Chapter 13

  The sun beat down heavily on the dirt road leading away from the ruined gates of San Pedro. The journey toward Muntinlupa had begun under a heavy, oppressive silence. Elara, normally quick to offer a sharp command or a rigid observation about their pace, said absolutely nothing. She walked with her eyes fixed forward, her posture stiff, the mechanical hawk resting silently on her leather pauldron.

  ?About an hour past the city limits, they encountered an old human farmer struggling with a tipped wooden cart on the side of the road. Several heavy oak barrels had spilled into the muddy ditch. Without a single word, Elara broke from their path. She waded directly into the thick mud, her boots sinking deep, and simply hauled the massive barrels back onto the cart with her enhanced elven strength. Homer watched in mild surprise, eventually stepping in to help her leverage the last few into place and secure the ropes.

  ?The farmer, weeping with gratitude over his saved livelihood, forced half a dozen bottles of his homemade plum wine into Homer’s arms before they parted ways.

  ?"That was nice of you," Homer offered casually as they resumed their walk, adjusting the clinking bottles in his pack.

  ?"Ohm," Elara grunted, not even looking at him.

  ?Homer sighed inwardly. Castor, what exactly is going on in her head right now? Is she okay?

  ?"Scanning," Castor’s resonant baritone echoed in his mind. "Her biological markers indicate severe mental fatigue and elevated stress. She is consumed by doubt. Her foundational beliefs regarding the High Council, the Iron Remnant, and her own righteous purpose have been structurally compromised by the events of last night. Furthermore, a significant portion of her analytical processing is currently focused entirely on you. She does not know what you are, and that uncertainty terrifies her more than the actual demons."

  ?Great, Homer thought. So I am currently traveling with a heavily armed, paranoid knight going through an existential crisis.

  ?Night fell over the rolling hills, painting the sky in deep shades of violet and indigo. They made camp near a small, babbling stream sheltered by a grove of weeping willows. Elara remained trapped inside her fortress of silence. When Homer asked her to gather firewood, she just said, "Okay." When he asked if she wanted to set the magical perimeter wards, she just gave a curt nod.

  ?Homer decided the only way to break the agonizing tension was through the universal language of a good meal. He dug into the supplies they had purchased back in the recovering market of San Pedro. He had spent a good chunk of their coin on various pouches of dried herbs, roots, and spices.

  ?Alright, Castor, Homer thought, laying out the small canvas bags on a flat rock. Let us see if we can recreate a little piece of home. I need to replicate the flavor profile of my mother's chicken soup. The hearty one she made when I was sick or feeling down.

  ?"Accessing culinary and chemical archives," Castor replied smoothly. "Begin sorting the flora. I will analyze the molecular structure of these indigenous ingredients and cross-reference them with the required terrestrial spices."

  ?Homer spent the next twenty minutes holding up leaves and crushed powders to the firelight, letting Castor’s optical scanners do the heavy lifting. It was a tedious process, as eons of evolution and magical cultivation had rendered the modern flora entirely unrecognizable. What looked like a simple dried basil leaf tasted like burning copper, and a purple root smelled exactly like fresh garlic.

  ?"The yellow powder contains high levels of piperine, an acceptable substitute for black pepper," Castor guided him. "That dried red moss will provide the necessary savory umami profile akin to chicken bouillon. Excellent work, Architect. I must congratulate you on your memory retrieval. The precise ratios of this recipe are becoming clearer in your neural pathways."

  ?Thanks, Homer replied, a bittersweet pang hitting his chest as he remembered his mother standing over a stove.

  ?"I also recall this specific combination of amino acids and sodium," Castor added, a hint of digital warmth filtering into his tone. "It was the very first sensory input I processed when my matrix was initially integrated into your nervous system. A highly efficient, biologically comforting protocol."

  ?The main protein, however, had been a point of contention earlier that day. While shopping, Homer had seen the current era’s version of a "chicken." It was a horrifying, knee-high monstrosity that looked like a fusion of a plucked lizard and an angry vulture, complete with rough scales and a serrated beak. He had hard-passed on the poultry. Instead, Castor had scanned a different vendor's stall and found a "Fire Bird"—a creature that, underneath its red plumage, possessed a muscular and skeletal structure remarkably similar to a large pheasant or wild turkey.

  ?Homer chopped the Fire Bird meat, tossed it into the heavy iron pot with the fresh spring water, the scavenged spices, and some root vegetables that looked vaguely like carrots and potatoes. He let it simmer over the crackling fire for an hour, the rich, savory aroma slowly filling the clearing and chasing away the chill of the evening.

  ?When the broth was thick and golden, Homer ladled a generous portion into a carved wooden bowl and walked it over to where Elara was sitting on a fallen log, staring blankly into the flames.

  ?He handed her the bowl. She took it, the warmth radiating through her leather gloves. She lifted it to her face, closing her eyes as the fragrant steam washed over her. Cautiously, she took a small sip from the edge of the bowl.

  ?Homer watched closely. For the first time since the sun came up, the rigid tension in her jaw relaxed. The corners of her mouth twitched upward, forming a small, genuine grin. It wasn't a massive smile, but it was enough to prove she was still alive inside that armor.

  ?"What is this?" Elara asked, her voice soft, lacking its usual commanding edge. She took another, larger sip. "It tastes... incredibly good. It is hearty. It feels warm in a way I cannot quite describe."

  ?Homer sat down on a rock opposite the fire, holding his own bowl. "It is just a simple bird soup. A recipe from my family."

  ?Elara used her wooden spoon to fish out a piece of the tender, white meat. "What kind of bird? The texture is excellent."

  ?"Oh, you know," Homer said smoothly, carefully avoiding the word 'chicken' so he wouldn't have to explain why he didn't buy the terrifying lizard-birds. "Just a... Fire Bird. I wanted to use those other feathered thingies, but I did not trust the look of them."

  ?Elara nodded, blowing on the hot broth. "Fire Birds are difficult to hunt. They run fast and spit embers. You made a good choice."

  ?"Wait until you see me fry it," Homer boasted lightly, taking a bite of a pseudo-carrot. "Give me a pan and some hot oil, and I will make you forget about tavern food entirely."

  ?Elara took another hearty bite. "I can wait to taste it. If it is half as good as this broth, it will be worth the effort."

  ?They fell into a surprisingly easy, mundane conversation about food. Homer asked about the local delicacies, carefully dancing around his lack of knowledge by using broad terms. He referred to fish solely by their size—"those little silver ones" or "the big flat ones"—and categorized all beef and pork simply as "wild game" or "hoofed beasts."

  ?Elara, distracted by the comforting meal and her own internal turmoil, didn't seem to notice his strange naming conventions at all. She ate heartily, finishing her bowl and accepting a second helping.

  ?The small talk continued for the better part of an hour. The fire burned down to glowing red embers, casting long, dancing shadows against the trunks of the willow trees. Homer was just about to offer to open one of the plum wine bottles the farmer had given them when Elara suddenly froze.

  ?Her elven ears twitched, swiveling slightly toward the dense brush on the opposite side of the stream.

  ?In a flash of movement so fast Homer barely registered it, Elara dropped her empty wooden bowl and drew her glowing silver sword. She dropped into a low, defensive stance, the tip of the blade pointed directly at the darkness between the trees.

  ?"Step out into the light," Elara shouted, her voice ringing with absolute, lethal authority. "I know you have been following us since we walked out of the city gates!"

  ?Homer let out a silent sigh, remaining seated on his rock. He wasn't surprised in the slightest. He and Castor had known they were being tailed since they left the Golden Rooster inn that morning. He just hadn't expected the tail to be so bold. He feigned a look of shock, putting his bowl down and slowly standing up.

  ?The brush rustled, parting to reveal a figure stepping into the dim light of the dying fire.

  ?It was Alija.

  ?She was wearing the exact same unremarkable linen traveler's dress she had worn in the market yesterday. The only difference was her hair. The voluminous brown wig was gone, replaced by an equally thick, braided blonde wig.

  ?"Visual scan complete," Castor noted in Homer's mind. "She has also chemically altered the natural pigmentation of her actual hair beneath the wig to a matching blonde shade. A redundant security measure in the event the synthetic hairpiece is compromised or falls off. Highly pragmatic."

  ?She was the "fellow adventurer" Homer had told Elara about yesterday to cover up his conversation with the disguised demon.

  ?"You," Elara spat, recognizing her instantly despite the hair color change. Her sword did not waver. "The traveler from the market. The one who wanted him for a dungeon raid. You are remarkably persistent, or remarkably foolish. Why are you so eager to get your hands on him?"

  ?Alija stopped at the edge of the stream, looking entirely unfazed by the glowing blade pointed at her chest. She put her hands on her hips, offering a bright, utterly fabricated smile.

  ?"What can I say?" Alija chirped, pitching her voice a little higher. "I just really like him."

  ?Homer crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. He heavily doubted that. The ancient demon warrior who had just lectured him on generational trauma did not have a sudden schoolgirl crush.

  ?Elara apparently agreed. She let out a loud, derisive snort. "What is there to like? You are a woman grown, and he looks like he barely knows how to hold a dagger. He is practically a baby compared to a seasoned adventurer."

  ?As Alara shifted her stance, a sudden gust of evening wind swept through the clearing. It caught the heavy blonde braids of Alija's wig, tossing them back over her shoulders.

  ?For a brief, critical second, Alija's ears were exposed.

  ?They were long, sweeping, and distinctly pointed.

  ?Homer tensed. Demons, as Castor had informed him, shared many physical traits with elves, including the pointed ears, though demons typically possessed heavy horns and glowing hair. Alija had no horns, and her glowing hair was currently suppressed and dyed blonde.

  ?Elara saw the pointed ears. The aggressive tension in her shoulders dropped just a fraction of an inch. To the High Elf knight, the lack of horns and the blonde hair led to a singular, logical conclusion in this era.

  ?"You are an Elf," Elara stated, her tone shifting from lethal threat to severe annoyance.

  ?Alija blinked. She felt the cool wind against the tips of her ears. Realizing her mistake—likely caused by rushing through the brush—she didn't panic. Her ancient mind processed the new variable instantly, and she leaned into the misdirection flawlessly.

  ?"Half-elf, actually," Alija lied smoothly, brushing the wig back into place to cover the tips. "My mother was from the southern woods. I keep them covered because the humans in these parts can be... difficult about mixed blood."

  ?"Why hide in the bushes?" Elara demanded, lowering her sword slightly, though she didn't sheathe it entirely. "If you wanted to hire him, you could have approached us on the road like civilized folk."

  ?Alija let out a dramatic sigh, kicking a small pebble into the stream. She looked at Elara with an exaggerated expression of sheepish guilt. "Well, honestly? I saw the way you look at him. The way you guard him. I thought you would go mad at me for trying to steal your boyfriend."

  ?Homer choked on a mouthful of air, coughing violently into his fist.

  ?Elara’s face instantly flushed a deep, violent shade of crimson. Her grip on her sword tightened again, her eyes wide with total outrage.

  ?"My what?" Elara sputtered, her usual eloquent composure shattering completely. "He is not my boyfriend! I am his assigned escort! I tolerate his presence because I am ordered to do so!"

  ?She pointed a trembling finger at Homer, her voice rising an octave. "I hate him! He is infuriating, he attracts disaster, and he refuses to take anything seriously! I would rather kiss a goblin than hold his hand!"

  ?Homer stood by the fire, wiping his mouth. He waited for Castor to tell him she was overcompensating.

  ?"Heart rate is elevated due to embarrassment, but her vocal stress and micro-expressions are entirely stable," Castor reported with a tone that almost sounded apologetic. "Her statement is factually accurate. She genuinely harbors a strong dislike for you."

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  ?Homer let out a long, slow breath, looking between the ancient demon disguised as a half-elf and the furious High Elf knight yelling about how much she despised him.

  The silence that followed Elara’s furious outburst hung over the campsite like a thick, suffocating blanket. The only sound was the crackle of the campfire and the distant, rhythmic chirping of nocturnal insects.

  ?Alija stood by the edge of the stream, her hands still resting on her hips, her blonde wig shifting slightly in the breeze. She looked from the deeply flushed, heavily breathing High Elf knight to Homer, who was desperately trying to keep a straight face.

  ?"Well," Alija said, breaking the tension with a flawlessly executed, nervous little laugh. "That is certainly one way to clear the air. My apologies, Commander. I misread the dynamic."

  ?Elara slowly lowered her glowing silver sword, though she did not sheathe it. She took a deep, steadying breath, forcefully wrestling her composure back under control. The red flush faded from her cheeks, replaced by her standard, icy professionalism. "See that you do not make such a foolish assumption again, traveler. Now, state your true business, or turn around and walk back to San Pedro."

  ?Homer stepped forward, playing the role of the weary peacemaker. He looked at Alija, knowing full well that beneath that synthetic blonde hair and innocent half-elf facade was an ancient engine of war who had just participated in the slaughter of half a town guard.

  ?"Let her stay," Homer said smoothly.

  ?He was actually entirely against the idea. Traveling with Elara was dangerous enough given her suspicions; adding a disguised Demon General's sister to the mix was like juggling lit torches in a powder magazine. But he also knew that if he sent Alija away, she would simply follow them anyway, entirely undetected by Elara’s magical senses. At least if she was in the camp, Castor could keep a continuous scan on her vitals and movements.

  ?Elara shot him a sharp, scrutinizing glare. "You are remarkably trusting of strangers who track us through the wilderness."

  ?"I am trusting of the fact that there is safety in numbers," Homer countered easily, sitting back down on his rock. "She is a traveler. We are travelers. It is dark, the roads are dangerous, and she is already here."

  ?Elara considered this for a long, agonizing moment. Her rigid sense of duty—the very core of her identity as a knight of the High Council—warred with her lingering paranoia. Finally, she let out a sharp sigh and slid her sword back into its scabbard with a decisive metallic clack.

  ?"Fine," Elara declared, her tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "As a sworn knight, I have a solemn responsibility to protect the citizens of this realm, even the foolish ones who wander the woods at night. You will stay within the light of the fire, half-elf. You will not draw a weapon. And you will not make any sudden movements."

  ?"Understood," Alija said cheerfully, stepping fully into the campsite and taking a seat on a large, mossy root.

  ?"Besides," Elara added, walking back to her spot by the fire and picking up her wooden bowl of soup. "It is profoundly foolish to wander this specific stretch of the timberland alone. The southern foothills are a known nesting ground."

  ?Homer paused halfway through a bite of his Fire Bird soup. He looked at the High Elf. "A nesting ground? For what?"

  ?Elara took a sip of the broth, looking at him as if he had just asked why water was wet. "For true dragons, obviously. The deep woods here provide them with enough large game to sustain their metabolism."

  ?Homer lowered his bowl slowly. He stared at her, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he felt a distinct, cold drop in his stomach.

  ?"You knew," Homer said, his voice deadly calm. "You knew this entire time that massive, fire-breathing apex predators live in this exact part of the forest, and you still insisted we set up camp here for the night?"

  ?"Architect," Castor’s voice flared in his mind, the AI's processing speed visibly spiking. "I am rapidly cross-referencing local mythology with biological probabilities. 'True dragons' in this era are not mere wyverns or magical beasts. They are gargantuan, highly intelligent reptilian apex predators possessing thick, mana-infused biological plating and devastating breath weapons. They are classified as extinction-level threats to small settlements."

  ?Thank you, Castor, Homer thought dryly. I had gathered that from the name.

  ?Elara merely shrugged, a remarkably casual gesture for someone discussing mythological terrors. "They rarely bother heavily armed camps. They prefer easier prey. And truthfully, Homer, I was actually planning on fighting one tonight."

  ?Homer blinked. "You were planning... to fight a dragon. On purpose."

  ?"A small one, yes," Elara admitted, stirring her soup. "A drake or a young territorial male. The tension of the past few days has been... significant. The disaster at San Pedro, the constant questioning of my own instincts, dealing with you. I had accumulated a vast amount of internal frustration. I fully intended to use this forest to let out some heat by beating a giant reptile into submission. A physical exertion of that magnitude is highly therapeutic."

  ?Alija, sitting on the root, let out a soft, highly amused snort, though she quickly disguised it as a cough.

  ?"However," Elara continued, looking down at the wooden bowl in her hands. "Your soup was surprisingly effective. The herbs, the warmth... it eased the tension in my shoulders. The urge to seek out a life-or-death struggle has momentarily passed."

  ?"Well," Homer said, completely deadpan. "I am glad my cooking could save a dragon's life tonight."

  ?"Furthermore," Elara said, gesturing vaguely toward Alija with her spoon, "I was planning to use the dragon to deal with our tail. When I heard the rustling in the brush this afternoon, I assumed you were just another adventurer."

  ?"Another adventurer?" Alija asked, tilting her head.

  ?"A fanboy," Elara said dismissively. She looked at Homer with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. "When you were clearing the rubble in the square yesterday, using your wind magic to lift the masonry, quite a few of the younger, more impressionable adventurers took notice. They saw a mysterious human standing his ground after a demon attack. I assumed our follower was just some starry-eyed novice hoping to ask the 'hero' for an apprenticeship or an autograph. I figured leading them into dragon territory would scare them back to the city."

  ?For a fraction of a second, the cheerful, innocent facade on Alija's face slipped. The sheer, unadulterated insult of an ancient, mass-murdering Demon General's sister being referred to as a "starry-eyed fanboy" caused her jaw to clench so hard Homer could hear the faint grinding of her teeth. Her eyes darkened, and the air around her seemed to drop several degrees in temperature.

  ?But she caught herself instantly. The murderous aura vanished, replaced by a wide, thoroughly fake smile.

  ?"Oh, no," Alija said smoothly, though her voice was perhaps a half-octave lower than before. "Not a fanboy. Just a traveler looking for safe company. Nothing more."

  ?The rest of the evening passed in relative quiet. Elara, true to her word, allowed the soup and the fire to lull her into a state of physical rest. She set the magical perimeter wards—faint, shimmering blue runes drawn in the dirt that would pulse if anything crossed them—and wrapped herself in her heavy woolen cloak. Within an hour, her breathing leveled out into the deep, rhythmic cadence of Elven sleep.

  ?Homer volunteered for the first watch. He sat on the log, poking the dying embers of the fire with a long stick, listening to the vast, unsettling symphony of the deep forest.

  ?He didn't have to look up to know she was moving.

  ?"Target is in motion," Castor whispered in his mind. "Her footfalls are completely silent. She is displacing her weight using a highly advanced kinetic dampening technique. To Elara's magical wards, she does not exist."

  ?Alija materialized beside him, sitting on the opposite end of the thick log. In the dim, red light of the embers, her blonde wig looked almost gray. She didn't say a word, just stared into the dying flames.

  ?"No," Homer said quietly, not taking his eyes off the fire.

  ?Alija paused. She turned her head, looking at him with genuine curiosity. She let out a soft, genuine laugh that barely disturbed the air. "I haven't even asked a question yet, human."

  ?"You didn't have to," Homer replied, tossing the stick into the embers. "The answer is still no. I am not joining the Iron Remnant. I am not joining your brother's army. I told you this morning, I am not interested in picking a side in a war that has been raging since before this forest was even a seed."

  ?He turned to look at her, dropping the casual, wandering-human act entirely. "Which brings me to my question. Why are you here? Where is your brother? Where are the towering behemoths that tore San Pedro apart? A General does not just leave his sister behind to play dress-up in the woods."

  ?Alija glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sweeping over Elara's sleeping form to ensure the High Elf was truly unconscious. Satisfied, she looked back at Homer, the playful traveler persona entirely stripped away.

  ?"Remoj is leading the Vanguard back to the northern peaks," Alija answered, her voice a low, raspy whisper that carried the weight of centuries. "They are establishing a new forward camp. The High Council will undoubtedly retaliate for the strike on the prison, and my brother intends to be ready for their holy knights."

  ?"And you?"

  ?"I convinced him to let me stay behind for a few days," Alija said, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I told him I needed to track the movements of the San Pedro reinforcements. But the truth is, I stayed behind to try and convince you one last time."

  ?Homer let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "I am flattered, Alija. Truly. But I don't generally make a habit of traveling with ancient ladies harboring massive anger issues."

  ?Alija didn't take the bait. She didn't flare up in anger at the insult. Instead, she looked at him with a gaze so piercing it felt like physical pressure.

  ?"How do you know that?" Homer asked, his own smile fading. "How do you know I am worth the effort? Your brother looked at me and thought I was a weakling. Elara spent weeks scanning me and concluded I am just a baseline human with a decent grasp of wind magic. I have no aura. I have no demonic traits. What makes you so certain I am anything special?"

  ?Alija tapped her temple with a slender finger. "Girl instincts are always right."

  ?"Architect," Castor interjected, running a rapid diagnostic of Homer's internal nanite shielding. "I can confirm with absolute certainty that our core systems remain completely undetectable. Her magical senses cannot perceive the nanites in your bloodstream or the synthetic architecture of your nervous system. She does not know about the Old World or your true origins."

  ?Then what is she sensing? Homer asked his AI.

  ?"She is a veteran of a hundred thousand battles," Castor analyzed. "She is not sensing your magic; she is sensing your psychology. She observed you during the prison breach. While trained guards were panicking and dying, your heart rate remained optimal. Your threat assessment was purely tactical. She senses that you do not belong in this era's hierarchy of power. She senses raw, unrefined potential, and an absolute lack of fear."

  ?Homer let out a soft, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "Girl instincts. Right. Well, your instincts are wasting your time. I am going to Muntinlupa to finish my business, and then I am heading far away from this entire mess."

  ?They fell into a comfortable, heavy silence. The tension of the day bled away, leaving only the quiet isolation of the night watch. They sat side-by-side, an ancient demon and a man from the forgotten past, two relics hiding in plain sight.

  ?Homer leaned back, resting his hands behind his head, and looked up through the canopy of the willow trees. The night sky was completely clear, completely devoid of the light pollution he remembered from his own time.

  ?But it offered him no comfort.

  ?He stared at the glittering expanse of diamonds scattered across the velvet blackness. He searched for Orion. He searched for the Big Dipper. He searched for Cassiopeia.

  ?Nothing was right.

  ?The stars were all wrong. Over the course of three hundred thousand years, the slow, inexorable drift of the galaxy had completely rearranged the heavens. The familiar constellations of his childhood, the navigational anchors of human history, were gone, stretched and distorted into unfamiliar, alien patterns. It was a stark, dizzying reminder of exactly how much time he had lost. A profound, aching melancholy settled over him.

  ?"You are looking at the Crown of the Hunter," Alija said softly, following his gaze upward.

  ?Homer blinked, pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts. "The what?"

  ?She pointed a finger toward a cluster of bright, bluish stars near the eastern horizon. "That grouping there. The Elves call it the Tear of the Goddess, but they are overly dramatic. The Iron Remnant calls it the Crown of the Hunter. Legend says it was placed there to guide the first mutated warriors through the ash storms when the compasses stopped working."

  ?Homer stared at the cluster. He didn't recognize a single star within it. But he nodded anyway, pretending he understood the reference. "It is bright."

  ?"It is," Alija agreed. She shifted closer, pointing to a different section of the sky. "And over there, the long trail of silver dust? That is the Spine of the World. And just below it, the three red stars in a triangle..."

  ?She kept talking, her voice a low, soothing cadence in the dark. She mapped out the new heavens for him, sharing the mythology and the history written in the stars by a people who had been forgotten by the world below.

  ?Homer listened, nodding along, offering small hums of agreement. He played the part of the fascinated traveler perfectly.

  ?Internally, Castor was working at maximum capacity.

  ?"Recording stellar coordinates," the AI chimed continuously. "Mapping new constellations based on subject Alija's designations. Cross-referencing stellar drift models to establish an accurate chronological timestamp. This data is invaluable, Architect. It will significantly recalibrate our global positioning systems and seasonal predictive models."

  ?For an hour, they just sat there, looking up. It was a strange, peaceful truce. No talk of war, no talk of the Council or the Remnant. Just two people sharing the dark.

  ?Then, the peace shattered.

  ?It did not begin with a sound. It began with a feeling. The sudden, overwhelming absence of sound. The crickets stopped chirping. The wind died completely. The ambient hum of the forest simply ceased to exist, replaced by a crushing, heavy atmospheric pressure that made Homer's ears pop.

  ?"Warning. Massive kinetic disturbance detected," Castor’s voice was instantly sharp and urgent. "Atmospheric displacement is severe. Target is descending rapidly from high altitude."

  ?Before Homer could even stand, the roar hit them.

  ?It was not a sound; it was a physical force. It hit the campsite like a shockwave, a heavy, distorted, chest-caving vibration that felt like standing directly in front of a massive amplifier turned up to maximum volume. The sheer bass of it rattled Homer’s teeth and sent a violent tremor through the ground. The willow trees violently whipped back and forth, shedding leaves in a sudden hurricane of displaced air.

  ?Elara snapped awake instantly. Her training overrode her sleep completely. In one fluid, terrifyingly fast motion, she threw off her cloak, rolled to her feet, and drew her silver sword, the blade igniting with a blinding, desperate light.

  ?Homer and Alija were already on their feet, standing back-to-back near the dying fire.

  ?"What is that?" Homer shouted over the ringing in his ears.

  ?"Up!" Elara screamed, pointing her glowing blade toward the sky above the tree line.

  ?Homer looked up. The moon, full and bright, was suddenly blotted out.

  ?Descending from the clouds was a nightmare of scales and muscle. It was a true dragon. The beast was gargantuan, easily the size of a modern commercial airliner. Its scales were a deep, iridescent black, reflecting the moonlight like polished obsidian. Massive, leathery wings snapped open, catching the air with a sound like a mainsheet tearing in a gale. Its head was a jagged wedge of horns and teeth, and deep within its chest, a terrifying, molten orange glow began to build.

  ?But it wasn't the dragon itself that made Homer’s blood run cold.

  ?It was what the dragon was carrying.

  ?Clutched tightly in the beast's massive, razor-sharp talons was a heavily armored wooden carriage. The dragon’s arms were so impossibly thick, so heavily muscled, that the full-sized transport carriage looked like a child's forgotten toy dangling in its grip. The reinforced wheels spun uselessly in the air, and the metal plating on the carriage roof groaned and buckled under the immense pressure of the dragon's claws.

  ?The dragon roared again, banking sharply over the forest canopy, its massive wings shearing the tops off the tallest pine trees.

  ?As it passed directly over their campsite, cutting across the face of the moon, a sound pierced through the roaring wind and the cracking timber.

  ?It was a scream.

  ?Someone was inside the carriage. A desperate, terrified voice, shouting wildly for help, the sound rapidly fading as the gargantuan beast carried its prize deeper into the dark, uncharted heart of the true dragon's territory.