Xavier woke to the sensation of ice crawling up his spine.
Not the comfortable warmth of volcanic stone and silk sheets that surrounded him in his luxurious prison. This cold came from within, alien and patient, like winter given consciousness and purpose. The King's Gaze had been quiet during his sleep, but now it stirred, pressing against his thoughts with the clinical curiosity of a scholar examining a particularly interesting specimen under glass.
He sat up slowly, testing the boundaries of the mark's influence. The alien presence receded slightly at his conscious resistance, but didn't withdraw entirely. It never did anymore. Not since that night in the temple.
Moving to the window, Xavier gazed down at Hearthome's terraced courtyard where early morning mist rose from thermal vents in ghostly tendrils. Guards moved in predictable patterns between buildings, their routes as regular as clockwork.
Then the mark flared.
