Chapter 35: TriumphTHE DESTRUCTION SEEMS veiled in a filmy mass. The nearly transparent threads that bind Kistrfyv to his dream are layered so thickly I can barely see through the web. His uniform is shredded, the double-ringed hood ripped away. Long scratches along his bald scalp weep dark lines like combed-over strands. The heavy folds of ashen flesh at the base of his skull and around his jaw are mottled with terror.
It’s horribly, shockingly intimate—in a way, even more intimate than watching through his eyes and hearing his thoughts—to see him exposed like this. The tang of terror clots the air, a high note to the heavy, musky rot that chokes out from the spreading mass.
The floor shakes under the violence of the attack. Cracks splinter outward. Consoles judder across the floor. A f
