Dragonheart Core

Chapter 100: Remakings

Chapter 100: Remakings

She was not the first. It was an odd realization, one that came with unfamiliarity and unease to her young mind—but as she swam through the murky water of her home, she saw evidence surrounding her.

Breaks in the stone from a familiar tail, scores with the same width as her claws, scattered fangs grown old and discarded. Even her den, with gold-white light spilling over the stone and warming it for her convenience, was littered in remnants of someone else.

Someone who had been like her—reptilian, enormous, fanged, furious. Another sarco crocodile.

But not her.

The one who had come before her had been large and feared—lesser beings fled from her shadow with the speed that spoke of familiarity, and she had to hunt rather than be challenged for the den she laid vicious dominance over at the back of the lake. It was her territory, but–

She hadn't been the one to claim it.

There was something upsetting in the thought. It should have been a good thing; less work, instant respect, a beautiful den with ample sunning opportunities and glorious space.

But it wasn't hers.

There had been no blood spent to earn it; she had not grown stronger in the fight, hadn't learned more of her enemies. And with the sea serpent descending below, she was once more the most dangerous thing on this floor; the crude brute with his enormous jaws were no match for her speed in the water, and as long as she didn't let him fall on her from above, she had nothing to fear from him.

Not that she would ever fear him, nor the serpent, nor the Named beast. She was above, older than all, even though she was the youngest. There sung an old and ancient song beneath her scales, one few else resonated with—well, perhaps the jaw-beast. But he was undeserving of the title. She had been born into it, rather than being given it through change.

Something whispered through her bones, something Old. She treasured that, clutched to it, tried to learn from the memories that weren't just how to move and hunt. Something else was more powerful, more Old, and she wanted that.

But there was no time to learn from it, not when she swam through her territory and saw those that didn't see her.

They looked at her, and they saw the one who had come before.

She snarled. Bubbles exploded past her fangs, precious air lost—her tail lashed and pushed her back to the surface, claws dragging her out of the water onto her sunning spot with the screech of rending stone.

It was an insult. She was not him, whoever he had been; she was her, and comparisons were a deadly threat. She knew he had been larger, had been more advanced; if she measured less than their memories of him, would they think to challenge her? Claim her as weak?

Her tail cracked into the stone hard enough to tremble through her den. She bellowed, a low, guttural sound, and her eyes burned.

That song, ancient, enormous, Old, crooned beneath her scales. The promise that while she was bound to this world, she hadn't always been, and all she had to do was reawaken that lost origin.

The one who had come before her hadn't done that, she knew. He had stayed here, ignored the Song, kept to fruitless brute strength and meaningless things that were already found here, that were already discovered. She knew that because the other creatures of this lake only watched her with wariness, with the lingering worry of being merely eaten. Not of being destroyed. Of being rewritten.

Slow, gentle, the Song kept humming away in the back of her mind.

They wanted something to fear?

She'd give it to them.

-

When the mana-call came, he didn't obey, because he certainly wasn't the type to just listen to the mysterious voice, but for no reason other than his own desire, he did find his way down the tunnels suggested. Offered.

He traveled down tunnels that he discovered by himself and were not at all given to him. His own way, thank you very much.

The tunnels spiraled down as he swam through them, sharpened rocks held in his mouth in case he encountered someone else on the path, fins braced. Triggerfish he was, and very proud of it; stone-shooter, clever-eyes, undefeated. All titles he claimed.

And when he darted past the last area and emerged into a new paradise, he knew those titles would take him very, very far here.

It was a world apart from worlds; all he had ever known before was a twisted, sheltered place of murky water and amber-gold kelp, tucked away in shadowed water and the spiral of a hidden whirlpool. This was not that.

He could see all the way to the far wall, everything blooming in crystal-blue and unblemished sand, twisting cream-white shapes spiraling through the water. It was difficult to pause while swimming but he managed it, and even his enormous brain needed a second to take in all the sights before him.

A paradise, in all senses of the world.

And it was all his.

He swam forward with renewed determination.

Multiple rooms, each more beautiful than the last; as he swam around, more cream-white things—coral, his subconscious crooned—bloomed, brought to life by that mysterious voice, seeming to almost follow him as he swam through. He didn't respect that voice, considering it had tried to instruct him to do something and he was not so lesser as to merely listen to it, but he did preen, regardless. Of course it would try to make things around him beautiful. He was beautiful.

At least it could recognize that.

More coral, in thousands of shapes, surrounded him as he ducked and swerved through his new home. The first room, with its sharp drop-off and flat reefs; the second, with its shallow, island-surrounded area and wildly variant areas; the third, with its open waters and coral-ladened towers. He pondered for a long while which to claim as his own; the first was pleasing, but too small; the third was large, but too empty.

Thus the second.

Would it be difficult to claim the entire room for himself? No doubt. But he was a miracle-shot, a coral-wielder, a magic-worker. So it was his.

The other fish swimming through didn't seem to understand.

He spat rocks at them by the mouthful, chasing them back with flared gills and cresting lunges; but for every one he scared away, more came pouring through the same tunnels he had discovered, and they just kept coming.

And inevitably, whenever he had to retreat to gather more stones to fire, more came through, and they were stupid enough not to flee when they saw him. Which meant he had to spend time to scare them off, which meant he had to gather more rocks, which meant more came.

This was the absolute worst.

He darted back, bumping into a twisting strand of coral to bump some off and pick up their scattered pieces—then paused, staring at it. At the coral, growing endlessly, covered in little ridges.

They were spikes, much like he was used to; or like his memories told him he was used to. Sharp little things, the perfect size to fit into his mouth and fire at anything that so much as glanced at him the wrong way, or merely swam in his general direction. He wasn't too picky.

But.

It was such work to find things to launch at his enemies; to pick them up in his mouth and hold them there, unable to eat, until a target presented itself. Such terrible, annoying work. He was a beast made for the hunt, for the kill—it was below him to have to scavenge pieces of rock or scale to strike his enemies.

Monster he was—he was only the second smallest creature in his new territory, there were small, darting things in many different colours that were smaller than him, he had checked—and the enemies he had were many. Who wouldn't want to be him, with glorious yellow-black-grey stripes and flawless aim? They were painfully jealous of his strength.

As they well should be.

But here, in this new territory, he saw things grow that came with spikes; stationary and dully coloured, yes, but with spikes. If he needed to, he could bite his own scales off and launch those as weapons, but they were flat, not built to pierce. Lesser weapons.

If he came with his own spikes, would he not be more dangerous?

He was already dangerous, to be clear. Incredibly, beautifully, wondrously dangerous.

But perhaps he could be more.

-

There were differences in this world.

She had experienced them; from the airy world filled with sand and plants where she had been born, to the watery, tugging world she lived in now. From the kindness she had found in her siblings, pushing each other forward as they spilled from their nest into the water, to the viciousness of monsters trying to tear her apart when her shell was still soft. From the gentle taste of algae and moss, to the warmth of blood spilling between her beak.

As a turtle, born between two worlds, she had discovered their differences, and she knew them well.

But now a new difference had come to her, and she didn't know what to do.

The voice had been there when she'd grown old enough to harden her beak and shell, instructing her in gentle, sibilant words to climb on one of the towers that had been shaped for her. To perch on the river's edge and wait for those that would try to step over her, to set foot on her shell that poked above the canal's surface, disguised and covered in moss and algae, to serve as a living trap for those foolish enough to fall for it. That had been her mission, and she had taken it; had snapped feet off, had dragged those that had been tricked beneath the water and feasted on their mana and bodies alike.

But the voice said different things, now. It told her to move. To go below.

The thought was odd.

Below. She knew there was something below, because she had been here for long enough to feel as the mana curling around her had lessened, time after time, as something pulled it further down. So in a theoretical sense, she understood that there was something below. Multiple things, perhaps. More canals, maybe, or more sand; or something else entirely. She didn't know.

Just as she hadn't known there would be a difference in the voice's commands.

Why had it switched?

But it had switched, and when it had told her what to do before, that had granted her a home and food. So on legs long since atrophied, under a shell that sat heavy and weighing, she slipped off the tower that had been her life for so long.

The water welcomed her, for all she fumbled through moving; she sank to the bottom, a chestful of air tucked away, and plodded along the sandy bottom. She saw others move with her, egg-mates and others coming off their own towers to move through the water. There was a map in the back of her mind, something soft and guiding, showing her where to go. Eels surrounded by silver-tipped fish watched her with wary eyes, but they weren't large enough to challenge her, and they both understood this. She had fed a day ago, something large and wriggling, and wasn't hungry now. The difference in the voice's command was more important.

So she moved on.

Eventually, the canals faded away as she fell down, down, down, emerging into a… a lake, she knew, though didn't know how. More creatures, more questions, more mana, humming through her currents in renewed vigour. Was this what life was like, below? Then why had the voice commanded her to stay where she had?

But still the voice instructed her, so she walked.

Crabs, those larger than the ones she was used to, swarmed around her, but their claws couldn't penetrate her shell and her beak scared them off before long. Enormous, lazy predators overhead swam by, their shadows cast over her path, but they didn't bother her; perhaps their new instructions were different, too, for they traveled to the same tunnels as her. The same tunnels that brought her even further down, where mana crooned and sung and redoubled in power.

Until finally, finally, she emerged into a new world.

A world different.

No pillars to perch on, no sedentary life, no waiting for prey to come to her. She understood immediately that if she were to stay here, that everything would be different; it would be one of action, one her body was not made for.

But the mana that darted through her was humming in excitement, almost burning; she had been full for so long, she knew, with the vague impression of the word. The prey she killed had added up, piece by piece, until she understood that she had reached the barrier.

And nothing had changed. It had stayed the same, because the voice had commanded her to stay, and so she had.

But now that was different, and she wanted it to be, she realized. She was happy with this change, wanted it to change, wanted to be here.

Perhaps she had always been ready, and had simply not found enough of a difference to care. The world had passed by her on that pillar, waiting for pressure on her shell or movement before her beak, and that had been life. Every day, melting together in a constant stream of laziness.

But she had found differences, here. In a world tossed with crystal-blue and looming shadows and swimming prey.

She had found somewhere that changed.

And she would change to match.

She had barely moved forward, entering this new territory with gleaming colours and currents and the deep, curling press of mana, before light exploded through her.

-

In the crowded corners of the Drowned Forest, in a world awash with creatures so unlike what could be found in the jungle above, something new sprouted. A quiet little thing, ambitious in the way all seeds were—tossed far and wide by the thousands, with only hundreds ever finding soil appropriate, and then a scant dozen after that managing to take root. It was one of the lucky few who found such conditions and it welcomed them, thrived in them, took in water and nutrients until it managed to break past its shell and emerge from the soil.

Lesser, still young, barely a handful of leaves protruding from its branches and roots thin and only beginning to worm into the surrounding dirt. A vampiric mangrove, tiny and inconsequential.

There should have been nothing different. It was merely another tree, born in the manner that trees are born, small and fragile and pushing through the seed of their birth.

Perhaps it was just bad luck. It couldn't truly be said that there was intention in the universe; for all that gods towered overhead and the Underdark gnawed endlessly at the base of Aiqith, there was little that was properly controlled. The Otherworld overflowed with mana, the nameless world hosted deities, the Underdark consumed, Aiqith existed. That was simply the way of it. So there was nothing to point at, no heavyhanded web of fate that could be accused.

Things that could explain it, perhaps—the rotting, ink-black schema sitting in the dungeon's core, unwanted and unused, a threat that was not supposed to be. Absence carved into a creature's shape. Perhaps a drop of it had spilled loose—a spark of mana floating from some uncaring void—an alignment of stars and moons that found some ancient scar from a war long since fought and reopened it–

There were many things that it could have been from, and none to know for certain. Nothing to blame for what was responsible for its birth.

But what happened was that the tree came to be, emerging shivering from the soil, and it was wrong.

Scarlet bark, but only on the overside; deep blue-black beneath, something dark and twisted. Its leaves, though a pale white, were veined through with silver. Thorns littered its surface but they were smaller, less defined, less useful. Not the main hunting strategy.

Perhaps that should have killed it; not the type evolved to survive in this world, where creatures had no mercy for something fumbling to get its metaphorical feet beneath it. Burrowing rats gnawed for fiber, kobolds harvested for fires and weapons, ironback toads squashed lesser plants beneath their bulk as they moved. There were numerous ways to die here.

But it did not die, and it did not hunger like its brethren.

Instead, it starved.

-

The world spiraled, shaking and trembling and close-tight-small; she thrashed against it, vicious, snarling soundlessly and raging against it. She had been free, had been so wonderfully, beautifully free, mana exploding through her as humans died by the dozens below—and then there had been a piece of quartz, small, carved, useless. Mana, coiling around her in a way she didn't recognize.

She'd paused, curious, and then the mana had tightened, some chanting words filling the air, and the quartz had gotten closer—she'd tried to fight back, to go intangible, to drift away in clouds of mist—it'd gotten closer—and then—and then—

Now she was trapped.

Nothing happened, time passing endlessly, until it did—there was a brief, fleeting moment of freedom, a break in the prison. She fought anew, mist exploding from her form as she tasted air, tasted light, tasted mana—and then the walls slammed back around her.

Howling, vicious failure.

But things were different. No longer was she pinned so far down; she was able to move, able to manifest, her wolf-esque form spiraling out into the mist she was made of. Mana boiled throughout her, reaching out and rebounding back—still trapped, still trapped—but not in the same place.

She could see out, now. Thrashing, throwing herself from side to side, the invisible walls holding her back—but she could see past them. See a world so unlike what she had known before. Instead of tossing water, of brilliant blue waves and the cloud-whipped winds she so lovingly curated, there was– something else. Wood, her subconscious told her, but not the deep scarlet she had seen flashes of on higher floors; no, this was earthen brown. Walls, odd and straight, with none of the irregularity she was used to. Planned, organized. Not her home.

She snarled, thrashing, mist coalescing as ears to flatten and a tail to lash—but it didn't mean anything, because still the walls loomed around her, and still she was trapped.

But there wasn't just wood, with patches of stone and clumped little things she didn't understand—there was a living thing before her. She had seen these before at least, tall, fleshy things that made her happy she had chosen the form she had—how could they stand on only two legs, with two useless at their sides rather than propelling them forward?—and she growled anew.

A human.

It—he, maybe, she had vague recollections of things like this—loomed before her, impossibly large; or maybe she was small, because as he reached out, his hands wrapped around the walls of her prison and lifted it up like it weighed nothing.

She threw herself forward, snapping, howling, and her mist splashed off the invisible walls.

He said something, and his voice echoed past the walls, trickling through in chittering little noises; but she was a being of pure mana. Humans couldn't hide their secrets from her, and certainly not when she was pissed enough to care.

Feisty thing, he had said.

She bellowed more mist and scratched at the walls with useless claws.

"You're my saving grace," the human said, cupping her prison in his hands. There were odd things, almost like scales, over his face. His eyes flashed gold. "The Silent Market didn't want this alliance, and certainly not with Lluc. That means it's on me to maintain it."

She didn't understand. Howling, she clawed again over where his face would have been.

His fleshy lips curled up. "Keep being powerful," he said, lower, almost whispering. "You're my proof this dungeon is worth it."

She didn't care. This prison wouldn't hold her—though she had lost the mana stream from her home, had lost the waters and tides she kicked up, this wasn't forever. Soon she would escape, and she would be free, and she would learn—for too long had she merely ran her currents over the lake, content in the assignment and letting those of mortal flesh squabble below.

But she hadn't known that those mortals could capture her.

And once she was free, because she would get free, she would never let herself be captured ever again.

-

They all fell to him, in time.

In the Underlake—a name he knew now, with his mind twice-changed, twice-born—he reigned. His school was the strongest, was the most numerous, and all others who tried to stand against him did not last particularly long doing so.

For to be a silvertooth meant to need a school, and there was no school greater than the one led by a royal king.

He swam forward, slow, vicious—creatures fled before him, from the sharks that had learned of his might to the crabs that couldn't reach his great height, from the kraits that had settled into wary truce to the sturgeons that had only their scales to protect them. Few were willing to be around when he decided to challenge another silvertooth school, and today was one of those days.

They had encroached on his territory, and that was not an insult a king would suffer.

So his school swarmed around him, dozens, hundreds, and they moved through the Underlake like an approaching storm.

The other school lurked in one of the tunnels, whirlpool keeping them tucked back, content in the new den they were so confident they'd be able to keep. Which they wouldn't. He would be making sure of that.

A king led the charge and he did so, darting forward with quick, clean swipes of his tail—with an army behind him, he was first, and there was a straggler from the opposing school out front. He bit the silvertooth in half and shook it, spreading the blood, and with a glee that only came from these wonderful hunts, called upon the frenzy for his school.

As one, their eyes flashed red, and it became the proper massacre he wished.

They fell upon the school and he with them—blood boiled around them, frenzy lurching through them all, ripping them to shreds. He swept forward, jagged fangs cleaving into the side of a competitor–

Then another silvertooth, wild and frantic, bashed into the side of his head.

He spun back, ripped free, and there was a biting bolt of pain over his face—a fang, torn loose. The silvertooth disappeared into a swarming mass of his army, already dead before the insult had even had time to land. He shook himself, fins flaring for control, and made to lunge back into the fight–

He stopped.

The silvertooth he'd been attacking wasn't dead. Perhaps close to it, blood hazing off the thin cuts sliced over its side.

But it wasn't moving, and in those cuts, a piece of white flashed. His fang.

It should have meant nothing. Just an injury that would speed up its death even if it got away, bleeding out from the puncture long before he slaughtered the rest of its school. While that was the first time he had ever lost a fang, he was confident in his ability to regrow them, even if he had to wait until he'd gathered enough power for another rebirth to heal him. Annoying, perhaps, but nothing more.

And still the silvertooth hung there, shivering, and he felt something in his soul connect.

Barely there. Nothing more than a shuddering, faint connection, an echo across long waters; but he could feel something like pain, the thought rather than the sensation, and there was a vague, lingering awareness of more. That he was still firmly in his body, but he could feel blood elsewhere, feel the thrum through veins that weren't his own. Not feeling another body, but specifically the blood.

Could feel blood leaking around his fang, even though it was not a part of him anymore.

He was a royal silvertooth—the royal silvertooth—and he had always paid more attention to that first word, the concept of royalty. But he wondered, now, why they were called silvertooths; why that was so important rather than referencing their blood-frenzy or their schooling pattern. Why was tooth the imperative word?

Why was his prey stuck there, fang in its side, and why could he feel it?

He watched the silvertooth.

The rest of his school swept in, commanded to finish the fight, and did so—but they left alone the singular silvertooth before him. It was shivering, eyes flashing red-black-red, caught in the throes of a blood-frenzy but unable to express it.

Still his fang sat in its side, and still it froze, and still he felt it.

He knew he could control blood-frenzies, could summon or dispel them—but he hadn't thought there was more.

But now, watching the silvertooth swim haltingly forward, blood coagulating over its side but thrumming with life, he wondered what else he could do.

-

In the tangled world of thorned roots and murky canals, she swam.

She was an old thing, older than those around her. That gave her leave to claim the largest territory of the canals, her serpentine body casting a shadow that others had learned to fear. She appreciated that, in the same way she appreciated the loyalty of her swarming fish or how she appreciated the beauty of her electricity forking out from her sides. It made for a world where she ruled.

But it wasn't the only world, for all it was hers.

There was a world above this one, she knew, because things would come from it; would appear from nowhere, sinking through her territory when she knew damn well they hadn't come from either entrance. No, there was something in the Above, hidden beyond the impassable barrier.

At first, it had been nothing more than a moderate curiosity. A vague, lingering thought about what could be in that world, if there was better prey up there, or perhaps predators. There were precious few things that could resist her electricity in the water, not as her army grew and her range with them. It was a comfortable life in these canals, able to eat all that fit into her mouth and thrive as the monster she was.

But the days passed, and the time wiled, and still she looked up.

She wanted, in the part of her that knew how to want. Wanted to know what was up there and whether it was better or worse than what she had now.

Whether or not she would survive the Above.

Her electricity worked in the water like a dream, crackling from her sides over the heads of her loyal followers, spearing their target through. It was her greatest weapon and she loved it, now that she had figured out how to love, and she wouldn't give that up.

In the water, she was a predator, sleek and elegant; she had watched those that came from the Above and they were fumbling, uncoordinated, weak. They had no true understanding of how to move through the water. If she went to the Above, would she be as terrible? That could not be allowed; her brethren, siblings from eggs lost past, had died for lesser grievances. This world was not forgiving to those who could not adapt.

And still she looked up.

The Creator hummed to her, a soft, buzzing thought of going deeper—but the focus was on water. Every call was on some spiraling blue world not trapped in canals but wild and free, filled with colourless things and other creatures. The same as where she was now, in the ways that mattered. The same life that she had already won at.

She was a swimming creature, one of water, one of lightning. This world was already hers, claimed and staked. Her powers were made for this sort of living, where already the answers were laid bare and she did not have to consider them.

But perhaps she could swim, in the Above. Perhaps she did not have to give up her lethality.

Perhaps there was a new world to be hers.

-

In the midst of waters—water, blue, liquid, ocean, sea—it was made. Created. Awoken.

Newly born—to be born, had been born, was born—and unknowing. It was one of hundreds, of thousands; clustered together, cream-white, surrounding in the pressing depths of water. Light, from above. It had no senses to see or taste or feel but it knew that there was light, because it knew it needed light, and it needed warmth, and there were both of those things. Thus it was alive.

But that wasn't the only thing it needed.

It was empty. It was not wholly aware of the concept, but it knew this nonetheless; it was supposed to capture, and since it had not captured, it was empty.

What did it mean to capture? To seize, to obtain, to take? It didn't know—it barely understood the idea of knowing—but it was a truth of the world that it was supposed to capture, and it had not, and it needed to.

So, fumbling, unsure, no senses available, it reached out; learned movement, learned resistance, learned change. Moving was a slow, unsteady process, pushed and pulled by some outside force, but it wanted to move, so it did its best. There had to be something out there that it was looking to capture, that it was looking to contain, and thus it needed to be out there as well if it was going to find that.

Around it, hundreds of others moved; they were the same, young and wary, but there was something out there to be obtained and thus they tried. Bound by something unforgiving, their base—their roots, their stability, their core—stuck in place with only small, delicate tendrils reaching out, but reach out they did.

And in return came life.

On one reaching pass, its tendrils brushed against something; just a brief flash, a taste, nothing more. But it was a taste of something deep and pressing, the life and absence of it; something had been living, like it, but then had died, and its death had brought something.

And it had taken that something.

That something settled within it, tasting of water and scales and brilliance; the cream-white that it knew it was changed, darkening to something it couldn't see but knew was different.

It felt that tiny, imperceptible thing it had captured settle within it; small, quiet, minimal. Its colour had changed and something within it had changed as well, becoming more, becoming deeper. A soul, it thought; something captured and welcomed and stolen.

And it wondered, where it could not wonder, what it would be like to capture more; what would be needed to capture more; what would change if it captured more.

Life and death. A balance.

It wanted both.

-

He looked over the Forest that had been his home for so long. For his entire life, in truth.

There was a spear in his claws, a strip of leather holding smoked meat over his back, and a soul filled with curiosity in his chest.

It was time to leave.

For so long had he been a part of the scale-kin tribe—the kobold tribe, he knew, for that was what the Great Voice called them, and it was not to be disobeyed—but that time had come and passed. He wanted more than what it could provide.

And he wanted to leave behind what was there.

The other kobolds stared at him, wondering. There was reason behind it—he was the firstborn, the three of them; Rihsu, Chieftess, and him. But here he was, still a kobold, still unevolved, still unpowerful. Why had he not risen to their same heights?

They didn't know, and thus they stared, and he could only handle that for so long.

So when the evolved, the chosen, descended to the promises of blue waters and deeper mana, he would be leaving alongside them.

Not with them, for water was not where he would end up—fire burned in his chest, distant but yearning. He wanted that more than the placid blue the Great Voice urged him to pursue, because he was born for the fire, with his scarlet scales and smoke-grey horns. That was where he belonged.

And if the kobold tribe was destined for the water, then it was time for him to leave.

So he looked once more over the Forest, over his old home, and slipped into the tunnels.

With his unevolved height, he could slink down passages carved for lesser beasts; he slithered through on his stomach, horns catching on the rock above, claws scratching through soil to drag himself forward. Time passed, air growing heavy and pressing around him until he emerged into larger tunnels, into a world choked by darkness and the weight of uniformity. But this was still cold, not what he was looking for, and he knew there were greater prizes.

So on he went.

His food disappeared and he hunted for new prey, chittering, thin things that leapt at him with jagged claws and warbling cries—his spear was worn, carved over with shoddy designs of fire and volcanoes and distant draconic wings, but it held, and he defeated them. There was minimal meat beneath their chitinous shells, but he ate it, and felt the mana that poured through him. Fiercer than before.

He kept moving. The tunnels faded away into one enormous room, though smaller than the Forest he had come from, with odd, fake trees made only of stone and moss. There was a presence here, something singing in the back of his mind, but he kept his spear up and claws tensed and ran through without even pausing to stop. Whatever was hunting for him didn't have a chance to react until he was through.

But past the tunnels was something new.

A new world blossomed before him. It was impossibly large, the cavern so high overhead, and there was smoke in the air—plants that exhaled grey clouds, entwining with stalactites like fangs, filled with the clamorous dissonance of thousands of flying creatures. He had seen them before, had slain the shrieking thing when it first entered the Forest, but this was more. Was different. He hadn't seen these before.

And beneath that were islands, almost in the way that the canals made islands by surrounding them in water, but instead there was air. A long, long way to fall instead of water to catch.

No water. He liked it already.

But he was not alone in liking it, because beyond the flying creatures overhead, there was something else present, running over the islands and to the far wall he could only see as a vague, fuzzy outline—something that, however, saw him, and was coming closer.

He tensed.

A monster.

It came to nearly his height, crouched on four legs—auburn-red fur, so unlike scales, with bristling black-grey horns that could have mirrored his own. Smoke poured from its mouth with every exhale. Its eyes burned like sparks.

A beast.

A beast of fire.

It stalked closer, claws scratching on the stone, eyes narrowed and locked onto him. A hungry thing, it looked like, and it moved in a hunt for sustenance. He didn't know if its fangs could penetrate his scales or if he was even good food—he hoped not—but it was clearly willing to try.

He was new to this land, to these Islands, but that didn't matter as they stood there, watching each other.

"Hello," he warbled, low and soothing. The monster snarled back, black fur over its spine raising, tail lashing behind. More smoke dripped from its jaws.

And for the first time in a long, long while, since he had first thought of his plan with the rat to take down the invader, something sparked inside of him.

He had been searching for a creature to work with; not in the manner from before, where he had merely thrown the rodents into combat and used them as distraction for his own attacks. No, he wanted companionship, a partnership; something where they worked together.

And, as always, he wanted fire. The fire of his ancestry, of his hidden, distant past—flames that reflected on his scarlet scales, on his grey-black horns.

This was a beast of fire.

You, he decided. You and I will become a team.