Zorvax settled himself on the gritty, broken ground in front of the dark cocoon that now enveloped Ophelia. His posture was one of vigilant rest—sitting, but ready to rise at a moment's notice. He drew his knees up, resting his arms upon them, his gaze never leaving the gently undulating shroud before him.
"My own evolution took a week," he mused aloud, though his voice was for himself alone, a murmur lost amidst the desolate stillness of their surroundings. "How long will yours take, I wonder?"
The cocoon—blacker than the darkest night—seemed to pulse with a life of its own. There was no telling what was happening inside, what changes Ophelia was undergoing, what new strength she would emerge with. Zorvax's experience had been intense, disorienting; he could only hope hers would be less so.
