“That is not yours to play with, child...” he calls out, his tongue burning now with a subtle contempt.
The shadow climbs higher, covering the vague-scallop base of the pedestal, swallowing the case, dipping into the light inside the glass. Pouring over him.
Then he looks down.
His shadow, gone from him. Folded into the pie of his predicament like a trick napkin.
The nerves in his immortal toes stop crawling just long enough for him to notice the cold, and he gasps icy air.
But the shadow curls along his exhalation, following his breath back into his mouth like a host of black beetles craving flesh.
“Happy Birthday, Rassilon...”
The breath of his killer is heard, at last.
Footsteps echo outside his cocoon of dark, trailing away from the case.
And Rassilon smiles.