Human bodies were never meant to hold gods. They are fragile, made of water and bone, built for short lives and quiet ends.
When High Inquisitor Theon drank the Angel's Blood, he didn't ascend. He ruptured.
It began with his eyes. The milky white faded, replaced by two beams of burning gold light that shot from his sockets like searchlights. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and light spilled from his throat, making his teeth look clear.
"It burns!" Theon shrieked. "It is glorious!"
His skin started to crack. Golden lines spread down his neck and arms. The silver armor he wore melted and stuck to his skin.
Then came the wings.
They didn't grow gently. They burst from his back. Two huge, jagged wings of burning light ripped through his shoulder blades, spraying hot blood onto the snow. The heat was instant. The snow around him vanished in a cloud of steam.
