Atticus fell silent.
'It's true.'
He had noticed it too, his final words to the twins, his reply to the Zorvan general at the portal, and the things he'd said to the Spirit King.
He never used to speak to his enemies. He never granted them the dignity of words. Only death. That had always been enough. Or so he'd told himself.
But the truth was different.
He had been hiding. Hiding from the darker part of himself. The part that enjoyed it; the misery of his enemies, the way they trembled, the effects his words had on their psyches.
He liked it.
Now that he wasn't hiding anymore, there was no reason to hold back.
Still, he reminded himself of his one rule: only when it was necessary.
"This side of you," Whisker said, "is perfect for them."
Atticus turned his gaze to where Whisker gestured.
Below, slightly apart from the remnants of the survivors, over a hundred paragons stood, staring up at him with a mix of emotions.
Fear. Hope. Awe.
