The antennae-teeth retract. The Worm's head rotates—slow, mechanical, a turret locking onto a signal. It passes me. Passes Brendon.
Stops on Oliver.
Oliver's Ferredon feels it first. The animal's hind legs start to buckle, its muscles trembling in violent micro-spasms. Oliver is frozen in the saddle, his eyes locked on the mouth opening in front of him—a circular maw of inward-facing needles spreading wide enough to swallow a horse whole.
His body knows what's happening. His mind hasn't caught up.
The Worm compresses. Every segmented plate locks against the next, the entire body becoming a coiled spring of twenty tons.
Brendon moves.
No shout. No hesitation. He kicks his Ferredon with everything he has and drives the animal sideways into Oliver's mount like a battering ram.
The collision is brutal. Both riders rip free from their saddles and tumble into the sand. Oliver rolls face-first, eats dirt, skids. His Ferredon staggers but stays upright.
Brendon doesn't land.
