“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.