Harrowhark drove the blade home, straight through the malignant thing in Cytherea’s chest: it bubbled and clawed out of her, a well of tumours, a cancer, and she seized up. It ran through her like a flame touched to oil, seething visibly beneath her skin, her veins, her bones. They bulged and buckled. Her skin tore; her heart strained, stretched, and, after ten thousand years’ poor service, gave out.
Cytherea the First sighed in no little relief. Then she toppled over, and she died.

Gideon the Ninth - Act Five, Chapter Thirty-Seven