His knees wanted to give in again, but he forced them to lock. His pride, the last fragment refused to let him crumple before Zarvok, even if only for appearances.
Inside, though, the truth burned: he had no path but the one laid before him. The demon lord owned him, body and soul.
Still, a small ember whispered in the back of his mind: Puppets can cut their strings if they find the right knife.
Zarvok, lounging with casual poise on his throne, smirked as if he had overheard every unspoken word clawing at Rattan's mind. And in truth, he had. The abyss was his ear, his eye, his hand. Nothing within its reach could be hidden from him.
"You think of knives," Zarvok said smoothly, his voice dripping with amusement. "Of rebellion. Of freedom." His crimson gaze fixed on Rattan, sharp enough to pierce through the emperor's clenched fists and hollow pride. "Good. That flame will serve me well."
