None of the warnings seem to matter anymore.
Three more scoutsenter my territory before midday.
I’ve been killing them for decades. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. I stopped counting because the numbers don’t matter—they always send more.
But I never questioned what the dead ones taught the living.
I circle wide, approaching from the northeast where the terrain provides concealment. The scouts continue their patrol pattern, unaware.
I drop the first from above, angling my descent to catch it mid-stride. My hand blurs into a heavy, scaled talon mid-swing. I don’t just cut the throat, I crush the windpipe under the weight of a limb that belongs to a monster ten times the scout’s size. The sound of snapping bone is a symphony I’ve perfected over centuries. The second one breaks cover and runs—not toward me, but away. Fleeing to preserve information rather than fighting to avenge its packmate.
That’s new.
I catch it before it reaches the territory’s edge. The kill is messier than I prefer—it twists at the last moment, forcing me to adjust. The creature screams once, high and thin, before I crush its skull.
I stand in the silence and listen to the wind carry ash across open ground. My heartbeat stays steady. My breathing stays even. The fire in my blood burns low and controlled, ready to flare but not demanding release.
The third scout escaped.
I let it.
That was a mistake.
I spendthe afternoon reinforcing territorial markers.
Dragonfire scorches the earth in overlapping patterns—fresh burns layered over old, keeping the boundaries visible for miles. The process is meditative. Fire and stone and the absolute certainty that this ground belongs to me.
Nothing else needs to matter.
I’ve lived alone longer than most mortals can conceive. Centuries of solitude broken only by violence. Other dragons avoid my territory because I’ve made it clear what happens to trespassers. Humans learned the same lesson. Even the gods seem content to leave me alone as long as I don’t interfere with whatever they’re building.
I don’t interfere.
I hunt what enters my territory and ignore what stays outside it.
Clean boundaries. Simple rules.
The sun tracks across the sky in its slow arc while I work. Burn. Move. Burn again. The repetition focuses the mind.No room for distraction. No space for thoughts beyond the immediate task.
I’ve built this routine over centuries. Perfected it. The territory stays mine. The monsters stay down—temporarily. The world continues its slow collapse without requiring my attention.
The sun drops toward the horizon. I circle back toward the eastern edge, toward the shallow caves I use for shelter. The ground trembles occasionally—geothermal activity venting pressure from deep below. Sulfur taints the air.
Then I catch it.
Magic.
Not dragon. Not standard witch. A signature that makes the air taste like endings. Like?—
The magic signature registers at the edge of my territory. Miles away, but clear as a beacon.
Irritation flares beneath my ribs.
I should ignore it.
Whatever fool wandered into my territory is either lost, desperate, or stupid enough to think warnings don’t apply to them.
The signal moves steadily eastward, skirting my marked boundaries. Smart enough to avoid the worst of my burns. Stupid enough to think the border zone is safer.
