The deeper we went, the more corrupted they became—monsters that had no names, with too many eyes and flesh that shimmered between forms. Abominations birthed from the rift itself. The deeper we went, the hotter the air grew, charged with the scent of brimstone and decay. Stones floated mid-air, defying gravity. Rivers ran backward.
And still, the mana stones glittered all around us, embedded in the rocks like pulsing hearts—blues, reds, purples, each humming with stolen power. Damian broke a few free, stuffing them into his satchel.
“They’re reacting,” I breathed.
“To your magic,” he said. “To you.”
Then it came.
The beast of the rift.
It erupted from beneath a collapsed ridge—a monstrous thing of molten scales, serpentine and massive, its horns scraping the jagged cliffside. Its ey
