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Emberling watched with her neck stretched to see beyond Fenna’s shoulder. Her feathers shimmered ruby red with each burst of light, as if reflecting the heat itself. Her tail twitched. She chirped with every fruit pop, excited by the bursts of warmth and color. It was the most animated she’d been since the Matron vanished into ash.
Fenna returned at last, cheeks flushed, arms full of reeds. "Twenty shafts’ worth it," she said. "More if we trim them tonight."
Zephyr didn’t look up, he was crouched beside the trench, adjusting a fruit into a cooling bowl of moss. "That will hold us a week." He pointed. "These three are prime—ripe, dense, juice heavy. We’ll boil them for tea concentrate. The rest, dry them."
Emberling, now curious and mobile, hopped from Fenna’s shoulder onto a broad of a char vine leaf, which barely held her weight. She sniffed one of the swelling fruits.
"Careful," Fenna said, reaching out. But the chick licked the fruit before she could stop her.
A soft squeak! Came out of Emberling’s throat, more startled than pained.
Zephyr chuckled. "Not harmful. Just hot enough to wake your senses."
He plucked the fruit she’d tasted and rolled it into a leaf bowl. Steam curled from its skin. "She’s learning heat tolerance," he added. "Instinctual."
Fenna smiled faintly. "Matron would be proud."
The moment felt still, even amidst rising heat. A soft wind stirred the vines. The orchard, once ominous, now seemed tranquil. It was almost sacred.
Supplies gathered.
And yet, tension did not leave Zephyr’s shoulders.
He checked their surroundings again with dragon sense. His eyes drifted to distant tree lines. The ember wolves had been outer-ring predators—dangerous, yes, but predictable. They did not roam far. But what he’d seen earlier, between ridges during their trek east, clung to his thoughts.
Tracks.
Feline tracks. Massive. Too wide for any wolf, too deep for a grazing beast. Zephyr had studied beast lore during his Loomar academy beast feeder days. He thinks, "These had the shape of a Fire leopard—a predator known to stalk forest edges under moonlight. Rare. Territorial. Deadly."
And worse?
Silent....
He hadn’t told Fenna. Not yet. Not until he was sure. But the thought burned, just under the skin of his calm.
He stepped forward, placing a hand on Star’s flank. The drake stilled. "One more patrol around the orchard," he said softly. Star grunted in acknowledgment and padded off without protest, tail low and steady.
Fenna noticed the change in Zephyr’s eyes.
"Something else?" she asked, drying her brow with a strip of cloth.
"Just a feeling."
"What feelings? Tell me." She asked back.
"I am thinking about the wolf that ran away. I sent Star to check the area. What if it’s hiding nearby?" He made an excuse.
She didn’t press further. She just tied the reeds tighter, checked the sling, and glanced at Emberling. The chick had fallen asleep nestled beside the moss bowl, feathers tucked, chest rising with peaceful, soft breaths.
"We’ll head back soon," Zephyr said. "Before it gets dark."
She nodded. But even as they packed the last of the supplies, even as the orchard quieted behind them, Zephyr’s gaze lingered eastward.
Into the trees. Into the silence. Where something might be watching them. Waiting for a chance to strike?!
In a few hours, the shafts would still be green. But by nightfall, they’d hum like tuned strings, ready for true combat.
Zephyr tested the weight of the reed bundle over one shoulder while keeping his other hand near the pouch of beast cores and meat. Star paced ahead along the ridge trail, flames dimmed to a soft simmer beneath his black scales. The air had cooled since their earlier skirmish, but the sense of pressure hadn’t lifted.
The forest had changed.
The char-vine orchard dimmed behind them as the afternoon light stretched long and golden across the Emberwood forest. With their tasks completed and Emberling dozing in Fenna sling, the group turned westward—retracing the game trail that had brought them down the slope that morning. The scent of sulfur slowly gave way to pine and dry earth, while scorched ash thinned into leafy underbrush.
Their return path was quiet. Too quiet.
Even the forest seemed to exhale after the earlier chaos. No rustling, no birdsong, just the rhythmic crunch of bootsteps and Star’s soft huffs as he walked beside Zephyr, still alert.
Zephyr led with cautious speed. Fenna followed close behind, careful not to jostle the sleeping Emberling.
By the time they crested the last ridge and caught sight of their base camp, the sun was already half dipped behind the horizon. Long shadows stretched like fingers over the clearing.
The camp still stood exactly as they left it—no disturbed gear, no trampled soil. A good sign.
"Perimeter’s untouched," Zephyr muttered. "No beast scent nearby."
"Not anymore," Fenna added, eyes scanning the treeline.
Star moved ahead, tail flicking, then gave a low grunt—his signal for clear.
The moment they stepped into the camp’s edge, the tension eased. Zephyr exhaled deeply, dropped the reed bundles with a heavy thunk, and knelt beside their stone ringed fire pit.
"We’ll boil the tea," he said. "Dry the reeds. And then we sleep."
"Finally," Fenna murmured.
While Zephyr unwrapped the char fruit and prepared a pot, Fenna laid out the reed shafts across a flat rack of stones, carefully arranging them so that fire-warmth could dry them without warping. Star curled up nearby, a part of wolf meat parcel between his paws, and began lazily tearing off strips with methodical care. He was chewing each bite slowly, more out of routine than hunger.
As the fire came to life—bright, low, and controlled. Zephyr dropped sliced char fruit into a blackened tin pot filled with stream water. Steam soon spiraled up into the air, thick with the fruit’s rich scent: sharp, sweet, and a little metallic. The kind of aroma that clung to memory.
He stirred with the spine of his knife, watching the liquid darken.
"This batch is stronger," he warned. "Took it from the orchard’s deep root bulbs."