The options were laid bare before him. The choice was clear—it was obvious.
The face stealer limped toward Sylvia. She was unconscious, groaning softly as if struggling to wake, blood pouring from her torn body.
Damon held onto Matia by the edge of the ledge. Her armored hand was slippery with blood, his grip barely keeping her from being pulled down into the void.
'Sylvia… wake up…'
He wanted to yell, to scream at the top of his lungs, to call out for Valarie—still fighting the monster above, unaware of the chaos down here.
But he couldn't.
He had no mouth. His mouth had been stolen.
He had to hold Matia with both hands as the gravitational pull of the rift below threatened to rip her away. The strain burned through his shoulder. He was weakened, poisoned by whatever the face stealer had done.
The white, bipedal creature moved with slow purpose, Damon's own stolen mouth twisted into a grin.
"Ahh… finally. After all these months… I've finally caught you, white elf…"
