The hunting groundsspread flat and endless under morning sun.
I lead her through the heart of my territory—not the border zones, but the real domain. Burned earth and bone fields and constant low-level fire that keeps this place inhospitable to everything except me.
Her power flickers weakly in my awareness—recovering, not active. The Anchor signature beats with each heartbeat, a steady rhythm beneath the exhaustion. Given time, she’ll replenish. Given more time, she might be useful.
Scouts appear twice during our crossing.
Small packs, two or three creatures each. Reconnaissance units testing my territory’s edges. I kill them without breaking stride—fast, brutal, final. The bodies stay down long enough for us to pass.
She watches me work. Studies the technique without commenting.
The second pack tries a flanking maneuver I haven’t seen before—two engage directly while the third circles behind. I adjust mid-fight, dropping the flanker first, then turning on the others before they can regroup. Ash rises in my wake.
One of them nearly reaches her before I end it. The proximity sends a spike through my skull—losing her compromises the hunt. She’s the only thing that makes kills stick.
I finish the kill and move on.
After the killing is done, she speaks.
“The retreat angles, the timing—they’re not random.”
I knew that. I’d noticed the same behavioral shift.
But hearing her articulate it confirms that my reading wasn’t paranoid projection?—
“They’ve been doing it for months. Maybe longer.”
“So have the ones hunting me.” She matches my pace, breathing harder but maintaining distance. “At first, they tried to kill me. Now they test. Probe. Wait.”
“When did it change?”
“After I killed the first one permanently.” She touches her face where blood dried hours ago. “Three weeks ago. Before that, they were relentless. After, they got strategic.”
Three weeks. Running alone, burning herself dry, while these things learned her.
Which means they’re planning.
I don’t ask how she found my name. Don’t ask what drove her east instead of any other direction.
None of that matters.
What matters is that she’s here now, drawing attention I don’t want.
What matters is that her magic tastes like endings.
What matters is that when I look at her, my teeth ache in a way I’ve never experienced.
I don’t like it.
By nightfall,we’ve crossed the central bone fields and reached the eastern edge of my territory.
The ground shifts here—less ash, more exposed stone. Geothermal vents dot the landscape, releasing sulfur-tinged steam in irregular intervals. The temperature isn’t stored dragonfire anymore; it’s natural, unpredictable, dangerous to anything that doesn’t know the patterns.
I know the patterns.
I indicate a depression between two rock formations. Defensible. Concealed. Close enough to a vent line that my fire signature will blend with the background.
She drops without argument. Her legs give out—controlled collapse onto stone still radiating from the day’s sun.
