Nero trembled.
Gungnir raised defensively, but the pressure in his mind and on his body intensified until he could barely think or move.
The presence emanating from the entity's open mouth was not merely a physical thing. It existed as a warp of both between perception and reality, wrapping around his thoughts and his form, pulling at them like fingers ripping open a fresh wound from the edges.
Nero made sure not to meet the creature's massive eye, staring instead at the floor.
That was when he noticed the silk threads.
The broken threads covered the floor, creating patterns he had not seen before.
Nero's eyes widened.
The arrangements of the threads seemed to create the characters of a strange runic language he could make no sense of.
They spiraled outward from the base of the throne in concentric circles before converging on his location, effectively trapping him within.
The grey silk pulsed faintly with each breath the being on the throne took.
