#anyway i don't like how any of this drabble came out so i mght revisit this concept properly later but

[raayllum]

Callum turns it over in his mind a hundred times.

The sound of his cuffs hitting the floor of the deck, even as Finnegrin circled like a shark. The ache in his wrists and his jaw and just about everywhere, the weight of the green worm in his palm. He'd known somewhere deep down that Finnegrin must've had some kind of trick up his sleeve, that just primal magic wouldn't be enough to beat him, but Callum had still stood there, hesitating, trying to muster up the will to do dark magic and weigh his options and—

Rayla's safety had been the cost, having to try take control of the situation into her own hands.

And then she'd screamed, loud and awful, and he'd seen red. He'd never felt that kind of anger before, hadn't known something that deep and ugly and violent even existed in him. Something so mind-numbingly blank. Callum hadn't been able to think of anything—not the slug, or a spell, or anything, except—

He had to make Finnegrin pay.

But the second you see that elf girl in danger, you completely lost yourself.

It hadn't even protected her. Not in the long run.

Now Finnegrin is dead, and... There's an itch on Callum's palm he can't quite get rid of. A lingering after effect of the spell.

Callum's jaw clenches.

He'd paid the price, though. He always would.