Of the few who survived the massacre, only two remained: Jonathan, wounded and feverish, and Father Malloran, who now seemed more specter than man.
Both knew the medallion was the key.
Both knew that destroying it might be their last chance.
Dragging themselves along the trail of claw marks that led into the woods, they reached an ancient clearing—the pulsing heart of the forest, where the ground seemed to breathe and the air was thick enough to feel. Beneath the rotting foliage lay dozens of bones—ancestral offerings left to the monster’s hunger.
Malloran, in a final burst of clarity, raised the medallion onto a stone. “If this is the link, then let the earth reject it!” he cried, his voice a mix of plea and defiance.
With a larger stone, he struck the object.
The moment the surface cracked, the ground groaned. A low, deep sound, like a sleeping beast stirring in pain.
From the trees, the Glawackus emerged—twisted, its limbs undulating unnaturally, as if growing and contorting at once. Its skin split open in gaping wounds, from which blood-soaked tendrils slithered. It was no longer merely a predator: it was a primordial abomination, hatred incarnate.
Malloran had no time to react. The creature tore him in half with a single bite, flinging steaming entrails across the clearing.
Jonathan, soaked in the priest’s blood, clutched the cracked medallion fragments and ran.
Now, more than ever, he understood: either he would destroy the artifact completely—
—or he would die with all of Glastonbury.
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