Something snapped in Lucan's chest.
He teleported.
Not away but toward.
The fold was sloppy, desperate, fueled by rage and shame and the burning need to make this thing stop talking. He materialised in front of the General and drove his claws into the mist-covered chest. They sank in and kept sinking. There was no resistance. Nobody. Just mist and whispers and the terrible sensation of gripping nothing.
The General looked down at Lucan's arm, buried to the elbow in black fog.
"Pathetic."
It backhanded him.
The impact lifted Lucan off his feet and sent him crashing through the roof's edge. He fell two stories, hit the ground on his back, and felt something in his spine shift. Pain erupted white, blinding, absolute. He couldn't feel his legs.
Above him, the General drifted over the edge of the roof and looked down with those unseen eyes.
