A straight line of stone leads away from the ridge like a ramp. Below it, the ground breaks into scattered boulders and shed slabs, as if the outcrops have been molting for years.
Not a quarry.
Weights, already placed.
Down from the ridge he drops without committing to flight, heavy into the slope on the lake-facing side. Rear talons take first impact. Half-open wings bleed off the last fraction of speed. Mid-wing talons touch down a heartbeat later and rake grit.
Stillness. A pause long enough to choose.
Not the largest.
A dense rock near the edge of the scatter, irregular, ugly, and ready to punish a lazy grip.
He steps around it and squares himself over it. Mid-wing talons bite into stone grit for balance. Rear feet open wide, talons searching edges that will not roll. His tails lift and settle in small counter-motions, already measuring a swing that has not happened yet. The kuru at the back of his skull tightens, loosens, and tightens again. A coil that matches focus.
Then he lifts.
From dead still.
No run. No hop. A slow pull that breaks the rock free with a scrape and brings it up beneath him. Tendons draw tight into cables. The spine takes the load without complaint. The boulder hangs under his center like an anchor he has chosen.
He holds it.
One beat.
Still.
Control first. No swing. No drift.
Burn starts in the ankles and climbs into the legs. He tightens his grip by millimeters until the rock stops trying to turn. A low sound leaks from his throat. Not a call. Just pressure, vented.
Only then does he move.
Open air can wait. He hops onto the nearest slab first, a flat rock that rises just enough to force honesty. Wings flare wide, main membranes opening and catching. Stabilizer flaps along the edges separate into small segments to stop wobble before it has a name. Secondary wings snap open a fraction later, smaller, stiffer, bracing more than lifting.
The boulder tries to swing the instant his feet leave the ground.
Tails answer.
The motion dies at birth.
Centered.
A short hop to the next rock. Another. Rear talons land, adjust, and bite. Mid-wing talons touch and release as he checks his centerline. The weight pulls and tests and cannot find a sloppy angle.
He repeats the pattern until his legs shake in the right way.
Then the ramp.
His head turns toward the finish line he already chose.
A pale scar in stone where last night he dragged a talon to mark the ridge. Straight up. No pockets. No tricks. Distance and incline.
He flies it low, skimming the slope, so any mistake becomes a set-down, not a fall. Each wingbeat has to be clean. The weight punishes waste. Stabilizer flaps work constantly, opening and closing in narrow sequences to trim pitch. His tails keep the boulder aligned beneath him like a pendulum that never earns permission to swing.
Halfway up, it tries anyway.
A fraction of swing. A pull that tugs his legs out of line.
Angle solves it. Not brute force.
He tightens the wing plane and reduces the spread just enough to keep the load from dragging him into a roll. Rear talons clamp harder. Stone grinds against claw tips.
The swing dies.
The finish mark arrives.
He flares just enough to set down on the ridge lip, heavy and controlled. Rear talons hit stone. Balance first, then the rock lowers. Stone meets stone with a deep, final sound. The ridge does not flex. It accepts the impact as if it was built for this.
He stands over the boulder and listens to his breathing until it slows. Opercula cycle deep and steady. The kuru along his skull slackens, then tightens again as he looks down the slope.
Back down into the scatter field.
He selects a second rock. Slightly smoother. Harder to hold. The lift is the same. The climb is not. The rock tries to roll inside his grip, and if he allows even a heartbeat of delay, it becomes a swing.
He does not allow it.
Immediate correction. A hard, small truth.
By the third run the boulder stops feeling like an enemy and becomes what it is: shaped resistance. The load obeys.
No rest. Not yet.
At the ridge edge he opens his wings.
Not to leave.
To drill.
Off the ridge he drops and turns immediately, tight bank, a test of the repaired membrane without panic corrections. Finned members along the main wing edges separate in controlled sequences, smoothing pressure changes. Stabilizer flaps catch a roll before it becomes a wobble. Secondary wings snap and brace through the turn, holding his mass steady when the main wing plane shifts.
Again.
A steep-angle dive without display. A sudden flare that arrests descent. A snap turn that keeps him above the ground without making contact. Patterns stop feeling like decisions and start feeling like answers.
Responses.
The ones that night tried to take away.
On the fourth repetition he climbs higher, finds a cleaner lane over open stone, and adds a different maneuver.
A sideslip.
Wings angle so he can move laterally without committing forward, body sliding along an invisible rail. Air presses differently when he is not aligned with travel. He holds the pressure without letting it become instability. Tails work in small, constant corrections. The queue tightens in short pulses, tracking motion through neck and skull, then relaxes when the line holds.
Release.
Hold again.
Longer this time, until the wing wants to chatter and does not.
He keeps the line.
Heat settles into his shoulders in a deep, steady way. That is the stop.
Toward the lake.
Downslope from the ridge, the shoreline is quieter now, less tense. The seam is still there, and pockets behind outcrops are still possible, but the sense of another apex arranging that space has faded. Water sits black and steady. Wind crosses it in long, cold lanes that arrive clean.
He drops down the slope, crosses the last strip of scrub in a straight line, and enters the lake without hesitation.
Water takes him, and his mass stops being weight.
Drag.
He engages the water-breathing loop and feels it lock into place as naturally as a wingbeat. Opercula shift into a slower, deeper rhythm. Intake routes are clean. Exhaust vents steadily. Sound turns internal and thick.
He pushes forward at a slow pace. Long strokes. Rear feet drive. Tails act like paired rudders, carving direction without wasted sweep. Both sets of wings fold tight and become control surfaces, angling for trim rather than lift. Mid-wing talons tuck close to the membrane, ready to catch water if a correction needs teeth.
First mark.
A rock outcropping that breaks the surface farther out, a dark tooth against the lake's flatness.
He swims for it.
Minutes pass. His frame works against the water's refusal. Every stroke loads muscle without impact. Every correction forces the spine and shoulder to hold under tension. He keeps pace steady and refuses to sprint.
Speed is not the point.
Building is.
Outcrop. Turn. Back.
When he returns to the shallows, he drags himself onto the bank and stands while water pours off plates and membranes. Breath remains controlled. No gasp. No scramble.
Breath stays his.
One hard shake. Spray arcs off him and patters through shoreline grass.
Inland again toward the ridge, up the same slope.
Routine does not pause because the body wants it.
A thick-barked trunk stands near the outcrops below the ridge line. He stops there.
Rear feet plant. Brace. Jaws close around bark.
Jaw muscles flex. The bite sinks deeper than it should. Bark creaks. Fibers compress. The trunk does not break, but it yields enough to force work instead of a snap-and-finish.
Release. Bite again. Hold longer.
Small sounds come off the wood as it gives, wet and fibrous. The queue tightens into a rigid coil at the base of the skull, then settles as he keeps pressure steady.
When the jaw begins to fatigue, he shifts to a different strain.
A cliff lip near the ridge offers a clean edge where stone gives a true hold. He clamps onto the rock shelf itself, teeth finding purchase in a crack. Full mass hangs.
A dead hang.
His body drops into tension. Membranes pull tight. Tails make tiny counter-movements to stop a swing from starting. Stabilizer flaps open a fraction and close again, making micro-adjustments to damp motion even though he is not flying.
He holds until the burn reaches the back of the throat.
Then holds a fraction longer.
Release. A hard landing on rear talons. Impact absorbed. No stumble.
Up again, this time with mid-wing talons.
He reaches, hooks both into a higher stone seam, and lets his body hang from them instead. Talons bite. Tendons in the wing root and along the mid-wing line take load. Secondary wings brace half-open, not lifting, only stabilizing. Tails settle into stillness.
Different burn.
Joints. Connective tissue. Deep.
He holds until the grip threatens to fail.
Then drops.
One loop.
So he does it again.
Boulder. Ramp. No slack.
Flight drills. One clean bank. One clean arrest. One sideslip held until it stops feeling new.
Water. Out and back until the hour is taken.
Jaw hang. Mid-wing hang.
The second loop is uglier. Fatigue tries to shorten motion. He refuses. Each action stays complete. He makes the body keep its promises even when it wants to cheat.
No shortcut becomes habit.
Only after that does he stop at the ridge crest and look outward over the plains on the far side.
Wind has begun to shift.
Not dangerous yet. Just changing. Thermals will form later over stone and scrub. Lift will become uneven in the lower lanes. Hunting in that will be messier than it needs to be.
He decides to hunt before the ground starts to breathe wrong.
Off the spine of stone he drops and takes altitude in a clean lane running out over grassland. Wingbeats land heavy and deliberate. Stabilizer flaps make constant, small corrections that keep him level without broadcasting effort. Tails answer each bank with a stronger counter-sweep than before.
Below, the grassland stretches in wide sheets broken by low rises and scattered stone. Herd trails cut faint lines through it, darker where repeated hooves pressed soil. He reads those lines first, then reads the wind.
Sturmbeest come by sound before sight.
A low, constant movement of bodies and breath. A faint vibration in the air that matches their mass. He circles once at height and lets secondary eyes separate heat from shadow. Warm bodies cluster. Cooler gaps between them. Smaller signatures nestle near larger frames.
Not scattered.
Working herd. Steady. Unalarmed.
Largest is not the choice.
Clean is.
A mid-sized adult near the outer edge, drifting just far enough away to lose its chance for a quick reaction. Close enough to break away under pressure, far enough that his dive will not collide with another body.
Approach line set.
Upwind.
Sun behind him.
Shallow start, so his shadow does not spill across them too early.
He climbs to buy speed without a steep dive. Control matters more than spectacle. The last second has to be clean.
Then he commits.
Wings tuck. Body narrows. Finned members along the main wings separate by small degrees, shaving noise and stabilizing pressure. He becomes a falling shape.
The world tightens.
Grass texture sharpens. Backs and horns separate. The chosen sturmbeest becomes a single moving point among many. Heads lift. A ripple passes through bodies.
Too late.
Wings open at the last instant.
Not wide. Just enough.
Fall becomes guided strike. Stabilizer flaps catch the first hint of yaw. Tails trim the line. Rear talons extend.
Impact is not delicate.
Precise.
Feet hit shoulder mass. The sturmbeest folds under him. Ground answers with a shudder that runs outward through grass. The herd detonates into motion, hooves tearing earth, dust rising in a low sheet.
He does not chase.
He stays with what he chose.
Weight drops immediately to keep the sturmbeest from regaining footing. Wings stay tight and low, no flared edges to be struck. The animal thrashes and tries to roll and kick. He keeps it pinned without letting the struggle drag him into an awkward angle.
One venom pass.
That is all.
Posture shifts. The motion looks small, almost lazy. It is neither. Deliberate. Practiced. One injection point is driven in, held long enough to deliver, then withdrawn without tearing.
Movement changes within seconds.
Not collapse. A break in coordination. A stutter in power. Legs that keep trying but no longer agree on how.
His jaws take over.
He bites along the neckline, where muscles bunch and vessels run close beneath thick hide. Clamp. Drive. Sustained pressure. No shaking. No waste. A wet sound as hide gives way. The queue tightens hard, then releases as resistance fades.
Kicking slows.
The animal fights for breath and traction for long seconds. He endures each one. No space. No lift.
Then the struggle fractures into smaller movements.
Then nothing.
He stays down for a breath after, not from doubt, but from habit. Predators confirm. He tastes the air. Listens. Scans.
No shadow of a second apex.
No pressure on the corridor.
Plain stays open.
The corridor stays empty.
Only then does he feed.
Hide opens with efficient tearing. Dense muscle first. Then organ. Then bone where mineral is thick. Jaws work with a new certainty, a pressure that feels less like effort and more like a mechanism closing. Cracks come clean. Heat builds behind his ribs as he eats and bleeds out through seams and membranes without distress.
No lingering for pleasure.
Fuel.
When hunger is satisfied, work changes.
The carcass will not be wasted.
Return becomes training.
He braces the remains with one rear foot, talons sinking and holding. Tears away a heavy section of muscle and hide, then another. He gathers what can be carried cleanly. Not in his mouth. Not dragged.
Rear feet hook the load.
Talons clamp through hide. Tendons lock. He lifts once to test the hold. Weight swings a fraction. Tails correct. Stabilizer flaps adjust. The load settles beneath him.
It stays carried.
Low launch. Steady. Open lane for speed without sharp turns. Wingbeats slow and deep. Meat hangs like ballast, shifting his center of mass. Corrections come smaller than they used to, for the same burden.
The ridge rises with patient solidity.
Stone stability.
Approach lanes he measured.
Straight return. A shelf landing without improvisation. Rear talons take the load. Wings stabilize. Finned members trim the last wobble away. Feet lower the meat and release.
Dull thump in shade, where sun will not bake it too fast.
Food is waiting.
He does not lie down.
He does not sleep.
Day is still usable. Routine does not allow comfort to claim first place.
One more loop.
Boulder first.
He chooses a rock that demands respect even in fatigue. Squares over it. Rear talons wide. Mid-wing talons planted for balance. Lifts from stillness. Hopping onto the slab comes heavier now. Wings flare. Stabilizer flaps separate and close in rapid, controlled pulses. Secondary wings brace. Tails work harder to kill swing. The kuru tightens hard enough that neck plates shift under skin.
Ramp taken anyway.
Flight next.
Off the ridge. Tight banks. Arrests. Turns. One sideslip held longer than the body wants. Wobble never gets permission to become a habit.
Water after.
Into the lake. Shorter distance than earlier, same complete strokes. Rear feet drive. Tails steer. Wings fold and angle into quiet planes of resistance. Opercula settle into calm work.
Back on stone, water runs off him in lines and drips from talon tips in steady ticks.
Bite work.
Jaws clamp onto the trunk again. Hold. Release. Bite deeper. Wood creaks. Fibers pull. Jaw burns in a clean, productive way.
Hang work.
Cliff lip. Dead hang by the jaw until the burn sharpens. Drop. Mid-wing talons hook into stone and take his weight until tendons threaten failure. Stabilizer flaps twitch once, then still. Tails stay damp. Any swing is smaller, killed early.
He drops and lands.
Only then does he move to the ridge crest.
Only then does he settle.
Sleep does not arrive immediately. He stands for a moment and lets breathing return to slow. Heat in his body is not panic heat. Engine heat. Sustained. Controlled. Territory lies below, with plain, lake, and stone arranged around him.
No borrowed pressure returns.
No unseen rival shapes corridors.
He lowers himself, folds both sets of wings with care, and lets the body go heavy.
This is the routine.
Not comfort.
Structure.