Dreadmaw

No one ever saw Dreadmaw. That was the terror of it. The other First Beasts

announced themselves — with fire, with storms, with thundering footsteps that

shook the land. Dreadmaw worked in silence, far beneath the surface, grinding

through stone and magma with a body designed for nothing except forward motion.

Entire regions would collapse without warning — plains sinking into sudden

chasms, mountains folding inward as if the earth beneath them had simply been

removed. Because it had. Dreadmaw consumed the world from below, and the

surface never knew until it was too late. Even the gods struggled to track it.

Gaia could feel it moving through her body like a splinter, but its tunnels

were so deep and so vast that finding it was like finding a single worm in an

infinite field. When the Primordia fell, Dreadmaw's tunnels remained — hollow

veins in the earth that still groan and shift, as if something below remembers

how to dig.