ROO’s breath caught in his throat as the rumble echoed up from the valley, threading through the pines and trembling the stones beneath his feet. He peered out from the mouth of his lair, the dying sunlight streaking the slopes in bronze and violet. Far below, drifting above the tree-line, thick black smoke curled lazily into the sky.
Ignis pressed closer to his neck, scales prickling with agitation, little claws kneading his tunic. The comfort was mutual. Grit planted himself between ROO’s boots, hackles raised, his entire body taut with warning.
ROO stared at the plume, mind racing. Out here, so far from any village or road, smoke like that meant trouble—fire set by something unnatural, or a signal from intruders who didn’t care about keeping secrets. He thumbed the edge of the old journal, feeling the words pulse against his skin. On the newly-lit page, glowing script shimmered insistently: "Look to the east. The threshold is crossed."
He had never been much for prophecy, but the urgency in the air—the nervous twitch of Ignis's tail, the bristled silence of the forest—told him this was no ordinary nightfall. He swallowed and glanced at his companions. "Well. I suppose we’re not going to get that feast started after all," he said, voice thin with forced bravado.
The wind shifted. On it rode a chill that spoke of something ancient and hungry. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a flock of crows took flight in a ragged, black storm. ROO set Ignis gently on his shoulder, careful not to jostle the dragon’s wings. "Stay close," he murmured, and Ignis responded with a tiny, defiant snort.
He considered his options. If he climbed higher up the rocks behind the cave, he might see more, maybe even spot whoever—or whatever—had kindled the fire. Or he could slip down a concealed trail that wound east through the pines, closer to the plume, trusting in Grit's nose and his own memory of hidden paths. The third path called just as strongly: return inside, bar the entrance, and trust to the wards in the stone and the strength of his companions, waiting to see if the darkness would come knocking or pass him by.
A sharp, echoing howl cut through the air. Not a wolf—something larger. Grit’s ears flattened; Ignis’s eyes flared gold, slits widening. The smoke thickened. The hillside trembled with footsteps that didn’t belong to anything natural.
ROO drew in a slow breath, the mountain air now tasting of ash and iron. Whatever was coming had crossed the threshold, just as the journal warned. In the time it took for his heart to beat twice more, the sky above the pass darkened as a massive shadow blotted out the stars. Gleaming eyes, rimmed in spectral blue, stared down from the tree line—watching.
ROO squeezed the journal tight, the words burning brighter at his touch. The next moment would decide whether the mountain became his fortress or his tomb.