Years had passed since that hurtful conversation, and they had never really recovered. Even when the hurt was resolved, there was an unspoken anger between them. Their banter was a bit too sharp and their competitions were a bit too fierce. Bobidiah had noticed the tension and despite his best efforts, neither of them had opened up about what was wrong. It had left Bobidiah managing two very angsty and difficult teens and that had taken its toll on his health. The time was drawing near for him to decide who would gain his contacts and the few trade secrets he hadn't shared yet. It wasn't much, but it made the tension between his proteges that much more palpable. 

Sylvester knew that Bobidiah was leaning towards naming Miasys his heir and it infuriated him. He was better, he was stronger, sure he wasn't faster but he made up for it in better ways. He had nearly surpassed Bobidiah's skill in his prime for pickpocketing and lockpicking. He was stealthy and light on his feet like a cat. Sly could swear that when he tried to he could feel himself changing to have softer steps. But that was crazy, right? He wasn't a mage.

Bobidiah was a fool for even thinking of choosing Miasys over him. He was the closest thing Bobidiah even had to a son, why would he pick Miasys over him. Bobidiah himself had acknowledged how far Sylvester had come, and yet it still wasn't enough for the old man. That little voice that had urged him on in his youth to hurt Miasys had become a constant companion. It pushed him harder, it warned him, advised him, and gave him an edge. It seemed more like a person than just his...subconscious or something. If he tried to think too much about where that voice came from, and why it seemed so humanoid to him, he'd get splitting headaches causing him to lose time. The voice told Sylvester that he deserved to be the heir, not Miasys. That he would do whatever it took to prove that and claim his rightful inheritance.

Yet in quiet moments, when he would meditate for longer than necessary, he would feel his mind finally clear. As if a heavy fog had been lifted off of it. In these moments he would realize that of course Miasys deserved to be the heir. She was smart, beautiful, clever, and skilled. She was his equal in so many ways, and surpassed him in so many others. If he allowed himself to admit it, which of course was easier without that voice in his head, he wanted her to be named the heir. He could just imagine the way she would light up at the news. How those dark eyes would almost sparkle with all the stars in the night's sky. Maybe if he hadn't broken things she would spin on her heels and beam at him, giving an excited bounce over to hug him tight. It wouldn't be so, it couldn't be so. Once, he had dreamed of becoming a thief beyond all compare to steal the stars from the sky and put them in her beautiful eyes. It was too late though. Then the fog would return heavier and darker than before.

It was in one of these times—where his mind had cleared only to be swamped by the darkness—that he found himself standing just inside Bobidiah's room. A cruel blade in hand, once blue eyes shifted into black pits of self-righteousness and rage that burned like dragonfire. Without his knowledge, his body rippled and changed entirely. Tan skin turned darker to blend into the shadows, his feet turned into padded cat feet, softening his steps. His ears changed to be leathery and batlike to pick up any soft sound that could alert him to something wrong. Slowly, carefully, as if possessed, he crept his way to the side of the bed. The lump on the bed shifted slightly in time with its steady breaths. The knife was raised, some part of him cried out against the act but the dark voice urging his blade forward was louder. The knife plunged down, finding its mark in the slumbering man's chest. 

A violent burst of clarity hit Sylvester with the strength of an overgrown diomwul and he stumbled back, releasing the knife like it had burned him. His breaths came in short painful gasps, it reminded him of the time he had fallen in a lake and almost drowned. Bobidiah had saved him, but breathing had hurt so much for a time. That voice was so loud now. He pressed his hands to his ears—why didn't they feel right?—trying to block it out. But it was coming from inside, he couldn't get away from it. When had it gotten so loud? When had it gotten such control of him? He hadn't wanted to hurt Bobidiah. But he had hurt Bobidiah, his nose twitched at the metallic scent filling the air, worse he had killed Bobidiah. A low sound like a wounded animal filled the air and Sly clamped a hand over his own mouth. He couldn't risk waking Miasys. There would be time later to decide why he had let this happen, why he had allowed that voice to mislead him, why his body looked and felt wrong. He tried to ignore how his flesh rippled back into the tan skin he was familiar with. For now, well, he had already done the unthinkable. Bobidiah had always been amused by his tendency to stubbornly stand by it once he had made a decision no matter the consequences. When he was gone he would make his own decisions, his own code so as to never repeat his mistakes here tonight. First though, he had to double down on his choices and get it done.

Sylvester got to work, removing Bobidiah's ring, gathering the papers necessary for transferring the man's wealth to himself, having a couple attempts at forging his signature, and preparing to leave. As he slid the wolf's head ring onto his right ring finger he felt the thrum of magic pulse through him. His eyes widened slightly, he shouldn't have been surprised that the ring was magic, Bobidiah had probably mentioned it before. Yet there wasn't time to focus on that. There was still the problem of Miasys. She wouldn't stand for what had happened. He had to stop her from coming after him. He recoiled slightly with disgust as the dark voice implanted the thought to kill her. No, he would be stronger than it this time, he wouldn't kill someone he cared about so easily again. In their world, guild leaders wore their signet rings on the right ring finger, an old tradition he didn't recall the origins of. Bobidiah had disbanded his guild ages ago, intending for him or Miasys to found a new one. Maybe- Maybe if he cut that finger off, stopped her from ever being able to become a guild leader...it could be a warning to not come after him, to stay away. Maybe it could be enough. Maybe it would keep her safer in the long run. With renewed determination, and a sick feeling in his stomach, he stowed the paperwork into one of Bobidiah's old bags and began making his way to Miasys's room. He didn't want to do this...but it had to be done, he told himself. He stepped into Miasys's room.