"A prismatic orb detonated not two paces from you, Primate." Zavros shook his head. "It's… incredible. Three others died in the blast. One was coming up the stairs to your chambers — he was killed by shrapnel — but the other two were as close as you were. And Primate… there's barely anything left of them."

Melovar put his hand to his face, feeling bumps and crevices in his cheek where there never were before. "Bring me a mirror."

Zavros tilted his head to someone outside the Primate's vision. A moment later a templar entered, a silver mirror with gilt edging held in his hands. The man looked terrified.

"Hold it up," Melovar said.

Zavros nodded to the templar, who hoisted the mirror, and Melovar regarded his new self.

Everything was where it should be, at least he had that much. But it was as if Melovar was made of wax and had been held too close to a flame. His nose had sunken, and was now barely more than two holes in the centre of his face. His cheeks and his chin were withered, lined with countless deep cracks, and his eyes were little more than almond slits. Melovar's lips were cracked and thin; they bled when he parted them, and they pulled in towards his mouth, which was little more than a triangular hole.

He looked down at his hands, and the flesh of his forearms. He still had the complete use of his fingers; in fact aside from the pain, his body felt quite functional. He turned his hand over to display the palm, confirming that the fissures covered every surface of his skin.

Melovar chuckled.

"You can leave," Zavros said to the shaking templar. He waited until the templar had left, and then turned to the Primate. "Primate, what are you doing?"

"I'm standing."

"But the pain!" Zavros said. "Primate, the fluid in your veins is like acid right now. Look." Zavros held up a bandage. Where the fabric was bloodied it was eaten away,

Melovar felt the fire pulsing through his body, regenerating the tissue, feeding him strength, even as it sent waves of agony coursing through his veins. He shook his head. "What do I care? My work is unfinished, and my body might have little time left in this world. And, Templar Zavros, pain is ethereal. The Evermen Cycles — perhaps you should read them sometime."

~

MORAGON made his report in his usual dispassionate tone. The commander of the Black Army and newly-made Tingaran High Lord had shown no reaction at all when he saw the Primate's disfigurement. Perhaps life as a melding had made him less shocked by what could be done with the human form.

The two stood high on the summit of Stonewater, where previously they would have been bathed in the light of the Pinnacle. The cool wind soothed the Primate's constantly burning skin, and he sipped from a golden goblet, feeling the bitter liquid slide down the back of his throat.