Chapter 8 · A Deal with the Fallen

"Don't move another inch, or I'll carve that glitchy skin right off your bones."

Lyra's voice didn't shake, but the tip of her dagger was digging into the soft meat of my shoulder. I could feel the cold steel biting in, a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from my core. I didn't pull away. I couldn't. My legs were still half-liquid, my new humanoid form flickering like a bad hologram, shifting between solid muscle and shimmering shadow.

"You're in a bad spot, Priestess," I rasped. My voice sounded like grinding gravel, unused and raw. "And you're bleeding. I can smell it."

"Shut up," she snapped, pressing the blade deeper. "You're a monster. A mistake. I don't care what you think you've evolved into—you're still just a blob with a god complex."

I let out a low, wet chuckle. I shifted my weight, the movement causing my form to ripple. The dagger slid an inch, drawing a thin line of dark, iridescent ichor. I didn't feel pain. I felt hunger. Not for food, but for the sheer, vibrating power coming off her—