The sharp-edged truth of Ankari's words cuts through him like a chill blade, the terror of it pierces his lungs and sucks the air from them, drives a sliver of ice through his guts. For a moment, Khoriya's golden eye blazes in bright and incandescent fury, as if he might turn back upon his once-betrothed and rend Ankari from throat to navel in truth... but is just as quickly snuffed out, the flare of indignation guttering against the cold resignation that had been his unwilling companion for the last ten years.

What did his pain matter? The rage he had felt, powerless against his uncle's edict. Khoriya is but a blade in the hands of the King, his Claw, and what weapon dares resist the will of its wielder?

What worthless weapon feels bitterness or regret at the destruction it has wrought?

"Such is the nature of service. I am sworn to my King and to Theros. And I do not forget my vows so easily." Bitten off in hard, curt words before Khoriya turns away, determined not to show how the elf's poisonous words had pierced him through. Ankari is no threat to him now, and... whatever he might believe about Khoriya's cruelty, he is not so eager to spill blood without cause in this strange place.