It came through the wall.
Not through a door, not through an opening, not through any concession to the architectural principle that solid matter occupied space and other solid matter could not simultaneously occupy the same space.
The Harvester simply arrived—phasing through stone as though the wall had offered an opinion about its passage and been comprehensively ignored, emerging into the blue-lit chamber with the unhurried ease of something that had never recognized physical barriers as a category of obstacle worth acknowledging.
First the head. Then one arm.
Zeph's brain, which had been managing the situation with commendable discipline up until this exact moment, looked at what was emerging from the wall and made a sound internally that had no verbal equivalent.
Twelve feet tall. The number was just a number until the creature was in front of you, and then it became a statement about the relationship between predator and prey that required no further elaboration.
