A sound like wet stone grinding against bone.
Argolaith stood slowly, every instinct sharpening in an instant. He didn't move toward the noise. He didn't speak.
He simply turned his head, eyes narrowing toward the far end of the crevice—where the stone curved and bent into shadow.
And in that shadow, something stirred.
Two glowing crimson eyes opened, vertical and unblinking, set deep in a face covered in jagged white bone. Muscles rippled beneath thorn-covered hide. It was twice the size of a war beast, with six clawed limbs and a maw that opened sideways to reveal rows of spiraling, blood-stained fangs.
A Saint Beast.
And not just any.
One of the old ones.
Argolaith didn't waste a second.
He turned and sprinted.
