A massive block of marble at the center of the pile groaned, shifting with a sound like tectonic plates grinding together: grrrrrrnd. It slid sideways, revealing a hollow space beneath the devastation.
Then came the sound that made everyone's blood run cold: the wet, rhythmic scraping of something moving through confined space.
A hand punched through a gap between two splintered beams. It was crimson-slicked, caked in grey ash and pulverized stone, fingers curling around the edge of a snapped oak support with inhuman strength.
Then, Rex emerged.
He rose from the ruin like a demon crawling out of Tartarus. He didn't climb; he clawed his way upward through the broken stone, each movement deliberate and agonizingly slow.
His body was a visceral catalogue of trauma. His shirt had been incinerated, leaving only blackened, charred scraps clinging to his corded muscles.
