Silvertip Mountain thestral

the only answer was the mad scrabble of the bloodstained boy, the scratch and click of his nails upon the stone floor, the heaviness of his terrified breathing. merrick did not immediately give chase; his eyes burnt like twin lanterns after his quarry, and only when the child’s growling had begun to ooze tarlike into the crystalled darkness did he advance.
the pup had made it easy then; no one could escape the punishment merrick intended to mete out, and refusal to bear what the yearling had decided was the child’s cross fired him with a great sense of lustful righteousness.
laughter, wildfire dry, rose in his throat — he regarded the fear-fueled ferocity of the boy’s stance with a bareboned furor twinkling madly upon his features.
and she, his devil; and she, his dark seraph; astara faced him across the path the boy must take to escape them both, and merrick gazed upon her for a long length of time with myriad emotions making themselves known.
the entrance to the cave lay ahead; he too made clear his intention that their little ward was not blocked from running there, only perhaps reaching the rainwashed air outside.
eyes glittering, merrick laughed once more, a mocking sound that drowned the boy’s faux bravery.