With flesh torn into countless pieces, each reformation is stronger than the last. Each time your body fights back with its core burning, but your mind — it’s elsewhere. You’re standing in Jing Yuan’s garden, feet firmly on the ground, greenery around your boots, and your face goes pale. +

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There your husband stands, innocently smiling at you, and your soul processes something your mind is slow to comprehend. He’s spoken to you so gently, but every muscle in your body is coiled up tightly, bandaged hands curled into fists. +

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"Something’s wrong…” Muttered quietly, skepticism in your gaze as it trails over the flowers with a thousand yard stare that doesn’t really see them at all.

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‍‍ It happens in the moments when his body disappears into that unforgiving, gaping maw. When flesh tears apart again and again. A push and pull of voracity versus flesh, with each and every scream torn through before it can form a sound. + ‍‍

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In an all-consuming knock at death’s door, a flickering flame not yet gone makes its voice known to another. It's a flash of sound that cuts through the xianzhou general’s subconscious, disrupting a quiet dream with a weary figure that flickers like a shadow in the dark. — @sungifted.bsky.social

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