The screams echoing through Lyralei's throne chamber were not of pain, but of ecstasy.
Suspended from chains of crystallized blood, seventeen beings hung in various states of transcendent agony. What had once been separate consciousness-forms from different realities—a crystalline entity from the Geometric Planes, a shadow-dancer from the Umbral Depths, a flame-wreathed seraph from the Burning Heavens—were now melded into Lyralei's extended nervous system through pulsing crimson conduits that pierced their cores.
"My Lord," one of them gasped, its voice a harmonic blend of worship and desperate need, "the northern sectors report complete stability. The Harvester probe that attempted entry three days ago has been... processed."
