Rowan knew that the words from this thing were just a final desperate attempt to taunt him. His victory could never be meaningful to a being like this, but Rowan did not care; he had learned to face nightmares and evils of all kinds.
He stepped forward, and the Third Prince shrieked,
"Rowaannn..." the name was a curse, spat out with a spray of black-tinged spittle. "You... cut out... our heart..."
A violent shudder wracked his frame. The skin of his back stretched taut, and with a sound like tearing canvas, it split open. From the wound, thick, black tentacles erupted, slick with slime.
The tentacles were covered in barbed suckers that pulsed with a vile life, and with the way they were moving, it was as if they weren't part of him; instead, they were using him.
The Third Prince was just a collapsing puppet for something unspeakable inside.
