Aethel Skyweaver's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

By dawn the red drake was back. It circled low over the platform, ribs sharp under bright scales, huge yellow eyes locked on Aethel. Its spiked tail lashed the wind. Hunger made it bolder than before. Aethel counted three passes and knew the dried meat in their pack would not be enough this time. Aethel climbed down to the lower ledge and worked fast. They dragged stone slabs into a wide ring and braced them with the spare rope. They carved a shallow basin into the top slab with their curved knife, the alien hide grip steady in their palm. A feeding station. A place the drake could come to eat without tearing the anchors apart. But an empty basin solved nothing. Aethel needed bait, and bait that would last. They opened a leather pouch they had carried from the city, packed with strips of dried flesh soaked in a faint glowing brine. The smell was sharp and strange. Aethel had saved it for emergencies. They poured the whole pouch into the basin and stepped back. The drake dove. Aethel pressed flat against the stone and spoke the same low words as before. The drake landed on the feeding ring. It sniffed. It ate. Its tail slowed. Its eyes half closed. When it finished, it did not climb away. It curled around the warm slab and slept. Aethel sat with their wings folded tight and watched it breathe. The feeding station worked. The drake was calm. But the glowing bait was gone, and Aethel had no more. They would need a steady supply, and soon, or this same morning would repeat with worse teeth. Then a horn sounded, thin and far, from the direction of the mushroom towers. The drake's ear flicked in its sleep. Aethel stood slowly. Someone out there had heard the drake go quiet — and was coming to see why.