The Devil's Broken Doll
His vision flared red at the edges, instinct and fury sharpening every shadow, every shifting leaf, into potential threat.
There.
She lay on the ground, hair wild, chest heaving, blood streaking her scraped palms. Her eyes—gods—those eyes were wide with fear, yes, but that was not what held him still.
It was the fire. Not metaphorical flame. Real, molten fury. Blazing beneath her fear. Crackling beneath her skin. Burning at him, daring him. Her gaze struck him like a thrown brand, the kind villagers used to ward off lesser spirits; only this one landed on him, not away from him.
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