It wasn't a creature that emerged.
It was a limb.
Twisted and jointless, the colour of dead roots soaked in ink. The skin—or what passed for it—shimmered like wet bark, and thin strands of green light ran beneath the surface. It reached forward, fingers ending in soft, rounded tips that unfurled slowly.
Not claws.
Feelers.
Leon stepped back instinctively, sword up. Mira grabbed a handful of salt ward from her belt pouch and flung it in a wide arc. The powder sizzled in the air as it struck the limb, and for a moment, the cocoon recoiled.
But it didn't burn.
It absorbed.
The limb thickened. Grew.
Leon moved.
He darted forward before the second limb could emerge. His blade struck the membrane around the cocoon with full force—but instead of cutting, the steel bent. A tremor ran through the ground. Tomas fired his arrow. Direct. Clean. It struck the hooded figure in the chest.
And passed through like mist.
The figure laughed.
