The night had changed.
Where once Jake's shadow had drowned the sky in fear, now his breaths were ragged, every inhale scraping his chest like broken glass.
His shadow wings were gone—burned away into smoke—and even the form that had cloaked him like death itself was thinning, slipping through his skin like sand through a cracked hourglass.
He stood not above but on the dome now, his boots trembling on the barrier he had sworn to protect.
His body swayed, half held together only by the astral glow of his left hand and left leg—the sacrifices he could not afford to dismiss, the only anchors keeping him upright.
Across from him, the demons circled.
Seven remained.
All of them scarred, wounded, their armor cracked, their flesh rent—but they were healing.
Slowly, terribly, their twisted bodies knit together in steaming patches of muscle and sinew, arrogance returning with each breath they regained.
