Lionhearts ||Skephalo||

36

Clay dispels his grasp over the disk, flinching.

"He could tell I was scrying him," the blond mutters as George sidles down the stairs to sit next to him. They're departing in a few hours, once the sun rises in the Overworld. Despite George's various colorful protests, Clay had insisted it was better to wait a bit more than to risk George being hurt further by mobs and the like.

Despite this, the human proudly holds his chin high, his skin no longer cast with sickly pallor (though the purple starburst still remains firmly burned into his face) and his eyes bright with eagerness.

Clay couldn't help noting that this is the most excited George has been the entire time he's been in this dimension; that spark in his eyes at the idea of fighting, at the idea of being directly helpful...it was something Clay alone couldn't give him.

And though it stung a tiny bit that life here at the palace would never truly be living for George, Clay understands. George is a hunter, a warrior. He's grown up with weapon in hand and danger on his horizons.

He could never be content as a doll. He's far stronger than that. Clay just got used to the idea of him being weak and needy due to the delirium he had been locked in at the time of their meeting.

I can't stifle him.

"Dream?" He snaps out of his thoughts, still staring at George. George, who has been talking, he realizes with a slightly jolt. "Were you listening at all? I know my face is a wreck but you don't need to stare that hard."

His playful tone falls on worried ears and Clay takes a deep breath.

"...of course," he lies. George cocks a brow and quips back without hesitation.

"Uh huhhhh~ so what was I talking about, pretty boy?" Clay's hands instinctively go to cover his cheeks as he feels them grow warm, but instead he brushes his hair back and steels himself, trying to recall anything George had said.

"...you were asking about how my scrying was going?" He hates that his voice comes out uncertain, and George punches his shoulder, disappointment now overtaking his eager spark.

"Liar. I was asking you about the room where the seals are kept. And that person down there." Clay's indignation at being called on his lies pales to secret he's reminded George is now privy to.

He takes George's hands in his own, feeling George's gloves as the rough material rubs against his palms.

"...don't mention that room to anyone else," he utters softly, "Nor its resident, alright? All I can tell you without risking trouble is that being is many souls bound together. With each generation of my family, their power grows."

George nods, puzzled, and he jerks, turning towards the door as a creak alerts them to someone approaching in the hallway.

Clay's advisor respectfully knocks, and in the language used by many residents of his realm, requests entry. Clay answers back in the same odd tongue of croaking noises, and a tall figure slips into the room, bowing briefly.

George is still baffled by that language, Clay notes distantly, seeing his confusion. The advisor informs him that the portal is opening soon, and that the sun will rise within the hour.

The time passed much faster than he had thought it would— but as soon as he began to scry Skeppy, he found that time slipped away easily.

Watching him was oddly dreamlike; despite his quick, jerky movements and hyperactive behavior, Skeppy seemed otherworldly. The longer he watched, the more Clay grew certain that he was a mage after all. Maybe not one so obvious as Bad, but still a powerful one nonetheless. One powerful enough that he became aware of the prince's intrigued gaze on him, became aware of the fascination he had taken.