Crispin slept curled deep within the stone.
Not the heavy, surrendering sleep of safety, but the shallow rest of something that had learned the world interrupted without warning. His breath stayed slow and measured, chest rising just enough to warm the rock beneath him. The cave held that warmth carefully, neither stealing it nor letting it bleed away.
Stone remembered the heat.
That knowledge lingered beneath thought, wordless but present, as he drifted in and out of half-dreams. Flickers of memory surfaced without order—the cliff edge, the weight of the salamander as it went over, the way the impact had shuddered up through his chest and into his bones. The ache answered each memory faintly, a tight band beneath his scales reminding him that healing was still happening, that survival was ongoing rather than complete.
He shifted once, claws scraping softly as he resettled.
The sound traveled farther than it should have.
Crispin's eyes opened.
He did not move.
He listened.
The cave breathed around him, stone expanding and contracting almost imperceptibly as warm air pooled and cooled. Somewhere beyond the ridge, the forest stirred, but distantly—filtered through elevation and rock. Wind did not reach this place easily. Moisture gathered and fell in slow, patient drips far from where he lay.
He counted it not in moments, but in breaths. In the way, his chest tightened and loosened. As night crept deeper and the mountain cooled, he noticed the subtle change in temperature. The cave answered each change without complaint, holding him steady.
Something disturbed the air.
Not a sound or scent.
Pressure.
It rolled inward from the entrance like a held breath finally released, stirring the fine grit along the floor. Crispin felt it through his belly before anything else reached him. His body tensed without conscious command, muscles drawing tight as awareness sharpened to a narrow point.
Breath.
Stone.
Outside.
The smell followed—dry, musky, unfamiliar. Not blood. Not hunger. It carried intent rather than appetite.
A new cave dweller.
It lingered just beyond the light spilling in from the ridge, blocking it without entering. Crispin could hear it breathing—slow, controlled. Patient.
Testing.
He remained still, resisting the urge to rise. Movement here would echo. He'd announced more than he meant to reveal. Instead, he shifted only enough to place his body between the entrance and the deeper curve of the cave.
The stone narrowed near the mouth, a shallow choke where sound behaved strangely. He felt that now, the way his breathing pressed back against him instead of spilling outward. The cave taught even when nothing happened.
The intruder scraped once at the rock.
A deliberate sound. Not probing. Claiming.
Crispin hissed.
The sound came out sharp and instinctive, chest vibrating as it left him. It struck the stone near the entrance and died almost immediately, swallowed by the narrow space.
Small.
He didn't think, but felt the realization. The sound had not carried. Had not pressed outward. His body felt exposed in its wake, heat bleeding uselessly into the air.
Outside, the breathing did not change.
The intruder remained.
Crispin shifted backward, deeper into the cave's curve. His claws found familiar grooves he had carved earlier, body fitting into the space more naturally now. The stone widened where the ceiling lifted, forming a shallow bowl that cradled sound rather than choking it.
He inhaled again. Slower. Deeper.
The ache in his chest flared, sharp enough to warn him, but he held the breath anyway. His sides expanded fully, ribs pressing outward until the stone answered with pressure of its own.
He hissed a second time.
The cave answered him.
The sound struck the curved walls and did not fade. It bent, folded, returned, layered and weighted. It came back to him thicker than it had left, carrying a presence his throat alone had not given. The vibration ran through his jaw and down his spine. Dust sifted from above in a soft cascade.
Outside, the intruder paused.
Crispin felt it—attention tightening, posture shifting. It was not a retreat. Recalculation.
He exhaled, throat scraping, and adjusted again, moving one step farther back where the stone narrowed and curved inward once more. His claws scraped as he turned his head, jaw brushing the wall.
Something snapped.
A sharp crack split the quiet, followed by a brief, violent flash.
Sparks burst where his teeth struck the rock—tiny pinpricks of light that skittered across the cave wall before dying. The taste in his mouth turned metallic and bitter. Heat flared along his tongue and throat, sudden and raw.
Crispin recoiled instinctively, hissing again, this time more in pain than threat. The sound exploded outward, layered with the echo of the spark's crack, the cave amplifying both into something wrong.
Outside, the intruder froze.
The breathing stopped.
Crispin held still, chest heaving now, breath rasping as the burn in his throat pulsed. The cave slowly unraveled the echoes, sound collapsing back into silence one strand at a time.
No charge came.
Instead, the presence withdrew—not fleeing, not panicked. Just a careful retreat. Scent pulled back from the stone, pressure easing as the opening cleared. Whatever lingered beyond the ridge chose distance over challenge.
The mountain exhaled.
Crispin remained where he was long after the air settled. His sides rose and fell, each breath scraping slightly as the sting faded to a dull warmth. He waited, counting breaths again, listening for a return that did not come.
Only then did he move.
He lowered his head cautiously, touching his tongue to the stone where the spark had come from.
Rough.
A narrow vein of pale, brittle mineral ran through the wall there, fractured where his jaw had struck it. The surface glittered faintly even in the dim light.
He licked it.
The taste was sharp and dry, unpleasant enough to make his jaw tense. Beneath that, something answered—a faint warmth stirring deeper in his chest, familiar now that he paid attention to it. Not heat. Potential.
Crispin pulled back, unsettled.
He tested the stone again, gently this time, pressing a claw against the vein. It crumbled with a dry snap, shards breaking free instead of smearing. He nudged one fragment with the edge of his tongue, then bit down lightly.
Pain flared sharp and quick.
He released it at once, hissing softly, jaw aching, but the warmth lingered longer this time, spreading lower into his chest before fading.
Useful.
He did not chew it again. Instead, he moved toward the entrance, careful now, and hissed once more from that position. The sound flattened, escaping without weight. He stepped back deeper and hissed again.
The difference was immediate.
The cave caught the sound, bent it, returned it layered and heavy. Crispin felt it press outward beyond the entrance, felt the stone lend him a size he did not possess.
Understanding settled—not as words, but as alignment.
Depth, shape, position mattered.
Home was not just shelter.
It was leverage.
He scraped his claws higher along the stone near the entrance, marking where the intruder would see first. He dragged loose rock and broken fragments closer, narrowing the approach just enough to force anything entering to hesitate.
Not fortification.
Maintenance.
When he finally curled again in the deeper hollow, his body unwound slowly, tension bleeding out in careful increments. Outside, the ridge remained quiet. No other presence tested the stone before dawn.
Sleep returned, lighter but steadier.
The cave held his heat, and the walls felt tuned now, as if they remembered the sound of him. When his breathing slowed, the stone did not steal it away.
Home had not made him safe, but it had taught him how to sound like something worth avoiding.
The echo remained deep within the mountain's core.