The air in the Deep Sanctum had turned from the scent of sterile magic and sandalwood to the copper tang of blood and the sulfurous rot of the Void. Though the premature contractions had been quelled by the miraculous Moon-Lily, a new, more insidious terror had taken root. The emerald-green mark on the infant's arm—visible through the diagnostic shimmer of the healers' crystals—throbbed like a second heart. It was a parasitic tether, a dark promise written in the language of a dying god.
Gwen sat on the edge of the stone plinth, her hand resting over her womb. She could feel the "Electric Prince" moving, but the movements were no longer the vibrant, chaotic bursts of life they once were. They felt heavy. Lethargic. As if the child were swimming through thick, black oil.
