Through all resistance, you're gaining ground and you know the growing, thriving part of me that you own.
(Do you recall?)
The Neath is not kind. It does not give up those that it takes. It warps and changes. Takes and takes until there is nothing left.
And with claws slicing open his back, delicate silk thread trying to make a mockery of something akin to wings from the flesh peeled from his shoulder blades, Emil wonders how it even came to this.
"I am not skilled with Shapeling Arts, not like the Flukes and not like him ." Veils had said. It may have been skilled with a needle and thread, but flesh does not yield like cotton or velvet. It's slick with blood and claws slip messily. Emil tries to recall, then, how he came to this place.