The screaming in his head didn't fade away. It was sliced off. It was severed the moment the Usurper finished copying the concept from its source.
Vane gasped. A harsh ragged sound tore at his own throat his body convulsing violently on the narrow cot. The sensory overload was blinding. The smell of ancient ozone and copper blood and the suffocating pressure of the Hydra's lair vanished in a heartbeat. It was replaced instantly by the oppressive stagnant air of the triage ward. The freezing cold of the obsidian floor was gone. He was back in the damp heat of their shared sweat tangled in the rough infirmary blankets.
He was holding Senna.
The golden hour was over. The bill had come due and the interest was catastrophic.
