[???]
Aelfric scoffed—a low, sharp rasp that slithered from his throat. There was no mirth in the sound, only contempt. And that bitter sneer carved into the lines of his face.
His right arm—severed moments prior—twitched as it began to reform. It started at the exposed jag of bone, white piercing out from the bloody stump. Then came the muscle around the bone, twitching as if alive, nerves snaked their way up the new flesh and at last, skin slithered over it all—pale and flawless.
His robes sleeve mended itself around it in the same breath, as though reality simply remembered what he was supposed to be.
There was no pain, there never was.
And that, somehow, was worse.
Across the barren land stood Lyra, her hair whipped about her and her eyes—those deep red furnaces—locked onto him with a seething malice that transcended hatred.
Aelfric tilted his head, just slightly, as if regarding a particularly stubborn stain that refused to fade from memory.
