Rowan couldn't even begin to think about defending himself from his father's attack.
One moment he was staring at that weak glimmer of hope on the wings of a butterfly.
The next he was flat on his back, dazed by the corrupt magic that invaded him through the dagger lodged in his throat.
A hot rush of blood flooded Rowan's mouth and spilled over his lips, choking him with the taste of copper. His chest convulsed as he tried to gasp for air, but the Disorder from the blade obstructing his airway filled his lungs instead, smothering him from the inside out.
Yet the thing that suffocated him most of all was the undeniable sense of purpose in the Disorder itself.
The energy wasn't just permeating him and robbing him of his ability to resist. And it wasn't there simply to kill him.
No, his father had put it there to take something from him. A sick feeling crept through Rowan when he realized what it was looking for.
