The dream does not arrive like sleep.
It finds a seam and leans.
No ruins above me. No jungle around me. No ceiling of composite and vine. Only a lattice threaded through soil and metal and bone, everywhere at once. It has no face until it decides to.
A line appears.
Not light. Not sound.
Direction.
Southeast.
The old service tunnel darkens inside that lattice, a vein with something moving through it. Not one weight. Many. Points of contact, faint and sharp, tapping in staggered rhythms. Each tap sends a thin ripple through the root web until the ripples overlap into one busy pulse.
Secondary eyes flare without needing darkness as permission. Heat stains the lattice in smears and knots. Five warm bodies advance, tight-spaced, low. Others linger farther out, fainter, half-obscured by distance and leaf density, but present enough to dirty the pattern.
The lattice tightens around the image.
Warning.
Then something touches me.
Not claw. Not tooth. Not root.
Intent brushes the inside of my skull, light as moisture on membrane, heavy in consequence. A boundary being traced.
Wake.
<> <> <>
I jolt up under the collapsed wall.
Wings tense. Fold tighter. Talons clamp composite and rot. Breath goes shallow for a count, then steadies. Night still holds the clearing, damp and cool. Drips fall from the fused roof and strike metal in soft, patient taps.
Tap. Tap.
Another sound threads through it.
Claws.
Controlled. Measured contact points.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I do not move.
I listen until the clearing turns into a map.
The stream down the southeast service path still sheets over plating, quieter at night but constant. Fungus along the ruin ribs gives a faint glow where it holds moisture. Insects rasp along composite edges. Nothing large shifts above the roofline.
The tapping keeps coming. Closer now. Still measured.
Not one animal.
A group.
My body lowers without decision. Weight settles. Head angles forward. Paired kurus lie along my neck, guarded but awake.
The southeast tunnel mouth stays empty in front of me.
If I meet them there, I give them depth, sight lines, time.
So I slide into a corridor opening on the clearing's west side, one that still holds a few meters before the vine wall closes. Not an exit. Cover.
Wing-talons touch down with minimal noise. Rear feet place carefully, points biting without scraping. The corridor smells of damp metal and fungus. Stale air held tight.
Good.
My scent stays inside.
Outside that stale pocket, another thread rides in on the moving night air.
North.
The stripped edge scent has lingered for days: hairless hide, hot breath, old blood, mineral tang from chitin. A crushed-leaf note that is not plant. Gland and musk.
Too much for one animal.
There was never one.
The northern mark was not a single hunter. It was a corridor held by many feet, many mouths, many nights.
A pack line.
The tapping shifts again, nearer the clearing now. A faint vocalization follows, low and clipped, then gone. Not meant to carry. Meant for nearby ears.
Stillness. Then heat.
I open my secondary eyes.
Heat lays itself across everything in gradients. Ruin ribs hold cold. The stream is a thin ribbon of coolness, moving, stealing warmth. Fungal glow matters less in heat.
And then the bodies resolve.
Five heat signatures slide along the southeast tunnel line like low flames under water. Six-limbed. Close to the ground. Heads kept down. Spines rigid, broken by small corrections.
Farther out, beyond the tunnel mouth, more heat flickers between trunks. Less defined. Not committing. A wider pack holding distance.
The five pause.
One lifts its head long enough for a sharper profile. Jawline. Neck armor. Then it drops again.
Listening. Tasting air. Hunting.
Two bodies slip into the clearing.
They move like scouts. Spacing deliberate, flanking the stream line. Paws touch metal with careful placement. Claws click softly on composite. The same tapping I heard.
They are smaller than the hexapedes I hunted. Lean. Long-limbed. Low-slung heads. Armor along neck and spine returns a dull sheen. Tails work constantly for balance, correcting with every shift.
Size does not comfort me.
Numbers change the math.
Five in the mouth. More outside. Even if each one is weaker, coordination turns weakness into leverage.
They do not know what I am yet. They know something lives here. Something fed here. Something claimed.
So they test.
One drifts toward the broken shell rise, head tilting, scenting. Another drifts toward the collapsed wall where I rest at night, stopping short of the shadow line.
Kurus flex in restrained arcs, reading vibration through corridor wall and root lattice. Each footfall sends a fine signal. Light, not fragile. Complex. Micro-adjustments stacked on purpose.
Intelligent.
That matters.
A third enters. Then a fourth. Then the fifth. They spread into a loose crescent, each keeping sight of another. Not a rush.
A net.
They have not found me because I have not given them scent. Stale air holds my smell inside the corridor. Vine wall seals the back.
But the ruins do not belong to me in their mind.
Not yet.
One lifts its head higher, reading the roofline. Heat sharpens in my secondary eyes. Distensible jaw. Interior warmth of a mouth parting slightly. Two bright points of eye-heat fixed toward the collapsed wall's shadow.
It takes one more step.
My body does not panic.
It prices cost.
If I let them probe, they map. They return. They learn exits and funnels.
If I strike now, I choose distance and geometry.
If I wait, they choose.
Position first.
I slide along the corridor's inner edge and press to the composite where it holds cool. It steals some heat from my underside and softens my outline at the contact points. Not invisibility. Less contrast.
My point is set.
Surge from this corridor mouth. Hit the nearest scout on the flank. Break the crescent before it closes.
Wait.
The closest one drifts nearer, nose down, tasting the ground where water sheets thinly over plating. It is not looking for me. It is reading evidence: blood, waste, bone.
Its head turns slightly away from the corridor mouth.
That is the window.
I explode out of shadow.
Wing-talons strike first, sharp and controlled. Rear legs drive. Wings stay folded tight to deny grab points. Finned edges compress against my sides. Stabs tuck beneath, ready to brace.
The viperwolf snaps toward me, jaw opening. It tries to pivot, but its foot placement is too close to the streamline. Metal is slick with moisture. Claws click as they search for purchase.
No time given.
I hit it with my body, not my mouth.
Shoulder into ribcage.
Thud.
Impact drives it sideways into the shallow water sheet. Six limbs scramble, coordinated, fast. It almost finds traction.
Almost is not enough.
My head drops. Jaws clamp around the back of its neck, just behind the armored ridge. Crest scrapes plating. Teeth find the gap where armor meets flesh.
It convulses.
Forelimbs hook at my wing joints. Claws rake for grip. It tries to climb me the way it would climb larger prey. It knows where leverage lives.
Pain is sharp, shallow, hot.
I ignore it.
I bite down.
The neck does not sever cleanly at first. Armor resists. Bone holds. It twists, distensible jaw snapping at my throat, trying to punish my bite with its own. Spittle and breath spill hot across my face. Teeth scrape my crest like stone on metal.
Paired kurus draw tight to my neck in reflex. No entanglement.
I shift.
Wing-talons dig into composite for leverage. I pull down and to the side, using the floor as counterforce.
Crk.
Ligament gives. Vertebrae misalign. Wet resistance fails.
It goes slack in my jaws for a half second, then kicks again in reflex, but the coordination is gone. Warmth spills into my mouth.
Blood.
Behind me, the pack reacts as one.
No long howl. Short clipped vocalizations that do not travel far. Heads snap in specific directions. Bodies tighten and shift.
The crescent collapses into motion.
Two peel toward my flank. One darts toward my rear legs. Another swings wide, aiming for the wedge above my forward eyes where head angle limits sight.
Secondary eyes see heat regardless of shadow.
I release the first body.
It drops to wet composite with a heavy slap. Legs cycle once, twice, as if they can still run without command. Then they stop.
One down.
Movement again.
The closest attacker aims for my rear legs. Tendon. Grounding. Its heat signature is a low streak, fast and deliberate.
I pivot.
Stabs extend slightly. Mid-wing talons touch down as stabilizers. Rear leg steps sideways, denying a straight line.
It commits anyway.
It leaps.
It hits my flank. Claws penetrate membrane.
Pain flashes along my wing edge.
It climbs toward the base of my wing where the joint is thick and vulnerable. Membrane stretches under its weight, then tears in narrow lines that sting like fire.
I drop that wing.
Not spreading. Pressing.
Membrane folds over it like a net. Wing-talons come down, pinning it to composite with brutal precision. Not stabbing deep. Holding hard enough that breath turns into a grunt, then a thin panicked rasp.
It thrashes. Jaw snaps upward, teeth flashing, searching for softer tissue.
I lower my head and bite.
Throat under the jaw, where heat blooms brightest.
Jaws close.
Neck collapses under pressure. Air and blood push out together, wet and contained.
It spasms once, then stills.
Two down.
The net breaks.
The remaining three do not retreat. They widen and tighten at the same time, trying to turn the space into a trap.
One of them climbs.
Forelimbs like hands. Digits splay. A thumb hooks onto ruined rib and vine. It pulls itself up the wall with fluid efficiency, rising above the floor for an angle on my neck and back.
I track it with secondary eyes. Heat brightens against cooler wall. Each grip point flares, dims. Tail flicks for balance.
It understands three dimensions.
On the floor, the other two shift into positions, one in front of me, one behind. No loud speech. Small cues. Micro-movements that carry meaning.
They want me to commit so the other can strike.
I do not.
Low. Compact. Wings folded tight. Stabs extended for stability. Wing-talons ready for pinning.
I move in short bursts. Each step tests slickness and friction.
The one in front lunges first, aiming for my throat.
I meet it with my head.
Crest forward. Not a break. A shove.
Its leap becomes collision.
It tumbles into the shallow water sheet, limbs flailing as it tries to recover. Claws scrape for grip and find none. It slides belly-down. Neck armor knocks against composite with a dull hollow clack.
The rear attacker charges for my back leg.
I pivot and stomp.
Rear foot lands on its forelimb.
Crunch.
Small sound. Final.
It screams, sharp and brief, then rapid cackling pulses as it tries to pull free. Heat spikes around the fracture, then smears as blood begins to seep.
It tries to bite my ankle.
Its jaws snap shut on air.
I lift and drive weight again.
Foot lands across ribcage.
Composite gives no softness.
Ribs compress. Something inside gives with a muted pop. Breath exits in a wet cough that sprays my foot with warmth.
Heat flares, then dims as breath fails.
Three down.
The floor is mine.
The climber drops.
It launches from the wall toward my neck and shoulders, hoping to anchor claws while the remaining floor hunter works my legs.
There is only one floor hunter left now, and it hesitates as the climber commits. Not for long.
Airborne.
Forward eyes catch a dark blur.
Secondary eyes catch the heat mass falling, limbs spread, mouth open. Interior of its jaw is a bright wet crescent. It is not thinking about pain. It is thinking about purchase.
Timing.
I open my wings a fraction.
Not to fly.
To give it the wrong target.
Finned members separate slightly. Stabs angle outward. Mid-wing talons lift.
It hits wing surface instead of my neck.
Claws hook into membrane seams.
Pain snaps across my wing edge, deeper this time. Membrane tears longer. Air touches the raw line beneath. Blood beads, then spreads thin and slick.
I bring the mid-wing talon down like a hammer.
Thok.
Armor strikes armor. Impact jars it loose.
It slips. Claws click, tear tiny lines.
I fold my wing tighter around it, trapping it against my side. Pressure forces breath out in short choked bursts. Rib vibration tremors through membrane. Claws dig for anything and find only flesh.
My head drops. Jaws close around the base of its skull.
Armor is thick here, but there is a gap where plating meets bone. Heat points to it.
I bite into that gap.
Resistance lasts a fraction.
Then it yields.
Crk.
Bone and cartilage. Something wet tears as the head shifts wrong. Warmth floods my mouth. Copper and fat.
The climber goes slack.
Four down.
The remaining floor viperwolf makes a sound that is not panic but alarm, rapid sharp barks and hisses that spill into the roof and bounce back as a strange chorus.
Outside the clearing, more heat shifts.
The perimeter.
They do not rush in. They reassess.
Four lost in moments. They will not donate more bodies without advantage.
The survivor darts in and snaps at my wing edge.
It succeeds.
Teeth rake membrane and tear shallow lines.
Pain is bright and immediate. Blood runs in thin sheets instead of drops, slicking the edge where finned members meet.
It recoils to retreat.
I surge forward.
Wing-talons strike composite. Stabs stabilize the lunge. Rear legs drive.
I do not chase into the jungle.
I cut it off inside the ruin geometry and angle toward the southeast tunnel mouth where it first came from.
It tries to pivot low and fast, but slick composite and the water sheet steal balance for a heartbeat.
That heartbeat is enough.
I strike with head and shoulder together and send it skidding.
It hits the wall line and rebounds.
I clamp my jaws around its hindquarter.
Deep into muscle and tendon.
It shrieks and kicks, claws scraping metal. Jaw twists toward my face, crest, anything it can reach.
I hold.
Teeth sink until they find corded resistance anchoring the joint. Tendon stretches, tries to survive, then separates into strands. Warm blood pulses into my mouth.
I shake once.
Controlled.
Tissue tears.
Its heat flares along the wounded limb. The leg jerks, then fails. Foot drags, useless, smearing a line across composite.
Blood spatters the floor.
The smell hits the air like a flag.
It rips free.
It staggers.
Broken gait. Obvious trail.
It throws rapid signals toward the tunnel mouth, but the heat outside shifts away rather than in. The perimeter is pulling back.
They pull back.
The wounded viperwolf limps toward the southeast, then changes direction abruptly, hugging the facility's outer ribs instead, east along the perimeter, keeping to shadow.
Trying to reach the north.
The rest withdraws into jungle. Heat signatures fade between trunks. No defeat cry. They vanish.
Silence returns in pieces.
Drip. Stream. Insect rasp.
My breath is loud in my ears for a moment.
Then it steadies.
I stay in the clearing.
I do not step into open jungle. Night hides angles and pits. Night hides more bodies that could still be close.
I secure what is mine first.
Slow arcs. Secondary eyes sweeping.
Four heat sources lie still on composite. Cooling starts at limbs and creeps inward. Wet floor steals heat fast. Blood gathers in shallow pools and spreads along low points in plating.
Corridor mouths. Clear.
Roofline where the climber rose. Nothing clings above.
Southeast tunnel mouth. Only cool air and faint exterior heat beyond the trees.
Clear.
Then I lower my head and lick my wounds.
Membrane tears along my wing edges sting when my tongue touches them. Sharp, not deep. Blood present, not pouring. Long shallow tracks.
They aimed for wings.
They tried to ground me.
And they managed to cut.
I do not linger.
The nearest body becomes meat.
Chitin cracks under my teeth with a brittle snap. Under it, muscle is dense and hot, iron and tension. Skin parts in strips. Tissue strings briefly, then tears. Blood spills onto my tongue and down my throat.
Heat answers inside me immediately.
Not the thin fast burn of Teylu. Not the slow anchoring warmth of hexapede.
A surge.
Repair fuel.
I tear sections free and swallow, working through neck, shoulder, rib. Long bones crack. Marrow spills, sweet under mineral. Cartilage gives with a wet snap that echoes under the roof.
Second body.
Third.
Tearing and crunching stay contained under the roof. Sound does not carry far.
Good.
As I consume, my core grows hotter. Digestion tightens into a stronger rhythm and pushes heat outward into limb and wing base.
The cuts along my membranes throb less.
Repair begins.
I finish the fourth body.
Bones gone. Armor ridges gone. Only smeared blood on composite and the cooling outlines where bodies lay. Bits of chitin crunch between my teeth, then soften as heat works through them.
I lift my head and breathe.
Air tastes of predator blood and ownership.
Secondary eyes sweep again.
No return.
Only then do I move.
The wounded viperwolf fled east along the facility's outer wall line. The blood trail still holds warmth where it pooled, and it holds scent everywhere. Smears on composite and leaf. Catches on roots. Irregular strokes fading as they cool.
I follow it along the outside ribs, keeping ruin geometry to my left and the jungle to my right.
The trail is steady for a short run, then intermittent, then heavy again.
It slowed.
It tried to push through.
It failed.
I find it on the east side of the facility, less than a minute from the clearing at my steady pace, half in a shallow depression where a wall section collapses into soil. Body twisted. One hind leg useless. Blood pooled dark in leaf litter. Heat almost gone.
Chest does not rise.
Eyes open, reflecting nothing. Jaw slightly parted, teeth exposed as if it died mid-signal.
Dead.
Head angled north, as if it died facing the direction it meant to reach.
This was not random.
This was overlap, and now it is conflict.
I stand over the body long enough to listen.
No footfalls. No claws. No approaching heat.
They withdrew deep.
I feed again.
The fifth body is cooler, but still rich. Cooling thickened the blood. It clings. Flesh tears in heavier strips. The surface edge has begun to turn, but the core is still food.
I consume it fully, bones and armor and all. Nothing remains but smeared scent and disturbed leaf. I bite through the wounded leg last. Tendon gives with a long resisting pull, then parts.
My core heat rises again.
Sustained burn spreads into wings, into torn membrane edges, into bruises I did not notice during combat.
Function.
The body spikes when it must. If the resource is there, it refuses to remain damaged.
Night stays night.
Deep.
The jungle beyond holds sounds I cannot place, but none approach the facility with weight.
I return to the clearing along the same perimeter line, ribs guiding me back until the roof shadow takes me.
I settle beneath the collapsed wall again.
Metal beneath is cool. It draws heat from my underside, but my core remains hot enough to resist cooling.
Wings fold tight, careful of torn edges. Head tucks lower.
Sleep does not come cleanly.
For the first few breaths, every drip sounds like a claw tap. Every small shift beyond the roof feels like a return. Secondary eyes flare at minor heat changes, then close again when they resolve into nothing.
No dream.
Whatever touched me before does not return, or I do not sink deep enough to meet it.
I rest in shallow layers, half-alert, half-recovering, my body doing its work beneath awareness.
Outside the wall's shadow, the jungle continues to breathe.
Somewhere far beyond the ruins, a call rolls through the canopy and fades.
The world does not stop.
Neither will they.
And the clearing holds, for now.