The tentacles were wrong. Not just physically wrong, but metaphysically wrong. They existed in too many dimensions simultaneously, creating visual distortions that hurt to look at. Where they moved, they left trails of reality-warping corruption that made space itself bleed.
And they were fast.
The tentacles shot downward like striking serpents, targeting the fleeing human soldiers first—the surviving thousand who'd been retreating toward their camp, who were now directly beneath the red moon's manifestation.
One human soldier, running desperately toward what he thought was safety, never saw the tentacle descending. The massive appendage wrapped around his body and yanked him into the sky, his screams cutting off as he was pulled upward toward the red moon.
