“Were-crocodile,” Stratos gasps. It’s half a guess: he’s only seen pictures of ordinary crocodiles and wamasu to compare, but it’s the only thing that matches what he’s seen. A daedroth, perhaps, would be close, but aside from the minuscule likelihood of finding one loose, those are mindless beasts. He remembers the cold assessment in the creature’s eyes before it reached to pull them down and shudders.

There’s a thump-thump of slightly uneven footsteps outside, a knock on the door before Terentius calls in, “Jim? Is Felix in there with you?”

“No, uncle, it’s all right.” Stratos props himself up hurriedly as his uncle pokes his head around the door in concern. “We’re just looking for Aunt Lartia.”

“You’re…” Terentius looks at him, at Jim, at the slushy mud spattering both of them and dripping off onto the floorboards. The old soldier’s brow crinkles with questions that promptly get shoved down again. “Carry on, then. And good luck trying.”