Viktor felt his consciousness 'fracture.'
Energy surged from the memory's hand. Purple-pink light—the same color as the dungeon tower—flowed into Helena's belly.
Her pregnancy 'reversed.'
The swelling went down. Rapidly. Unnaturally. Within seconds, her stomach was flat again.
Their child—'his' child—unmade. Unsealed. Stored away like an inconvenient object.
Helena knelt there, hands on her now-flat belly, tears falling silently.
"Though I promise," the memory continued, turning away, wings spreading, "maybe when I get bored with this life, we might meet again. Don't worry, you'll—"
'Tug.'
Something grabbed the memory's leg.
Viktor—both the memory and the consciousness trapped inside it—looked down.
Helena had grabbed his ankle.
She rose slowly. Shakily.
And as she stood, she 'changed.'
Her green hair darkened. Strand by strand, the vibrant spring color drained away, replaced by 'brown.' Earth brown. Mud brown. The color of dying leaves.
