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It felt good to indulge for a change. So cathartic. Instead of holding back. Worrying about what others might think. What consequences might follow. What new webs he might need to spin.

A true god did not need to bother with such things, surely. Was this how Hada felt all the time?

It wasn't healthy, of course. Ettol knew that. Hada was not a role model. The God of Wrath had suffered plenty of blowback for his behavior--some of it at Ettol's own hands.

But he had no interest in any of that, right now.

And he shouldn't waste this chance, either. As much as tended to ruin things, there was also opportunity here. So much could be accomplished in these preciously rare moments when he didn't have to hold back.

When he didn't have to be the reasonable one, anymore.

The Windlight surged as he kept drawing on it. More. More. Deeper than he'd pulled in Ages--perhaps even deeper than this incarnation may ever get to try again.

Ettol's gaze fell upon the wolf. Sitting there in silence, watching as always.

An impenetrable fortress, that one. Even when suppressed.

But maybe now. In this moment a full indulgence. A seed could be sown. A psychic connection.

It was a risk, naturally. He truly did not know if he could even control it, much less if it would actually work. But if the wolf was to spell his inevitable doom, regardless, then was it not worth the try?

Damian was discarded. Left to fall, slowly, to the floor. Time was no longer itself. No longer so oppressive. Ettol moved at his own pace. Walking over to the wolf.

Ettol found the creature's head and went to work. A psychic incursion.

Instantly rebuffed.

As expected.

The Void's influence over the wolf was mercilessly strong. The others all said it was impossible to undermine.

But Ettol had never believed. Not fully. He still remembered the early days. When the wolf loved them all, not just their "father."

The Void did not create you, Koh. You were your own beast with your own mind.

The Prime Hunt was not all your existence amounted to.

Nothing. No response. No resonance.

Ettol took his time mourning yet another failure. There was no rush. He sat with the animal for a while. Just reminiscing on simpler times.

And then he moved on again.

To Nerovoy.

Page 4036

Perhaps it was time for more dramatic action. If the world refused to understand, then perhaps he should do more to teach it. This could be the start. The first real lesson.

And Damian, the first student.

In the end, they all wanted him to act like an evil son of a bitch, didn't they? Everyone. Always. That was why they all treated him the way that they did. Even his own kin. They simply couldn't get it out of their minds that he was manipulating them in some way. Or that he was planning to. Anyone who grew to know him also grew to fear him.

It was inevitable.

And if they were so dead set on hating him, then he might as well give them something to hate. Payback from all his incarnations.

And from before, too.

Were you watching, Jonah? This was your fault, you know. If you just stopped pushing, this wouldn't have happened.

Yes, that's right. Ettol could feel him stirring now. Realizing. But he was well in control, this time. Flush with power. The Windlight already flowing through him, almost without effort.

He'd grown again. It wasn't usually so obvious. Almost like those emergences that servants and reapers loved to talk about.

But this was different. This was a return. A remembering.

Damian's temples were between his hands. Damian was struggling. Yelling. As he often did. But it was too late, of course. Ettol had control of the body. Of everything, really.

Feromas was there, too. Frozen. But still conscious. Ettol made sure of that. He wanted the reaper to see. The way Jonah saw.

But what to do with this vulnerable little mind? Snap it in two? There was certainly something satisfying in that option. A beautiful simplicity in it. But no. This needed to be more of a show.

And an experiment. Yes. A new test for this renewed strength.

Damian. Your mind wasn't going to snap. Not yet, anyway.

You were going to attack Parson and Overra when they arrived. You were going to destroy this little trio at its root.

And tell them all sorts of things. Confound them. Make them hate you. Make them hate themselves, if you can. But that might be too much to ask of you, of course.

Ettol felt the twisting soul in his grasp. The writhing thoughts. The rising willpower. The stubborn resistance.

But they were glass. And he shattered them.

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