The cavernous pit of flesh writhes from every angle, and his light flickers and wanes, threatening to gutter out like the sickly, delicate thing it is. No sword materializes in his grasp, and the voices laugh at his failure, at his failures, echoing in his core. Magic -- it's all he can do to summon the light again, pretending that it represents some laughable bulwark against hot flesh and coagulating blood.

Nothing more than another pathetic attempt at retaliation; a tentacle comes into his peripheral, alien and disgusting. Some primal part of him reacts for his sake, and Noctis steps back, boots still squishing at the ground, the ring on his finger thrumming with life. (As opposed to its emptiness from before, something he would have, should have, noticed. But dreams are strange like that, and nightmares never allowed such lucidity for him.)

"Back off!" He mouths the words, but Noctis can't be sure his voice can even be heard over white noise of all the whispers.