The eyes of Primordial Demon snapped open, filled with red mortal blood as if they had been scrubbed by a metallic brush. He looked at the altar, and he recoiled.
Primordial Demon made a choice that defied his entire nature. It was not a move of art or technique, but of base, animal desperation. Perfection gave way to survival.
Instead of accepting his fate, he tore himself from Rowan's grasp.
It was not a graceful escape. It was a self-mutilation of the highest order. A portion of his throat, the very essence that Rowan's hand had clenched, remained behind alongside a greater portion of his flesh and bones.
The Demon's form, already broken by the failed Dance, screamed in a way that was more spiritual than physical. He was less than a shadow, a wisp of concentrated malice and pride, fleeing the expanding nullity that had been his home.
