Teeth of the Deep
The First Hunger struck with the force of a collapsing world. Water slammed upward like an inverted waterfall, ripping through the cliff face. Stone shattered beneath its impact. Wolves screamed as they scrambled back, claws scraping rock. Elders who had lived through wars that shaped territories stared in horror as something older than their oldest stories rose from the deep. The creature was not flesh. Not shadow. Not spirit. It was all three, fused into a form that seemed to shift every time the eye tried to focus on it. Tentacles like skeletal pillars reached toward the sky. The torso was a hollow, gaping void. Its single maw split vertically like a wound filled with jagged teeth, dripping black seawater. And it was looking at one thing—only one thing—as if the entire world had n
- Writer
