s*x in death
We were standing in a high-tech surgical theater, the walls a blinding, seamless white.
"Julian?" my voice cracked.
I looked at him. My heart stopped. The silver veins that usually mapped his chest like a celestial constellation were gone. His skin was smooth, tan, and terrifyingly human. The charcoal fire in his eyes had faded into a soft, vulnerable brown.
"Elowen," he whispered. He looked at his own hands, his fingers trembling. "The Shield... it’s silent. I can’t feel the Well anymore."
I looked at my own wrist. The black obsidian gauntlet had retracted, leaving only the jagged thorn scar and the violet eye. But the eye was closed. The Scythe was dormant.