The Queen's roots twisted and gnashed beneath her, her spine arching backward in a grotesque curve that split open the scorched trunk of her body with a sound that was neither wood nor flesh but something wholly other. Her chest peeled apart like the splitting of a chrysalis, wet membranes stretching taut between splintered ribs, then tearing with the sound of ancient silk rotted through. From that yawning cavity, the cocoon pulsed stronger now. It no longer throbbed faintly in silence. It resonated. With each contraction, its internal hue deepened, the reds turning to arterial crimsons, the blues collapsing into storm-dark violet.
The sack felt like it was beckoning something, and Ludwig didn't need to guess what it was calling for.
The Queen called again, "MY CHILD!"
