"Nyx!"
Odin's voice thundered across the battlefield, followed by the anguished cries of the other Greek Underworld gods.
The sight before them froze their hearts, a dozen enormous, pulsating tentacles had pierced through Nyx's form, impaling her midair like a fallen star caught in a net of darkness.
For a moment, all sound seemed to fade, the clash of gods, the roars of giants, the chaos of the battlefield, everything was drowned beneath the weight of dread.
Then, slowly, impossibly, Nyx lifted her head.
She was still standing.
But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
The left side of her once divine, flawless body had turned into something that defied comprehension, a writhing, twitching mass of black tendrils, each one sprouting countless eyes that blinked independently, mouths whispering in tones that grated against the soul.
The sight alone made even the bravest of gods recoil.
The tendrils moved, not with random spasms, but as if alive, sentient, and aware.
