SNNRRGHH.
The sound ripped through the stillness like a knife through silk. Wet, violent, the guttural sucking noise of something inhaling through a nose designed for blood and darkness, a sound that belonged to no wolf and no shark and no creature that had any business existing above water.
Then came the wails.
A chorus of them were layered on top of each other, the sound burrowing past eardrums and settling directly into the part of the brain that handled fear and did a shit job of managing it.
Tiberon's grip tightened on his sword. His knuckles went white. The King of Drakenfell, who had heard screams on a hundred battlefields and slept soundly after every single one, adjusted his stance toward the sound with the grim recalibration of a man who recognized a threat that belonged in a different category than anything he'd faced before.
