Nothing moves. The wind carries no scent of hunter musk or god-forged construction. The world is silent in a way that means either safety or stalking, and I’m not certain which.
I watch anyway.
She talks in her sleep.
Fragments. Disconnected words that don’t form sentences. Sounds that might be names or might be warnings.
One word surfaces clearly.
Kaster.
My name, spoken in her unconscious voice. Not fear. Not distress.
Recognition.
Dragon instinct. I don’t finish the thought.
She wakes at midday.
Slower than usual—genuine rest, not the vigilant half-sleep she’s maintained since the ravine. Her eyes find me in the same position I held through the night.
She pushes herself upright and studies my face with an attention that makes my skin prickle. Looking for damage. For exhaustion. For the cracks in my control that I won’t show.
“The wounds?”
“Healed.”
“Show me.”
The demand catches me off guard. She’s not asking. She’s telling—the way I tell her to eat, to rest, to stay behind me when hunters attack.
Giving orders now. Like she has the right.
Like she’s earned it.
I lift the edge of my torn shirt without arguing. The gashes have sealed—pink scars that will fade within days. Dragon healing working as designed.
She examines the damage with clinical attention. No visible reaction to the scarred expanse of my torso. No flinch at the evidence of centuries of violence written across my skin.
“Good.” She sits back. “Then we can move.”
I stare at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I drop the shirt and straighten. “East. Keep the pace.”
She falls into step beside me without hesitation.
I don’t tell her to maintain distance.
I don’t move away.
The attack comes at sunset.
Twelve hunters this time. Larger than any we’ve faced. Armor plating thick enough to turn standard strikes, claws designed to punch through dragon scale. Their eyes trackmy position with cold precision—lethal calculation upgraded, refined, designed specifically to counter the fighting style they’ve been studying through their fallen predecessors.
They don’t circle. They don’t probe. They come straight for her position in a coordinated rush that speaks of divine desperation.
