He'd done it. Somehow, impossibly, he'd—
The water behind him began to boil.
Nero's relief vanished as he turned toward the pool. The crystal-clear surface was churning now, bubbles rising from the depths where that enormous shadow slumbered.
The now dull blue glow from the fungus reflected off the disturbed water, creating strange, muddy patterns that distorted at every moment, like a smeared picture.
It was something violent and deeply disturbing, Nero could tell, from the instinctual fear that arose in his soul.
Something was waking up.
Then he felt it— a hard pressure around his ankle.
Nero looked down and his heart stopped.
A dark tendril, thick as his arm, had wrapped around his leg. It was cold. Frigid cold. So cold, it burned where it touched his skin. The tendril tightened, and before Nero could even think to struggle, it yanked him off his feet.
