Herbalists' Cache been training vipers to come for you

Demon tastes bitter, as it rolls off his tongue— Truth? Impaled throats, gasped breaths, begs. Missing tongues, scarred legs, flesh torn asunder, until there is no recognition of what was, only what is.

Demon fits.

But it is not who the Wayfarer wanted to be in his youth. It is just who he is, who he was chosen to be. Who he ended up being. He knows nothing else.

The choice is his. He hadn’t thought of it, of hurting the girl in front of him. He can. He knows it. Wonders how different the metallic taste would be, wonders if there would be a crack in the mirror.

Wonders how the windwalker felt, when dealt the same fate.

Not unless I have to, he says, a snort follows, a nod to a man he’s never known.