Crispin woke before the forest did.
Awareness returned slowly, not as panic or shock, but as a layered sensation—warmth beneath his chest, cool air brushing his nostrils, the steady rise and fall of breath that felt heavier than it had yesterday. His eyes opened to darkness threaded with thin seams of morning light filtering through leaves and roots.
For a long moment, he did not move.
He breathed.
The ache in his chest announced itself when he drew in too deeply. Not sharp pain—nothing broken—but a tightness that reminded him something had torn and was knitting back together. He tested it carefully, expanding his lungs until warmth filled him, then exhaling slowly. The ache held, manageable.
He could move.
His tongue flicked out, tasting the air. No fresh blood. No new intrusions. He recognized the layered but familiar scents—damp soil, old wood, moss, and water drifting up from the pond below. Insects stirred faintly. A bird called once, sharp and distant.
The night had passed without incident.
That, more than comfort, unsettled him.
Crispin pushed himself up and crawled from beneath the hollowed tree. Morning light spilled across the clearing, pale gold and cool, catching dew on leaves and turning the pond's surface into rippled bronze. Steam rose faintly where warm water met cold air.
He turned and looked back at his shelter.
The burrow was intact. Undisturbed. The opening narrow, the roof low, the walls still holding the faint warmth of his body.
Too low.
The realization did not come with emotion. No disappointment or frustration, just clarity.
He shifted inside the space once more, lifting his head until the spines along his neck brushed the ceiling. Too close. If he grew—even a little—this place would force him to crouch. Worse, if something larger followed his scent here, the burrow would not slow it.
It would trap him.
His tail twitched once, a sharp, involuntary motion.
The pressure came then, brushing the edges of his awareness like a tide he hadn't noticed rising. It carried no words, no voice—just alignment. He already knew a sense of this.
A pane flickered into existence.
[DAILY SURVIVAL PROTOCOL ACKNOWLEDGED]
Endure. Adapt. Claim.
EXP Gained: +5
Total EXP: 20 / 100
The pane faded, but the direction remained.
Crispin lifted his head.
The pull was unmistakable now. Not toward water, but toward cover.
Up.
He did not question it.
The ground sloped beyond the pond, rising into broken stone and exposed roots. The mountain's lower face jutted outward in jagged ridges, its surface cracked and folded from ages of pressure. Narrow seams ran through the rock, dark wedges where stone had split and weathered.
Higher ground meant sightlines. Control. Shelter that did not rot.
Crispin moved toward it, staying low as the incline steepened. His claws bit into soil and stone alike, muscles working in steady rhythm. When the dirt thinned to bare rock, he slowed, testing each hold before shifting his weight.
The climb demanded focus.
His forelimbs burned first, muscles straining as he hauled himself upward. When the stone smoothed, his hind claws scrabbled uselessly for a moment before he adjusted. He spread his wings slightly, feeling the hooked spurs at their tips scrape against the rock.
They caught.
The barbs anchored him just long enough to pull his hind legs up and find a new hold. Stone dust filled his mouth. He swallowed and climbed again.
Once, his foot slipped. His body lurched, chest pulling painfully as he twisted to catch himself. Instinct flared—wings snapping open just enough for the barbs to dig in again. He froze, pressed flat against the stone, heart hammering.
He breathed. Adjusted, then continued. By the time he reached the ridge, his sides heaved with exertion.
The scent reached him before the opening did.
Warm air drifted outward from a narrow slit in the rock just ahead, carrying a smell that was not forest or water. Damp stone. Something living. Something that had been there a long time.
Crispin flattened instinctively.
The cave breathed. Even. Regulated.
He edged closer, claws scraping softly against the rock. The opening widened just enough to admit his head, then his shoulders. Inside, the darkness deepened quickly, swallowing light.
Something moved.
A low rumble vibrated through the stone beneath his feet.
The creature hauled itself into the light on thick, muscular limbs. Its body was long and heavy, hide mottled with dark greens and slate gray, scales slick with moisture. Its head lifted slowly, eyes small and bright, jaws opening to reveal blunt, crushing teeth made for bone and shell.
A cave salamander.
Larger than him. Heavier. Built for stone and depth. They stared at each other across a few feet of rock. The salamander hissed, throat pulsing, and lunged.
Crispin twisted aside just in time. The jaws snapped shut where his chest had been, the impact clipping him hard enough to scrape scales and send pain flashing sharp across his breast. He hissed—raw and instinctive—and lashed out with his claws.
The salamander slammed into him again, driving him backward. Stone crumbled beneath their combined weight as they skidded toward the cliff's edge.
Air yawned behind him. No room to retreat. No space to outlast.
Crispin lowered his head and rammed forward with everything he had.
Shoulder met muscle. Momentum carried them both sideways. The salamander's claws scrabbled for purchase, finding none. For a heartbeat, gravity pulled at both of them, locking them together, but the salamander went over.
It vanished with a wet, thrashing sound, followed by a dull, final impact far below.
Crispin staggered back, claws scraping stone. His chest burned. Blood was warm against his scales. He stood there for several breaths, sides heaving, listening.
Nothing climbed back up.
Silence reclaimed the ridge.
[THREAT NEUTRALIZED]
Territory conflict resolved.
EXP Gained: +10
Total EXP: 30 / 100
Crispin did not linger on the numbers.
He turned and slipped into the cave.
Inside, the space opened wider than he'd expected. He could lift his head fully, as the ceiling rose high. The walls curved inward before widening again, swallowing sound. The stone held warmth evenly, insulated from wind and rain.
He stepped in, out, then in again.
Inside, his breath fogged less. Outside, the air bit colder.
Good stone.
Slowly, he moved through the cave, memorizing every surface. He raked his claws along the walls, carving deep grooves into the rock. He dragged his chest and flanks across the stone, leaving scent and heat behind. His breath washed over the space in slow, steady exhales.
Mine.
Satisfied, he climbed back down partway, retrieving his kill from where it lay among broken rock and brush. The salamander was heavy, but manageable. He dragged it back to the cave entrance, muscles protesting, chest wound aching with each pull.
Inside, he fed.
The flesh was dense and mineral-rich, settling deep into his body as warmth spread outward from his core. Strength followed. Not explosive. Grounded.
When he finished, Crispin curled within his new lair, the mountain wrapped around him like a shield.
Below, the pond reflected the sky.
Above, stone held his heat, and for the first time since waking in this body—he was not merely surviving.
He had claimed something that would endure.