This time, it is Khoriya who flinches away from Ankari's approach. There is a new terror in his eyes, like an animal backed into the corner of a cage, except this prison is made of his own flesh and bones, the chains sprouted from the monstrous black void at the heart of him. For so long, he had relied upon his own iron control to keep that hungry thing at bay, but now... he can feel his own sense of self frayed at the edges, brittle and ready to shatter at a touch, a breath.

And worst of all, it is that gentle touch that breaks him, the careful press of elegant hands against his shuddering chest that pierces him through his defenses like the kiss of an assassin's blade. Like a prayer to the Moon, Ankari's voice rings through him, offering respite, and Khoriya can hear his words only as pity, as proof positive of how very weak he has become, because he cannot deny or turn away from his enemy's mercy.

(And had Ankari not met him with such sincerity once before, standing before the empty throne with scepter in hand, head held high. Even then, Khoriya had not been able to refuse him...)

Exhale, eyes squeezed shut as Khoriya tosses his head like a fractious horse. But when he next opens his eyes, there is a new and helpless resignation upon his canine face, jaw working before he manages to growl out:

"Turn around." Shameful, that Khoriya cannot even bear to look the elf in the eyes as he takes his pleasure of his body.