Suicide

“Cut out your tongue,” Darkstalker said coldly.

Arctic’s eyes became round holes of horror as he reached up to his mouth, pulled out his long blue forked tongue, and sliced it off with his own claws.

Darkstalker could feel the waves of terror rolling off the watching NightWings, making him stronger and stronger. Yes. Fear me. Respect me. See me.

“Now.” Darkstalker leaned toward Arctic, his claws gouging into the wood of the stage. “Take your talons, rip open your stomach, and show us all what you’re really like on the inside. Pour out your life on this stage.”

It took a long time, and it was messy, and at the end of it, when Arctic was definitely dead, Darkstalker did not feel nearly as happy as he’d expected.

But he’d done what he needed to do, and the crowd reaction was exactly what he was hoping for. Now he would go kill the queen — quickly this time, get it over with, no need for more theatrics. And then he’d be king, the first king in the history of Pyrrhia, and there would be peace and prosperity and happiness, because now he and everyone he loved was safe forever.

Darkstalker C29