The beachhead of nothingness pulsed in the center of their sanctuary, a wound that refused to heal. It was no larger than a small pond, but its presence was a constant, draining weight. Damon's avatar stood vigil over it, a lone sentinel containing the spread through sheer, grinding will. The air around it was dead, silent, and cold.
The remaining fourteen stabilized delegates—the three who had relapsed were now isolated behind additional Fae-woven shields—watched the dark stain with a mixture of fear and grim understanding. They knew what it was now. The source of their pain, right here in the one place that was supposed to be safe.
In the midst of this tension, Luna was changing.
She stood a few yards from the containment zone, her small back to the others. She had been staring at the void for an hour, unmoving. Her usual fidgets, the little shifts and hops of a three-year-old, were gone. Her stillness was unnerving.
