Talia stood as an immovable pillar in the center of the storm.
Around her, the air grew so dense it tasted of iron and ash. She watched with cold, unblinking eyes as the darkness—a squirming, pitch-black manifestation of pure void—began its agonizing exodus. Tendrils of shadow crawled out from the pores of Mathias's skin, squirming like living serpents, drawn to her body as if pulled by an undeniable gravitational force.
She welcomed the corruption. Not a single muscle in her pale face twitched; not a shadow of doubt flickered in her dark eyes.
Slowly, agonizingly, the suffocating shadow began to retreat from the whites of Mathias's eyes, revealing his human irises once more. But the cost was instantaneous. His knees, drained of every drop of vitality, buckled under him. His strength evaporated, and he crumpled toward the cold, dust-covered stone.
"Fight it," Talia's voice cut through the ringing in his ears—a quiet, immovable command.
