Page 93 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol. 1
My Asgarnian climbs up to the narrow opening, just eight inches above the waterline, and slips through with practiced ease. Seconds later, his hand reaches back through the gap—and pulls me in.
“It’s dry. You can come,” he says.
Inside, we find a round chamber with a surprisingly smooth, flat floor.
“That’s weird,” I murmur. “It looks like a…”
“An egg,” Pherebos finishes.
And he’s right. It’s calcified, ancient—probably decades old. But even though it’s cramped, we both manage to squat inside.
“You’re right. It’s the perfect hiding spot. But the creature that laid this must’ve been enormous! And how is it even above the waves?”
“It must be resting on a rock formation. But you’re wrong—it’s not a bird. SILMAR would’ve known right away.”
“Then what is it?”
“There aren’t many options,” he says darkly. “If the creature wasn’t from the surface, it had to come from deep underground.”
Damn. This thing must be nearly a meter and a half tall. Whatever laid it must be massive.
“At least it seems peaceful. We swam through its territory and weren’t attacked,” I say.
“Maybe the niank oil really works. Too bad it didn’t repel those leeches. Let me see your hand.”
I glance down. The thing looks like it’s burrowed in deeper than before.
Pherebos pulls out his light pencil and sets it to the lowest setting, illuminating the slimy yellow tongue-like creature on my palm. Then he takes out the same pen he used to cut the bay window and draws a black line across the parasite.
Nothing happens.
The pain pulses through my arm. I’m starting to lose hope—until the thing suddenly convulses and detaches itself with a sickening squelch.
I check the damage and grimace. The flesh is necrotic, already sunken in. It’s a flesh-eater. The good news? No bleeding. The bad? Whatever it left behind is probably still eating away at my muscle.
“Check if you have any others!” Pherebos orders.
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt anywhere else.”
“Check anyway!”
He inspects every bit of exposed skin. Finally, he seems satisfied.
Then, hesitantly, he asks, “My Faskaya… do you think you could do the same for me?”
“Of course.”
He exhales deeply and hands me the torch and the pen, then struggles out of his jacket.
When I see his torso, my heart nearly stops. He’s covered in them. Dozens. He must be in agony.
I close my eyes and get to work. Every second counts. Whatever’s in that pen—it works. One by one,the parasites fall to the ground, twitching. The smell is almost worse than the niank oil.
When I’m done with his chest and back, I can see the pain etched into his face.
He zips up his jacket and moves toward the exit.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask.
