The creature's gaze drifted upward, scanning past the slanted, geometrically disabled ruins that loomed like the broken bones of a forgotten civilization. Damon instinctively pulled his head back before their eyes could meet.
He tugged Matia's arm gently, slowly edging them both away from the ledge.
The fear he felt—real, [remorseless]—held his body still, not in paralysis, but in controlled calm. A calm born from survival instinct.
What he saw down there wasn't just a monster—it was a horrible monster.
He didn't even know if it had seen them yet… but he had seen it. Its body, its form, its dreadful silhouette standing in the dark.
It resembled too many things they had already encountered in Lysithara.
And it felt wrong.
Tall. Gaunt. Drenched in waterlogged robes that clung like seaweed—cold, decaying kelp. Its limbs were elongated, too long, arms dangling well past its knees. Its fingers were jointed wrong, the way a broken marionette's hands might be.
