The creature hammers into me with methodical precision. Each blow calculated to damage without disabling. Keeping me functional enough to serve as a barrier while it works to get past me.
It’s not trying to kill me.
It’s trying to break through me.
My healing struggles to keep pace. I feel my body fighting—cells dividing, tissue rebuilding—but the damage accrues faster than I heal. Blood loss compounds. My reactions slow by fractions of seconds that compound into critical vulnerabilities.
The creature notices. Adjusts. Exploits.
I’m losing.
I have never lost.Not like this. Not in the way that matters now—where my failure doesn’t cost me territory or pride or centuries of careful solitude, but costs her. One specific person. That kind of stake has no precedent in all my centuries of combat.
Dragon. Predator. Apex. Built for this exact scenario—violence without limit, adaptation without ceiling, survival without compromise.
And none of it is enough.
The creature slips past my guard. Talons rake across my forearm, slicing through muscle to bone. My grip on the canyon wall fails. I stumble, and the abomination presses the advantage.
A blow to my knee. A strike to my spine. Systematic destruction of my ability to stand between it and what it wants.
Her.
I roar. Not strategy—pure rage. Dragonfire pours from my hands, my mouth, my wounds. The flames consume oxygen and ice and flesh without discrimination.
The creature burns. Rebuilds. Adapts.
I burn brighter. It doesn’t matter.
The third engagementleaves me on my knees.
Blood pools beneath me, freezing against the ice. The healing has slowed to a crawl—too much damage, too fast, too comprehensive. The wounds across my back have stopped bleeding only because I don’t have enough blood left to lose.
The creature circles. Patient now. It knows what I know.
I can’t stop it.
I’ve thrown everything at this thing—fire and fury and the violence that has ended gods’ servants for centuries—and it hasn’t been enough. The abomination stands between me and Soreia, its patchwork body steaming in the frigid air, its multiple faces watching me with expressions that might be triumph.
“Kaster.”
Her voice, behind me. Close. She’s moved while I was fighting, positioning herself at my back. I feel her hand on my shoulder—brief contact, steadying pressure.
“Get up.”
“I can’t stop it.” The admission costs more than the wounds. “It’s too?—”
“Get up.” Her voice carries no sympathy. No fear. “You don’t get to die here.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are.” She moves around me, stepping forward until she stands between me and the creature. Her magic flares—weak, flickering, but present. “You’re giving up. I see it.”
“I’m assessing?—”
“You’re calculating how long you can hold it while I escape.” Her back faces me. I can’t see her expression. “Stop.”
The creature watches us. Waits. Learning a new detail about our dynamic, storing it for later use.
