Shiera's eyes darted around the cavern. The mist coiled at the edges of her vision, shifting, twisting. Her heart pounded, but her mind remained sharp.
The Spider was not strong—not in the way of brute force, not in the way of beasts that ruled through raw might.
Yet, it had lived for centuries. It had survived. And that alone made it more dangerous than any mindless monster.
As if reading her thoughts, the creature's voice slithered through the air, smooth and taunting. "Do you wonder why? How I have thrived here for so long, despite the countless warriors who came before you?"
A whisper brushed against her ear—too close, though no one was there. "Because they all failed."
Shiera clenched her jaw.
The voice danced around her, shifting from one place to another, as if the mist itself spoke. "I am not the strongest. But I do not need to be. I have no army, no underlings, and yet, here I stand."
A beat of silence.
