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She laughed softly. "You said it."
"I was unconscious. That doesn’t count."
Fenna shook her head and drew another arrow, the obsidian tip glinting. "Let’s make this clean. One shot, one squeal."
They looked at each other with narrowing eyes, breath slowing. They split.
Zephyr anchored the final cord with a precise twist of his wrist. His fingers moving in fluid, practiced knots. The spider silk twine shimmered faintly in the shifting light. It was almost invisible unless viewed at just the right angle. Stretched taut between two scarred, iron-barked trunks, the web-like grid looked fragile, but it could stop a charging beast three times his weight. The trick wasn’t just the strength —it was the give, the snapback. It would tangle legs, unbalance momentum, and force panic before prey even knew it was caught.
He stepped back, surveying the crude snare. Five horizontal lines, staggered at different heights, each leading to a central drop latch that bound to a tree bark hook. Anything the size of a boar pressing the lowest tension cord would release the entire grid downward, catching limbs and neck alike in a tangle of sticky, bone-strong filament.
Zephyr crouched at the base of the trees, then carefully pried open a moss-colored satchel tied to his belt. Inside, two clay spheres rested in padded loops, each filled with powdered resin. It was crushed dried ember-fronds, and a dash of silver phosphor from the volcanic ground for ignition. He buried one to the left of the snare path, another to the right, pressing soil over them with flat palms until only their disguised fuses like a dried reed bundle peeked out of them.
"Burn-snares armed," he muttered to himself.
They wouldn’t kill recklessly. That wasn’t the goal. If anything, too much damage would ruin the meat. But if the beast thrashed? If it kicked against the trap and flailed hard enough to trigger the hidden jars? Then boom—a flash, a choking smoke cloud, and a dazed boar. Enough to give Fenna a clean shot with her arrows.
He exhaled through his nose and rose to his feet, brushing grit from his leggings.
The corridor around him was quiet, unnaturally very quiet. Even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. A single ash-leaf drifted down beside the snare, spiraling like it didn’t want to land.
Above, faint rustling tickled the canopy.
Aurora came fluttering down through the gaps. She was silent as falling cinder. Her orange feathers glowed with firelight echoes, just enough to illuminate the curl of her beak and bright pinpricks of amber in her eyes. She landed on the branch just above his head, chirped once, then added two rapid clicks.
"One trill, two clicks."
Zephyr smiled. "Fenna’s signal. She’s ready."
He pressed two fingers to his lips and answered with a low-pitched whistle—sharp, brief, cutting through the hushed air like a blade.
Aurora bobbed her head once, then darted off to resume her spotter role.
He checked his gear a final time. The hatchet secure, backup blade at his calf, spare cord hooked through belt loops. His heartbeat was steady, low and calm. No room for nerves. They’d trained for this. And this time, the stakes were higher, not just survival, but sustainability. Star’s hunger had changed the scale. They weren’t just training anymore.
They were hunting with purpose.
This wasn’t just about keeping themselves fed anymore, or practicing techniques to make them better. This was survival on a new scale. We can on a legendary scale.
They had a growing dragon now.
Not just any beast, not a rare Hollowback. Star’s transformation had made one thing painfully clear: his appetite wasn’t just for meat—it was for growth. Deep, instinctive, ancient evolutionary hunger. And that hunger had to be fed, or it would consume him from within.
Zephyr knew this now, in the same way he knew how to aim without thinking, how to read wind by scent, how to move when the forest creaked in warning. It wasn’t about wanting Star to grow—it was about needing him to survive the growth that had already begun. He knew from his dragon sense, from their taming bond.
He didn’t talk about it much with Fenna, but the thought had gnawed at him ever since he found the egg buried in that stone alcove cave. From birth, Star had been small. Too small, really. A creature of his type, with his presence, should’ve hatched with scales twice that size and wings as big as Zep amr size.
Maybe it was because the egg had been hidden too long—its shell sealed away under stone and root, time itself choking back the life within. Or maybe it had been damaged somehow, altered before it ever came into Zephyr’s hands. Or...
Zephyr tightened his jaw. Or maybe Star wasn’t finished yet when he hatched. Maybe he forced himself out too early. Or maybe he gave a life to a dying / almost dead dragon egg with his SSS-RANK dragon tamer skill.
There were too many unknowns, and none of the beast-lore scrolls for the last five hundred years had a clear answer. A part of him wondered if even the forbidden information of the royal guild had this information or not. But Zephyr wasn’t hunting answers right now.
He was hunting for solutions.
And the only solution to Star’s rapid growth, volatile mana surges, and voracious appetite was more food. More energy. More cores. He didn’t need another theory—he needed meat on the fire and beast core essence in the belly.
He got one goal. Keep Star fed. Always.
Because if they failed to meet his need—if they mistimed it, if they underestimated what a Rank-D fledgling dragon required—then the next evolution might not be peaceful. Or reversible. Or survivable.
Zephyr glanced toward the canopy, where the drifting ash caught sunlight in ghostly swirls. Somewhere behind him, Star was moving forward. He was flying to him. Or he will soon.
"One thing at a time, let’s focus on the hunt." Zephyr reminded himself.