Ian stood in the darkness, unmoving.
The sound of breathing echoed from the depths of the room—labored, thick, and punctuated by a gurgle like boiling liquid.
It was Titus's breathing.
An inky-black mist now filled the entire bedroom, plunging the surroundings into darkness.
But to Ian's Spiritual Perception, everything was blindingly clear.
On the bed, the once-dignified Clan Leader now resembled a human skin, stretched and burst open from within.
Dark purple Tentacles pushed out from beneath his skin—not one or two, but hundreds, even thousands of them.
They writhed slowly in the air, like kelp in the deep sea, or like sacrifices in some profane ritual.
The surface of each Tentacle was covered in tiny, dense suckers. A viscous, dark liquid oozed from their edges.
Wherever the liquid dripped, it corroded fist-sized pits into the Stone Slab floor, which sizzled and smoked.
Silvery-white chains bound the twisted form.
