Mystic High ✓

MH │49

 A strong wave of possessiveness and worry wracked him. He used brute force of will to tamp down those unwanted feelings. 

Still, he frowned. Better send Gordon along to make sure all was well.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his chest suddenly tightened. Like a balloon of air had suddenly appeared in his lung cavity, leaving him unable to breathe. Uilliam clutched at his shirt and opened his mouth to gasp desperately. No air...

His instincts fought against the invisible enemy and he began to shed his mortal skin. 

The dark horns that he kept short and hidden in his dark locks began to grow in length. The clothing he wore stretched as he grew in size, seams tearing as he struggled to contain himself. His skin became tough and a bluish-black tone glowed from under like a blush — except it wasn't. At the very last moment, before he made the final transformation that would damn him, he could breathe again. As air filled his deprived mortal lungs, Uilliam —or Ahriman— frightfully squeezed himself back into his mortal shell.

He let out a feral snarl when it was done. That had never happened before. The one time it had happened was when... when he saw the white flame burst from his collar. And he had shifted to his Were-self, not his former... body. It was likely triggered by the fear inside him, making him lose control. Yet still, it wasn't nearly as bad as being forced into his transformation.

Uilliam looked down at his arms with wonder. There was no doubt he almost shed the whole of this mortal shell. All this while the enchantress was away. Someone had the power to undo the seal or it was weakening.

Hope blossomed in his chest until he panted a little in anticipation. Once the seal was broken, he no longer had to follow up on his end of the bargain he made centuries ago.

But if he had fully transformed, the Avestan gods would surely be able to find him. That idea filled him with dread. His mere existence was only hidden because of this mortal shell. Once he shed it, his identity would be fully identifiable by the others. And he would be sent back to his rightful prison. He clenched his fist. That would never happen.

Even so, the thought that he was only moments ago close to shedding his mortal shell made him hopeful. That it had happened alone without the enchantress' intervention meant the restrictions on him were fading. It may actually be possible for him to summon his daevas without alerting the other gods. 

However, worry laced his thoughts. Had the cultist foreseen the lifting of his restrictions? It wasn't so much a shock that someone had foresight, it was that he knew his identity. That he would be so brazen as to propose he raise his daevas had left him reeling. 

When he received the letter of proposal, he had raged with fear. But so much time had passed without further incident, Uilliam had assumed the man had found out by some nefarious means, other than through another god poised to trap him.  As a god of knowledge, he most of all knew that if someone wanted to know something badly enough, no secret would be left buried for long, no stone left unturned, no price left unpaid.

Besides, it was far more prudent to wait in the wings, see what he was up to, and then act. 

Now, though, with a few of the scrolls keeping the fragile peace between the races destroyed, it was only a matter of time before mini wars erupted between the lesser kind. Uilliam had been mulling over the ramifications the past few days, trying to convince his allies that they must not act in hast in fear of alerting key players the loss of the alliance agreements. 

Regardless, something was amiss. He intuitively felt it in his bones that he had missed a link.

He flashed back to when Oriane had cut off the conveyance transmission, to the echo of pain that had flitted over her face before the mirage dispersed, to the sacred flames that burst at his collar when Oriane was there. The connection made sense now.