A dreadful cry tore from Dax's throat as the dual halos above him manifested—not in perfect, balanced harmony, but in violent, grinding opposition. The devouring void of the black halo crashed against the silver fire of Synthesis, throwing off blinding arcs of raw cosmic friction. They ground against each other like colliding tectonic plates, screaming as they tore the fabric of reality caught between them.
A thick, hot thread of saliva slipped down Dax's chin.
The taste hit him instantly: the heavy, cloying copper flavor of dead, ancient marrow. It was the exact, sickeningly rich taste of the World-Devouring Whale from the Jagan Sector. He hadn't tasted it in a lifetime.
Hungry.
The thought wasn't a choice; it was a rabid instinct clawing its way out of the abyss of his restored core. He swallowed dryly, and the void within him shrieked for mass.
