The pit convulsed like a living wound. Each rib of black stone shuddered, cracking at the edges as the thing dragged itself free. Its bulk dwarfed the beast Asher had been fighting. Chains spilled endlessly from its body, not dragging it down but spreading outward, anchoring into the abyss as though remaking it into its own cage and throne.
The broken beast howled, writhing as it was reeled closer, its countless mouths shrieking like prey. The figure caught it in one colossal hand, claws piercing its chest. The struggling mass convulsed, chains rattling, then went limp as the figure crushed it in silence. Black ichor poured like rain, soaking the falling abyss.
Asher steadied himself on a drifting rib, cloak whipping in the surge of pressure. His scythe bled light, but for the first time, the weight pressing against it felt heavier than before—like even the blade was straining to hold itself firm in the presence of what had risen.
