The lake didn't speak.
It only breathed — a low, slow shimmer across the surface, stirred by wind and soft light. Dawn had just begun to stretch across the world, its gold climbing through the high mountain gaps and catching on the water in scattered flickers.
Torian stood near the shoreline, barefoot in the dew-wet grass, the glider in his arms.
Behind him, near the base of an enormous tree that grew gnarled and wide beside the lake, Skarn slept — wings half-curled, chest rising slow, limbs coiled in a resting crouch. The roots of the tree wrapped partly around his body like ribs of stone, and his snout twitched once in some dream.
He looked peaceful there.
Torian wasn't.
His grip tightened on the glider. The same ancient one he'd pulled from the underground ruin days ago. Its ribs gleamed faintly even in daylight. Folded, it looked almost useless. But Torian had felt the wind in its bones.
He wanted more.
He backed up a few steps, eyeing the slope ahead. It wasn't high — a gentle rise above the water's edge — but enough for a draft.
Torian adjusted the frame.
His body was still sore. One arm was bandaged from a fall yesterday. His knees ached. But his mind buzzed with something new — the possibility of flight. He'd gotten seconds off the ground before.
Now he wanted minutes.
He sprinted forward, heart drumming, and threw himself into the wind.
The glider snapped open.
Air caught.
He soared—
—but tilted sideways too sharply, wind slipping from the left wing. He spun, caught a breeze again, coasted downward—
—and crashed into a bush with a yelp.
"Gah—!"
The glider buckled and twisted. Torian rolled out, coughing, twigs sticking to his shirt.
He sat up, wiped dirt from his mouth, and looked back toward the tree.
Skarn hadn't moved.
Torian smirked.
"…Thanks for the help."
⸻
For the next hour, he tried again.
And again.
Sometimes the glider lifted him beautifully — thirty feet, forty, even sixty — but his landings were still chaos. A tumble. A splash. A breathless faceplant into moss.
But he didn't stop.
Because in those seconds above the trees, wind curling past his face, toes skimming the air…
…he wasn't the boy from the burning village anymore.
He was something lighter.
Not yet free. But reaching for it.
⸻
Eventually, Torian wandered farther.
The best draft came from a curved ridge deeper along the lake's edge, just beyond the tree-line. It pulled the wind hard off the water and sloped into a natural launch point.
Skarn was still sleeping.
Torian looked back, then ahead.
"I'll be quick."
He ran the ridge again.
Soared again.
Laughed, this time, midair.
That rare sound — a sharp, bright, childish burst — broke free from his chest before he hit the ground again in a roll.
And for a moment, all felt good.
All felt right.
Then the trees moved.
⸻
Not wind.
Movement.
Torian sat up quickly, blinking.
Something large shifted beyond the brush. Wood cracked. A branch snapped.
He stood.
The glider, still strapped to his back, suddenly felt heavier.
Then came the sound — voices.
Not quite words, but harsh and thick, like gravel trying to argue. Two shapes emerged from the trees ahead.
Ogres.
Their skin was mottled with mossy blotches, gray-green and crusted with warts. They stood easily twice a man's height, their torsos wide and bloated, their jaws heavy with teeth. One dragged a makeshift club — the trunk of a sapling. The other scratched his stomach with claws the size of Torian's arms.
He froze.
One of them sniffed.
Then pointed.
"Boy."
"Ha! A crawler! Out by himself!"
Before he could run, they were on him.
One grabbed him by the glider, ripping it from his shoulders.
"No—!"
The other seized his leg, dragging him easily through the dirt like a sack of food. He kicked, screamed, bit, tried to reach his sword—but they tied his legs at the ankles with thick hide rope, hoisted him upside down, and slung him over a shoulder like a pig for roasting.
Torian writhed, upside-down, his face red with blood rushing to his head.
"Let me go!"
They didn't answer.
They were already arguing over how they'd cook him.
"Slow fire. Makes the meat soft."
"Nah, split him down the middle. Fry the inside."
Torian screamed again.
But no one heard him.
Skarn was far behind.
And the lake, once so peaceful, gave no answer.
The ogres took their time.
Torian hung by his ankles, the rope biting into his skin as he bounced against the back of one of the creatures with every lumbering step. Blood pooled in his head. His arms were tied behind his back now too, forcing his shoulders into an aching bend.
The world blurred past him — upside-down branches, sideways trees, the glider tucked lazily beneath the larger ogre's arm like discarded junk.
They laughed as they walked.
Not real laughter — more like gurgled wheezing between bouts of slapping each other across the back.
"Gonna roast 'im with bark salt. Heard it peels off the skin nice."
"Nah, too scrawny. Let 'im stew first. Make him fat."
"I ain't waitin' that long."
Torian kept twisting, trying to free his wrists, but the knots were too tight. His fingers were going numb. Panic rose in his throat now. Real panic — not the fleeting fear from beast-chases or cliff-falls, but the slow, creeping kind that told him Skarn wasn't coming.
What if he doesn't know?
What if he thinks I'm still flying?
What if… what if he left?
Torian bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
He wouldn't cry.
Not yet.
⸻
The camp was little more than a crater ringed with jagged stones, set in a clearing surrounded by dead trees and snapped branches. Bones littered the ground — half-chewed, cracked in the center. A firepit lay cold in the center, but signs of smoke still clung to the air.
The ogres dropped him with a grunt onto a flat slab of stone, face-first.
He groaned.
One of them kicked him lightly. "Still breathin'."
"Good. We got time. Sun's barely down."
Torian turned his head just enough to see the light behind the trees — the sky fading into a deep orange bruise, streaked with purple. Daylight dying.
Hope with it.
They set the glider aside carelessly.
Then began to celebrate.
Not cook. Not prepare.
Celebrate.
Stomping, hollering, slapping their stomachs. One beat a log like a drum. The other danced in a slow, stomping circle around the firepit, shouting nonsense into the trees. Their voices were so loud they shook loose dust from the cracked branches above.
Torian lay there, trembling.
Too tired to scream now. Too helpless to fight.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, just a moment, he saw it again — the crater. The village burning. His father reaching from the doorway. The wave of fire as it crushed the house, sending him flying into the ash.
His family was dead.
And now, maybe Skarn was too.
Or worse — he had never cared.
Torian bit his lip so hard it split.
And in that moment—
The world snapped.
⸻
One of the ogres spun mid-step, still dancing.
He turned, grinning toward his brother—
Then froze.
His mouth hung open.
A sound came from it.
Not a word.
A gurgle.
A spray of red.
His head fell from his shoulders.
The body stayed upright for a second longer.
Then collapsed, shaking the stones.
Torian's eyes widened.
He didn't even have time to scream.
The remaining ogre roared, spinning in place.
"WHAT—!? WHAT DID YOU—?!"
He pointed at Torian, trembling, confused.
"You little—! You summoned—!"
But then he saw it too.
The golden eyes.
Twin orbs of fire watching from the treeline, unmoving. Glowing bright through the dusk. Not a beast. Not a man.
A nightmare.
The ogre stepped back.
"No…"
Then the golden eyes launched.
Skarn burst from the shadows like a weapon thrown by the gods.
He slammed into the ogre's chest with a force that cracked the clearing. Dust exploded from the impact. The ogre screamed, his ribs caving under Skarn's weight.
But Skarn wasn't done.
He grabbed the creature by the throat, talons curling beneath flesh.
And took off.
⸻
Torian watched from the stone slab, still bound, as the two of them lifted into the sky — a monstrous spiral of wings and wind and rage.
Skarn flew high.
Higher.
The ogre flailed in his grip, howling, kicking, clawing at the air.
It didn't matter.
Skarn beat his wings once — twice — rising far above the trees, until they were little more than black cracks in the silver sky.
Then he turned.
Let go.
The ogre plummeted, a scream trailing behind him until he vanished into the distant dark below.
Skarn wheeled midair.
And dove.
⸻
He came down like a falling star.
Not controlled.
Not graceful.
Purposeful.
The crash shook the entire camp.
Stone cracked. Dust exploded. Bones flew.
Torian winced as Skarn landed not ten feet from him — claws out, shoulders high, wings folding back like armor.
For a long moment…
They just stared at each other.
Torian's eyes filled with tears.
He tried to speak.
Failed.
Skarn stepped forward and with one swift motion, sliced the rope around his legs.
Torian collapsed forward.
Shaking.
Crying.
He hit the ground on his knees, head down, breath catching in his throat.
"I thought…" he whispered. "I thought you wouldn't come…"
He sobbed once.
Then twice.
And Skarn, slow and silent, lowered himself onto his back — his massive form curling slightly, wings folding into the earth.
Torian looked up at him.
Moved forward.
And without a word, crawled into the curve of Skarn's side, curled against his ribs like a child seeking shelter from the storm.
They didn't speak.
They didn't move.
Only the stars watched them now.
And the broken wind above.
The world had gone still.
Not quiet — still. The kind of stillness that comes after a storm has torn through and left nothing standing. The air was heavy with dust and the copper scent of blood. Leaves drifted in slow circles down from the shattered trees. The last threads of twilight clung to the far horizon, washed in dull purple and gold.
Torian lay against Skarn's side, chest heaving, his cheek pressed into warm fur that rose and fell with the beast's breath. His arms were weak. His eyes burned from crying. But the tears had stopped now. What was left wasn't fear. Or grief.
It was something deeper.
A boy broken by fire, hunted by monsters, carried by wings he didn't deserve.
He hadn't said a word in minutes.
He didn't need to.
Skarn hadn't moved either.
The beast had simply fallen back after the battle — onto his side, limbs sprawled slightly, wings half-folded into the earth. Not limp. Not drained.
Grounded.
By instinct or intent, he had landed in that exact pose, giving Torian space to collapse into his shadow.
It wasn't just comfort.
It was presence.
A silent promise: I was always coming for you.
And Torian had heard it louder than any roar.
⸻
Above them, the stars emerged fully now — vast and glimmering, sharp as crystal in the mountain sky. No clouds. No threat. Only the cold beauty of the void stretched wide, open, endless.
Torian stared up at it.
He wasn't thinking of the ogres anymore.
Or the glider.
Or even the Spiral glowing faintly in his chest.
He was thinking of how Skarn's warmth felt like home.
Of how the rising and falling of breath beneath him was steadier than the earth.
He shifted slightly, curling closer into the beast's side.
Skarn let out a single breath — low, rumbling — not a growl.
More like a sigh.
And then, slowly, the great beast's head turned.
He glanced toward the boy — not sharply, not as a predator.
But as something older.
A creature that had been alone for longer than most mountains had stood.
And had finally decided…
Not anymore.
Skarn tilted his head slightly and nudged Torian once with the edge of his jaw.
Just enough.
Just gentle.
Torian blinked hard.
Then smiled. Small. Honest.
And whispered, "I'm glad it was you."
⸻
They lay there until the stars wheeled far above them, until the dust faded, until the air grew cold and the broken clearing turned silent again.
Skarn didn't rise.
Torian didn't leave.
Together, they slept under the stars — not as hunter and hunted, not as master and creature.
But as one.
A bond sealed not by flame or blood…
…but by never being alone again.