The caravan moved at first light, pulled forward by habit as much as intent.
Canvases were struck and folded with practiced hands. Fires were broken down into ash and scattered stones. Men spoke little while they worked, saving breath for the climb ahead. Horses stamped and tossed their heads, uneasy in the narrow pass where sound echoed too far and stone watched from every angle.
Jack followed from above.
He had learned the rhythm of them during the night. How long it take for the first guard to rise How Belicho walked around the wagons for inspections before any order was given. How the horses sensed movement before the men did. From the high ground, the caravan looked small and fragile, a few lines of wood and flesh threading itself through a graveyard of stone.
He moved parallel to them along the ridges, keeping just far enough back that his heat bled harmlessly into rock and sand. When the path narrowed, he climbed higher. When it widened, he descended and buried himself until the wagons passed. His body adapted with unsettling ease. Balance came naturally. Weight shifted where it should. The pain in his claw from the night before had already dulled to a memory.
By the time the sun reached its height, the heat had turned punishing.
Stone reflected light upward and trapped it. The air shimmered. Horses slowed despite coaxing, heads low, sides dark with sweat. Belicho called the halt when it became clear that pushing farther would cost more than it gained.
They found shelter beneath a broken ridge where the mountain split and folded in on itself. A shallow cave yawned at its base, dark and smoke-stained, its ceiling low but broad enough to shelter men and animals alike. Wagons were drawn close. Horses were led inside where there was room. Guards took positions at the mouth and along the slopes, spears angled outward.
Jack watched them settle and chose his approach.
He did not come from below.
He circled wide and climbed the ridge itself, moving along fractured stone and narrow ledges that would have stopped any man. His claws found purchase in cracks barely wider than fingers. He hauled himself upward with quiet efficiency, keeping his body tight to the rock.
Near the top, he found what he had been looking for.
A fissure split the stone just above the cave roof, narrow and shadowed, its edges worn smooth by centuries of wind and water. Jack angled himself and slipped into it, plates scraping stone with a muted rasp that vanished beneath the sigh of the wind.
Inside, the air was cooler.
He crawled along the crack until it widened into a hollow above the cave ceiling. Smoke stains darkened the stone below him. Old soot and grease marked where countless fires had burned. The smell of men lingered faintly, layered over dust and old ash.
Jack wedged himself into the hollow and hung there.
His claws locked into stone. Plates pressed flat against the ceiling. His weight distributed itself until strain became background noise. Below him, the caravan breathed.
He listened.
Men spoke in low voices, complaining about heat and distance and stone. Someone laughed once, sharp and tired. Belicho's voice carried clearly, calm and measured as he gave instructions and reassurances in equal measure. Horses shifted and snorted. Leather creaked. A waterskin sloshed.
Jack did not move.
Time stretched. Hunger stirred but did not command. He had learned that it could be endured, even negotiated with, if he did not let it set the terms.
Eventually, the rest ended.
Belicho called the order. Men groaned and stood. Horses were led back into the light. Wagons were hauled forward one by one, wheels scraping stone. Guards shifted positions, eyes sweeping the slopes.
Belicho himself was the last to leave the cave. He paused at the mouth and scanned the ridges above, gaze sharp and thoughtful. It passed over the stone where Jack hung without slowing.
Then he turned and followed his caravan.
Jack remained where he was.
He counted breaths that were not his. He waited until the sound of hooves faded into the pass and the dust settled. He waited longer still, until certainty replaced caution.
Silence returned to the cave.
Wind whispered through stone. Dust drifted in slow, lazy patterns. The cave held only the echo of what had passed through it.
Jack loosened his grip by degrees, easing the strain from his limbs. He had not dropped yet. He waited.
Minutes passed.
A sound came from outside, light and tentative.
A mountain goat stepped into the cave, hooves clicking softly against stone. It paused near the entrance, ears flicking as it tested the air. Finding only old smells and shade, it moved farther inside and settled near the back wall where the stone was cool.
The goat folded its legs beneath it and exhaled.
Jack released his hold.
He fell straight down.
There was no roar, no warning. His weight drove the goat into the stone floor as his claws tore into hide and muscle. The bone cracked under the impact. The goat bleated once, a thin, startled sound that cut off almost immediately.
Jack fed.
He kept his movements controlled, tearing and swallowing with grim efficiency. Blood slicked the stone. Heat spread through him as flesh became fuel. The hunger eased into a steady pressure, manageable and quiet.
He forced himself to slow, to catalog sensation instead of drowning in it. Taste. Texture. The way his body accepted the meal and locked it away for later.
When he finished, little remained that would draw attention.
Jack scraped his maw against the cave wall, wiping blood away on stone already stained by centuries of use. He climbed back toward the ceiling, claws finding familiar holds, and slipped out through the upper fissure into blinding light.
The caravan was already moving again.
From the ridge above, Jack picked them out easily. A line of wagons and riders threading its way through stone, dust trailing behind them like a banner. He settled into motion and followed.
The rest of the day passed in careful pursuit.
Jack tested distance again and again, closing in until he could hear voices, then pulling back until only movement remained. He learned how the caravan reacted to narrow ground, to sudden drops, to blind turns. He learned which guards paid attention and which relied on routine.
Once, he came too close.
A guard's horse shied as Jack shifted position, hoof striking the sand hard enough to jar him. Pain flared as iron glanced off the buried plate and claw. The horse screamed and reared, nearly throwing its handler.
Jack locked himself in place.
He did not move. He did not breathe. He let pain reside without giving it any reaction.
Belicho crouched to inspect the ground, fingers brushing sand aside. His hand hovered a breath above the edge of Jack's claw before he straightened.
"Just a pointy rock," he said. "Control the horse."
The moment passed.
Jack withdrew only after the wagons moved on, sand collapsing back into place as if nothing had ever been there.
As the sun sank and shadows lengthened, the Bone Mountains changed character. Stone cooled. Wind sharpened. Sound carried farther. The caravan made camp again, smaller fires this time, tighter formation.
Jack took a position above them and watched.
He had followed men for a full day without being seen. He had fed without drawing attention. He learned how to stay silent even with the pain of a two-hundred-kilogram horse stamping on your hand.
One more day to Yi Ti.
Enough time to decide whether he would remain a rumor trailing a caravan through dead stone, or whether the world ahead would learn that something old and hungry had begun to walk alongside its roads.