#osheets

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The banquet hall is illuminated solely by the ghostly light of the full moon. Gone are the table and chairs, the carpets, even the watchful gaze of royal sentries. When Doom arrives, clad only in a robe, Stephen learns why.

“Does it not kill you, Strange?”

Something is off here. Something terrible is going to happen, and the scent of thick, hot blood just underneath that scarred skin blots out any thought beyond take. Feed.

The robe hits the floor. “Reap the fruits of your trust.”

There’s nothing human enough in Stephen to stop himself. Air bursting as he teleports across the hall, he grabs strangleholds on Doom’s shoulders and bites down on his neck.

Nothing. He tries again, mindless to all but the hunger, pressing his mouth against hardened, plated flesh until his fangs ache. Panting for breath, he looks at Doom’s face.

The king’s pupils are slits, looking back at him with glee. Grabbing hold of Strange’s tunic, he throws him away.

Stephen recovers quickly, but the transformation is far too fast. Magic is too much effort for him now, and he runs toward the hunched, shifting creature. A sudden unfurling nearly drops Strange to the floor – enormous splashes of green and silver in the shadow–

Eyespots. Victor has eyespots on his wings.

Perhaps the hunger knows when it’s beaten, for the magician can only watch as the beast rises on all four legs. A hiss steams past rows of sharp teeth, long tail whipping. A clear warning.

There is only room in the kingdom for one monster.

“Fuck,” Stephen mutters. There are so many questions. They will need to be answered later. “Fine. Very well. Are we eating or not?”

Doom huffs, smoke on his breath. He clicks a claw on the marble floor twice.

Two robots bring in a cow, freshly slaughtered. They place it on the ground, bow to their ruler, and depart.

“I usually don’t eat bee–” Strange starts. Turning the carcass over, Doom tears it open with the delicacy of a surgeon. It’s too much. Finally, something that will slake the hunger. Teleporting to the other side of the cow, he kneels, runs his hand through its pooling blood.