Chapter 6 — Traps and Tricks Part II
Arsanguir ran.
No climbing. No plan. Just raw panic. Branches tore at his arms, roots caught his boots, but he didn't stop. The fox didn't chase hard—it loped after him, almost leisurely. Its mouth split into a grin, teeth curved like scimitars.
Arsanguir's spirit nearly broke. That smile.
Then the roar.
It tore through the forest to his left, so loud it shook the ground. His body moved before his mind. He turned and sprinted toward it, hope crashing through his fear. Whatever waited ahead—better that than the fox.
The Behel followed, still grinning. Oblivious.
The trees opened.
There, sprawled like a hill of living metal, was a dragon. Bronze scales caught every shard of light, gleaming too bright to ignore. Its body stretched colossal between the trunks, still as stone—yet alive.
The dragon lifted its head.
Arsanguir turned at the sound behind him. The fox was mid-leap—only to be impaled clean through by a tail tipped like a spear. The Behel twitched, choked, then hung limp.
The dragon flicked its tail. The corpse fell.
And then the giant shrank. The vast body folded down, coiling into something smaller, no bigger than ten meters—like a child of its kind, but still terrible to behold.
It padded toward him, slow, deliberate.
Arsanguir stood frozen as it circled.
Bronze scales glimmered in the green light of the forest. Each one the size of his palm. Muscles flexed beneath, forelimbs thick and tipped with talons that dragged lines into the dirt. Its tail curled and swept like a serpent, leaving gouges where it passed.
The head was slender, crowned with antlers of bone and horn. Its eyes burned yellow, slit by green pupils that pulsed like fire. Every step radiated power, and with it Kucholel seeped into the air, thick as smoke.
It stopped before him.
Their eyes met. Warmth hit him like a wave. Kinship. He felt drawn closer, without hesitation, without question.
The dragon turned and walked. He followed.
It led him to a river. Water rushed over stones, clear and cold. The beast unfurled its wings, vast membranes glittering like hammered bronze. Arsanguir's breath caught; he couldn't look away.
Then his eyes drifted lower.
The wound.
A gash ripped open the dragon's side, cleaving through scale and flesh. Plates hung broken, armour shattered. Beneath, raw muscle glistened, blood dried in ugly clots. Veins bulged and throbbed with each heaving breath. At the deepest point he glimpsed bone. Every twitch stretched it wider, a canyon of pain carved into living flesh.
A chill ran through him. Not for the dragon's survival—it was clear the beast endured. But for the question that gnawed him: what could do this to a dragon?
The dragon drank, then lowered itself, curling around him. Its coils shielded him like a fortress. Exhaustion took him. He leaned against the warm scales, and sleep claimed him.
Dream. No—nightmare.
It began in yellow sky, thick and sticky, pressing down like oil. The air choked with sulphur, stinking of rot.
The ground came next. Not earth. Flesh. Writhing, undulating, every step a shudder beneath his bare feet. When he stood still, it crawled up his legs, slithering, trying to devour him whole.
A sound—howls.
He turned and saw them: shapes that shouldn't be, half-slithering, half-lumbering. Too many limbs, too many mouths. He couldn't understand their forms, but one truth hit him like a hammer.
They were coming for him.
So he ran.
He darted between fleshy trees, fast, desperate, but the things were faster. The ground seemed to close behind him, pushing him into their circle. A cliff loomed ahead.
No choice.
He jumped.
The fall was wrong. The air clung to him, thick and rancid. The stench coated his tongue. And then—impact. Not water.
Leeches.
A sea of them. Black, writhing, endless. His body sank into their mass, into slime that pulsed with hideous life.
They surged over him instantly. Clung, coiled, slipped beneath his clothes. Rasping mouths scraped his skin, sucking, dragging. The sensation was unbearable—like a thousand slimy hands gripping every inch of him, pulling him apart. They slid into creases, folds, ears, mouth.
He tried to move. Every shift only brought more. They writhed against him, a living tide, and the stench of blood and rot filled his lungs.
He screamed.
Arsanguir jolted awake, voice cracking the night.
The dragon still coiled around him, forest quiet, river murmuring.
But his scream didn't stop.
Because what the dream had shown him—what reality held waiting—felt no less terrible.
And Arsanguir could not tell which was worse.