Chapter Twenty-One, Part Three: All the Gold in ChinaMature

“Rose,” he says quietly, looking at his hands, his fingers, now coated and crawling with billions of shadows, “I’m not hungry anymore.” 

“But I am,” the Valeshard says, grinning as he snaps his own fingers and licking. 

A shard of ice grows from the floor with a sound like shredding metal, shoving itself through the Doctor’s naked chest. The shard crushes his spine twice, bending him backward then forward, sandwiching his organs until, like a thick, crunchy cricket on a fisherman’s hook, he is doubly impaled.  

Blood plops from his open lips and drips down his stuck out tongue, freezing in a lacelike pattern a hand’s length from the floor.  

Soon, his nervous system ceases its flailing, and the deadly rime clings on his skin like iron shavings on a magnet, frosting even the dark aureole of the Nerada behind him.

The End

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