By the seventh day, the pieces were ready.
The traps were set. The maps had been memorized and rechecked. The Silver Bridger had been tuned to emit the faint, targeted pulse they needed.
They gathered at the edge of the valley as the sun slid down and shadows grew long.
One last time, they went over every step: where Lena and Ilyas would be during the first pass, when Toma would move to strike, where Yara would throw smoke, when Noctis would commit himself fully.
Faces were drawn but determined.
Noctis looked out over the wild landscape—the jagged ridges, the misted trees, the empty, heavy sky.
He knew this hunt would decide more than whether they lived to see another dawn. It would decide if these strangers could become something close to allies—and whether he could still choose to fight beside others without losing the edge that had kept him alive alone.
The plan would begin at first light.
For now, they returned to a brief, restless camp, where silence and hope fluttered like twin ghosts in the low flames.
Morning came with a strange stillness.
The forest felt as if it were holding its breath, waiting.
Mist lay low over the ground, dampening sound and coating leaves with beads of water. The sky above was streaked with yellow and pale blue, the colors soft but growing brighter with every minute.
The group moved quickly, each to their assigned place.
Lena and Ilyas climbed the ridge path, hands finding holds without needing to look, bodies already familiar with the route. At the top, they crouched behind stone and scrub, scanning the sky. Below, the "camp" they had built looked convincing from above: scattered gear, fire pits, arranged armor.
The air around it shimmered with monster hide and dust placed to distort scent and light.
Toma knelt near the main ambush site. He ran his hands over the false earth one last time, checking that the pits were properly hidden, that the tripwires were tight but not visible. He tested the weight of his spear, feeling its balance.
At the northern edge, Yara positioned the decoys herself.
She adjusted a helmet here, a torn cloak there, until everything matched what a flying hunter might expect from vulnerable prey. Around the decoys, shards from the obsidian oracles smoldered faintly, releasing trickles of dark smoke that curled in unusual patterns.
Lena and a small support crew seeded the eastern undergrowth with caltrops and smoke bombs, marking their own paths in subtle ways so they would not stumble into their own traps later.
Noctis, a little apart, activated the Silver Bridger.
He did not turn it to full power. Instead he coaxed from it a pulsing, half-hidden signal—just strong enough to rise above the ambient noise of the valley and brush against the wyvern's senses.
Then the group fell into position.
Toma near the central pit. Yara at a flank, ready to intercept or redirect. Ilyas hidden behind a patch of rock and roots, crossbow ready, venom-tipped bolts within reach. Lena with a clear shot at both head and wings from above.
The world seemed to wait with them.
When the wyvern came, it did not scream immediately.
It appeared first as a distant speck against the brightening sky, then as a shape, then as a vast body slicing through clouds. Its wings spread wider than some clearings. Each beat of those wings sent visible ripples through the forest canopy below.
The air pressure changed as it approached, pushing against skin and lungs.
Leaves shook. Trees swayed. Smaller creatures fled for burrows and dens.
It flew in a wide arc around the valley, taking its time. Its eyes—pale and hard, like polished stone—moved constantly, taking in every detail. It saw the fake camp, the glint of armor, the faint pulse from the Bridger.
It roared then, a sound that made the air itself shudder.
The cry sent birds exploding from the trees. It was part challenge, part claim.
The beast spiraled down.
As planned, the smoke from the obsidian shards rose to meet it, rolling and twisting in unnatural ways. The wind around the wyvern buckled. Its control of the air stuttered for a moment, forcing it to adjust its descent.
It came in lower, slower, closer to the ground.
Claws hit earth with a crack that sent vibrations through Noctis's boots.
It snapped at the decoys, tearing through armor stuffed with nothing. Wheels of old metal and bone fell apart under its bite. As it lunged again, the ground beneath its foreleg gave way.
One of the disguised pits opened.
The wyvern's foreleg dropped, spikes driving into the tough hide. It shrieked, jerking upward, wingbeats hurling dirt and leaves into the air.
That was the signal.
The group moved.
Toma charged, spear aimed first at the visible wing joint before twisting at the last second toward the tail, drawing the beast's attention. Lena's first arrow bounced off thick bone; her second slipped into the softer underwing, earning another scream.
Ilyas fired two bolts in quick succession, both aimed at the dull patch atop the skull. One skittered off, leaving a shallow mark. The second struck true, sinking in halfway. Venom hissed as it mixed with shimmering blood.
Yara threw smoke bombs at the wyvern's face and neck.
Clouds burst into existence, swirling, thick and stinging. The beast tried to shape the wind to clear them, but the mineral dust and obsidian shards bent its efforts away from its own body. Its usual mastery of air betrayed it here, generating chaotic gusts that forced it closer to the ground and deeper into the pits and wires.
The field erupted into movement and noise.
The wyvern thrashed, tail whipping arcs through the air. One swipe uprooted a small tree. Another barely missed Ilyas as he dove aside. Its claws tore lines in the earth, struggling against the spikes lodged in its foreleg.
Smoke, dust, blood, and light mingled into a storm.
In the middle of all this, Noctis circled.
He moved along the edge of the chaos, every step measured. The world seemed to slow from his perspective: the wing beats, the flick of the tail, the shifting of the wyvern's weight, the panicked but disciplined motions of his new companions.
He marked the blood pooling beneath the reversal scale. He saw where the tail joint exposed itself on each wild lash. He felt the pulse of the Unknown Core inside him, waiting, ready to be shaped.
The wyvern was hurt, trapped, and furious—but far from beaten.
One wrong move now would mean death for all of them.
Noctis flexed his hands once, eyes narrowing, and stepped into the final phase of the hunt, where planning ended and everything depended on how well they trusted each other in the heart of the storm.
The group stood their ground.
They were bruised, bleeding, and bone-tired, but no one ran. Their boots slid on torn moss and broken roots, their chests heaved with effort, and their eyes flicked between Noctis and the monstrous shape in front of them. Hope and terror warred on every face.
The wyvern was a storm given flesh.
Wings like tattered stormclouds beat the air, stirring spirals of wind. Its scales shone with a dull, deadly sheen; its tail cut the air like a living whip. Each breath rumbled in its chest like distant thunder, and its eyes—cold, burning jewels—burned with hate.
Noctis felt the weight of the moment clamp around his ribs.
Every muscle in his body was coiled, every sense tuned to the smallest movement: the twitch of a claw, the angle of a wing, the shift of Yara's stance, the catch in Lena's breath. His heart raced, not from fear alone, but from the dangerous exhilaration of knowing everything might hinge on his next decision.
For an instant, everything seemed to hold its breath.
The world narrowed to a line between him and the wyvern—a knife-edge between execution of the plan and total disaster. Traps, timing, wounds they'd already inflicted, the positions of his allies—everything hung in a delicate balance.
Then the moment shattered.
Noctis moved.