Lucian's grip was like iron, but even his legendary strength couldn't stop the psychic bleed. While his body was pressed against Lyra's on the black silk, her consciousness was being pulled into a void of blinding, sterile light.
In this "White Reality," Lyra stood before the High Priest again. He didn't look like a man; he looked like a pillar of cold, unyielding sun.
"The Shadow-Son is a thief, Lyra," the Priest's voice echoed, sounding like a thousand bells ringing at once. "He is stitching your soul to a corpse. Every second you stay in that Spire, you are rotting. Come to the Light. Be whole."
"I am whole with him!" Lyra screamed in the white void, but her voice had no sound. She looked down at her hands in this dream-state; they were perfect, glowing, and utterly cold. There was no heartbeat here. No scent of sandalwood. No friction of skin.
Back in the Obsidian Spire, Lucian felt her eyes go vacant. Her pupils had turned a terrifying, milky silver.
