"Stand," I said, and Narg rose to his feet without hesitation.
I studied him for a moment, then added dryly, "How are you feeling? No demons trying to hijack your soul or consume the earth we're both standing on?"
Narg paused, clearly caught off guard by the question. For a second, he just stared at me, as if actually checking himself internally to be sure.
Then he shook his head.
"No," he said calmly. "I believe I'm in control of it."
He extended one hand forward and slowly clenched it into a fist. In response, thin inky lines seeped out from his skin, crawling along his knuckles and wrist before sinking back in, obedient and restrained.
I let out a low breath.
"Amazing," I muttered, and I meant it.
But then another thought crept in, unwelcome and persistent.
Wait.
I had inherited the same power. I had carried Deathroot, wielded it, even survived its influence long enough to pass it on.
So why hadn't I changed?
