Each time an undead fell, something vanished for a fraction of a heartbeat before the backlash arrived. In that gap, Michael felt it clearly. It was not death. It was absence, as if a limb had been removed rather than destroyed.
That was when he realized it.
The destroyed bond seemed to return something that had always belonged to him, though in a less complete state that would either naturally recover or, depending on the damage, remain incomplete.
Blood dripped from Michael's chin, but his shaking slowed.
When another undead was torn apart above, the pain struck again, but this time Michael felt something else.
A perspective. A way of being.
His vision blurred.
Michael's pupils constricted.
He understood then why it hurt so much.
Because they were not dying for him.
They were dying from him.
Michael's chest rose with a ragged breath.
