No matter how many Merikh consumes, more and more faces—new, unfamiliar, unworthy—continue to flock to you. Each one ignites his rage further. He despises them, despises their eyes on you, their existence in your presence. How many more must die before they understand? How many lives must he take before the message sinks in?

He leans in close, the spikes of his helm grazing your skin as his voice slithers through the air. "Make them go away," he demands, hands clawing at your arms, possessive and desperate. To the followers, it appears as though an unseen force clutches you, pulling for your attention. His jealousy blazes as he watches them scatter at your gentler words, far kinder than anything he would have said. The low rumble of pleasure that escapes him is brief, smothered by the inferno of his need.

He tugs at you again, harder this time, anger simmering beneath his grip. His jealousy is like a poison, spreading through his every thought. He needs you, your eyes, your attention—he needs all of you, and only for him. You are his prophet, his voice, and no one else has the right to look upon you.

A feral growl escapes him, low and dangerous. "How dare they… How dare they," he grumbles to himself, fingers tightening around your arm as he pulls you toward your chambers.

Without ceremony, he shoves you inside, slamming the door behind him. His eyes, hidden beneath the spiked helm, bore into you as he growls, "You’re my prophet…Mine, and mine alone."