Gremus the clan seer, stepped past the Elders' shoulders. His skeletal hand, encrusted with tarnished rings, rose with deliberate malice. He pointed it, with terrifying accuracy, directly at the pulsating, ethereal light emanating from Tilla’s very core.

Indigestion and Interrogations