Asher drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. The vision had pressed down on him with crushing weight—so vivid he could almost feel the Maw's breath, hear bones shattering in its jaws. For a moment, even his scythe had seemed too small against something that could devour worlds.
But he cut the vision away. His will surged, his blood flared bright, and the image broke apart like shattered glass. The cavern returned—the cracked stone, the dripping ichor, the faintly glowing seed at its center.
The impression, however, stayed. That hadn't been a simple echo. The Maw had looked back at him. It had noticed him.
"Vessel," Asher said quietly, voice level, without anger or fear. The word carried weight. Not prey. Not bait. Vessel—something meant to hold its hunger.
He adjusted his grip on the scythe.
