A cascade of sensations had shifted with his transformation. His shard body did not register sensations the same way as his wizard body, but everything translated into pain. Pain from being torn apart by the Vicha during the shift. Pain from the Vicha surrounding him, rotten blackness that just kept ripping and ripping and ripping him apart. Pain from shifting shards within himself, of filling himself with terribly compressed, burning light and reshaping his body. Pain from suffocating in the presence of the stalker, a force even more potent than the Vicha.
Yves had screamed in the mirror dimension, from within the confines of his mind and manifested in the anguished screeching voice of his ashen form, and the scream continued now, lost within the confines of the crater, met by the storm that screamed back at him with haunting indifference. Everything was wrong with him. The Jabarrah beak had extended over his arm and shoulder and chest like flat silver armour to intercept the Vicha’s first touch, but the curse had broken through. Grotesque external wounds marred his body — deep furrows like ripped-out lightning-strikes, missing flesh exposing bone.
He had been ruptured as he shifted to the Dimension of Shards but survived because he had fixed, filled, and fortified his mirror world form with energy. He had been strong, ethereal, and radiant, but now reverted to a weakened, frozen, broken, and dying body that had been even further damaged by his faulty ritual, now twisting and trashing in the mud, in the desolate plateau, in the torrent; a body that could not stop screaming and cramping and bleeding and vomiting blood. Then he felt more. He realised the Jabarrah shifted, extending into his body, its silver beak melting into his wounds. It stemmed the bleeding and sealed his wounds, saving him for the moment. And then he felt someone else —
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