Quinlan looked down.
Nyxara's body was on the ground, but it was wrong.
Her form was fading, emptying.
The glow in her eyes had dimmed to a thin, glassy sheen. Her skin, once taut with vitality, had begun to hollow inward, as if something fundamental was being withdrawn from behind it. Color leeched away in slow, uneven currents.
She was withering away.
Quinlan did not move, did not rush to her aid.
His heart remained firm as his mind dissected the possibilities with ruthless calm.
Decay? It felt a bit too clean for that…
Backlash from the shriek?
Was she dying?
The thought registered without urgency.
If his pounding had reduced the Primordial Demon of Lust to a collapsing husk, that was a fact worth remembering. A feat to file away. A story to brag about for the next billion years.
Her chest rose once. Then again.
Her breathing was shallow and felt unnatural, hollow.
"What's going on with you?" Quinlan murmured.
Nyxara's lips parted, but no sound came out.
