The creature's momentum carried it halfway out of its depression. Its front limbs scrabbled at the slick stone, trying to find purchase.
Rhaen was already moving.
She stepped to the side, out of the path of that terrible maw, and drove her boot into the beast's damp flank.
It wasn't a pretty kick. It was low, close, more of a shove with her whole leg behind it.
The moss-lurker – because that's what her brain named it, neat and precise – toppled the rest of the way out of its nest.
Its body slapped wetly against the stone.
Before it could gather itself, she dropped her dagger from its sheath, stabbed it through one of the jointed limbs near the body, and straight into the ground.
The limb pinned, it flailed, maw opening wide.
Rhaen did not aim for eyes. The skull around them looked thick.
She went for the softest path.
She stepped in close, planted her back foot, and drove her sword up under the edge of its jaw, into the soft palate.
