Striking forward like a viper, Rowan grabbed the cover of the Primordial Record, slammed it shut, and kept his hand on the black book as if to prevent it from opening.
The action had seemed easy, but it was far from it. His entire arm up to his shoulders had shrunken; it was as if all the vitality in his arm had been sucked away, leaving him with an arm that resembled bones wrapped by dried flesh.
His regeneration, which should be insane, was barely healing the damage, but Rowan did not care about the pitiful state of his body, not when he was fighting to keep the Primordial Record close.
Endless waves of soul-wrenching pain were still tearing his soul to pieces as the fusion process had not ended, even as he fought to keep the Primordial Record closed.
A whisper slipped past the defenses of his consciousness and entered his heart,
"You should not fight me, Eos. This was always meant to be."
The voice had emerged in his heart, yet Rowan's mouth spoke them.
