The attack comes from behind.
Not the direction I expected.Not the angle I was tracking.
The Executor crashes through a rock formation we passed thirty seconds ago—must have been lying dormant beneath the surface, buried in rubble, waiting for us to move beyond strike range. It rises from the debris like a creature emerging from its grave, stone and dirt cascading from armored shoulders.
Massive. Eight feet tall. Broader than the ones we faced yesterday. This one carries more armor, more bulk, more deliberate construction.
And it ignores me completely.
The Executor’s obsidian gaze fixes on Soreia with single-minded intensity. It lunges toward her like I don’t exist, like I’m not standing directly in its path, like the predator dragon between it and its target is something to be stepped around rather than stopped.
I slam into the creature mid-stride. My shoulder connects with its armored torso, driving it sideways. The impact jarsthrough my entire body, sends pain lancing down my spine. The Executor stumbles but doesn’t fall. Its attention shifts to me for a single heartbeat?—
Then back to Soreia.
The Executor moves again, attempting to circle past me. Its massive body angles toward the gap between my position and a cluster of rocks. It’s calculating the fastest route to her. Not the safest route for itself. Not the tactically optimal engagement.
The fastest route to her.
They’re trying to eliminate her.
Everything locks into focus.
The gods don’t fear me. A predator dragon is dangerous but manageable—powerful but alone, lethal but ultimately containable. I can kill their monsters, but I can’t make the deaths hold. I can win battles, but I can’t end wars.
She can.
Her bloodline. Her magic. The thing that makes death stick.
With her gone, I become manageable again. Without her anchoring my kills, the gods can throw infinite monsters at me until entropy wins. They can outlast me.
They can’t outlast us.
She’s the target. She’s always been the target. Everything else?—
The Executor lunges again.
I move faster.
Rage floodsmy system like dragonfire.
Not the cold calculation I prefer. Not the clinical control that makes my kills sharp and final. Raw fury, burning through myveins, turning every thought into violence and every instinct into destruction.
The Executor wants to reach her.
I won’t allow it.
My talons extend fully—not the partial shift I usually maintain for combat, but the full predator configuration that makes my hands into weapons designed for tearing. I slam into the creature’s side before it can complete its charge. My claws find gaps in its armor, drive deep into the flesh beneath.
Divine blood spurts hot against my skin. The creature roars—pain and rage and frustrated purpose combined into a sound that shakes the air.
It still tries to reach her.
Wounded, bleeding, with my claws buried in its side, the Executor continues to push toward Soreia. Its armored arms swing toward me—not to kill, but to dislodge. To clear the obstacle from its path.
I am not an obstacle.
I wrench my claws free and strike again. Throat this time. My talons puncture through armored scales, through muscle, through cartilage. The Executor’s roar becomes a gurgle.
