The bottom of the Precipice had turned into a meat grinder.
I marched toward the churning vortex of crushed rock with the mother of dragons leaning against my shoulder, soft as a pillow and roughly as heavy as a house. The whole dimension was collapsing in on itself. Raw spires of bone and the deep trenches of the seabed were being sucked down into a drain half a mile ahead of us.
Grey ash kept pouring out of the pitch-black void above, and it kept bringing the corrupted dead down with it onto the shifting pumice.
A hundred yards from the epicenter, the dead stopped falling at random.
The Precipice had realized we were coming for its lock.
The endless shower of abominations pulled together into one shape. A wave of many-limbed beasts, bloated pale flesh and rusted iron came lunging through the ash storm from every side at once, and every piece of it moved with the single intent of a dimension defending its core.
