Rapid crackling noise sliced through the silent night. Harsh breaths danced in the midnight air, stirring the senses of late-night sleepers. The sound of boots fractioning against the route alerted his heightened senses. His face reddened as he pressed his lips together to prevent screams from escaping his throat. Bottles of dormant vitals exploded within his nerves and bones. Everything was hazy to him except for the sight of the limp physique before him. Anger, hatred, sorrow, and revenge curled within the ball of his heart - interminable.
"I won't repeat myself," he warned dangerously, neck snapped in an unruly manner. "Let him go -"
"Or what?" the prince challenged. "Same old classic line from you? You will kill me? Or? Is it you will make me suffer? The art of torture is never your strong suit."
Shutting out the voice of the imbecile across him, he drew in long steady breaths only focusing on the scent of his distressed companion. Yellow crooked sharp talons replaced his humane fingernails, crimson-red blood poured from the sockets of his eyes, and the veins on his cheeks grew dark. He despised this very part of him, but instinct took away the last bit of his sanity. Right at that moment, all he craved is for ichor to run free from his enemy.
Every last bit of buried memories resurfaced, ungovernable, causing his bones to crack at lightning speed. His spine burst out of his skin, ripping his shirt into shreds of recycled confetti. His skin expanded, shielding his muscles that grew thicker by the minute.
Soldiers began to step away, leaving the prince in the front-row seat of the vicious show. One might pour their sympathy on the prince, and ponder on his effect on the cause that he is facing, but no one would know that it was him that demanded this.
This is his ultimate plan.