Kss'thrak heard the crack of wood before he saw the ork. She moved through the reeds at the swamp's edge, chest heaving, chains still hanging from her wrists. Blood darkened the iron collar at her throat. She carried something pressed against her ribs — a folded square of leather or hide. He stepped from the willows without sound. His spear took her through the spine before she could turn. She dropped face-first into the mud, the leather scrap falling beside her. Kss'thrak dragged her deeper into the swamp, where the water ran black and the trees grew thick. He fed there, methodical and without waste. When he finished, green-skinned limbs lay scattered in the shallows, ribs cracked open, the useful meat gone. He wiped his hands on the moss and returned to the leather she had carried. It was a scroll, crude barbarian writing marked in dried blood. He unfolded it and read the words slowly. They spoke of expansion — a new settlement planned, timber routes surveyed, a vote among the clans to push the tree line back another half mile. Kss'thrak folded the scroll and tucked it into his belt. The ork had brought him what he needed. The barbarians were moving faster than he thought. He carried the scroll to the sunken cave where the swamp water pooled against moss-covered stone. Inside, the air hung cool and still. He spread the leather flat on a dry rock and traced the crude map drawn at the bottom. Three marks showed where they planned to cut. Two sat at the eastern edge where the deer paths ran. The third pressed deep into the heart of his territory, near the old stone bridge where the water ran clear. Kss'thrak rolled the scroll tight. He would visit each mark before the next moon. He would leave something at each one that would make the barbarians understand what waited for them in the swamp. The ork's escape had given him their plan. Now he had time to answer it. He stepped back into the water and let the cave swallow behind him. The scattered remains would warn any who found them. The scroll had shown him where they would come next, and he would be there first. His spear felt lighter in his hand. For the first time in seasons, he was not reacting. He was ahead.

Kss'thrak left the sunken cave before dawn. The scroll's map burned clear in his mind. He would walk to the mark near the old stone bridge first, where the water ran cleanest and the cut would wound the swamp deepest. He carried his spear low and moved through the reeds without sound. He smelled woodsmoke before he saw the camp. Three barbarian tents stood on the dry rise above the bridge. Fresh axe cuts scored the trunks of two willows at the water's edge. A woman crouched by the shallows, filling a clay jug from the current. Her back was to him. Farther up the bank, a bearded man knelt beside a dead elk, drawing a knife along its belly. A short spear leaned against his thigh. Two others slept by the coals. Kss'thrak counted four. He had expected two. He sank into the tall grass and watched. The plan he had carried from the cave — one killing at the bridge, bones on the stones by morning — would not hold against four armed hunters in daylight. He needed to thin them. He needed the water. He circled downstream to where vines curtained a low fall of black rock. The current ran narrow there. He waited until the woman lifted her jug and started back toward the tents. She would pass within four steps of the vines. He set his feet in the mud and slowed his breath. She came. He took her through the throat before her jug hit the stones. She made no sound. He dragged her behind the fall and left her in the pool. The hunter looked up from the elk. He called her name. When no answer came, he lifted his spear and walked toward the water. He walked carefully. He was not a scout. He had killed before. Kss'thrak met him in the reeds. The man was faster than the scouts he had taken in past seasons. His spear caught Kss'thrak's ribs before the jagged head opened his throat. Both men went down in the shallows. Kss'thrak rose. The hunter did not. Shouting broke from the tents. The two sleepers were up, axes in hand, running for the bridge. They had heard the fall. Kss'thrak pressed a hand to his side. Blood ran between his scales, warm and steady. He could not take two more. Not now. Not bleeding. He slid into the river and let the current carry him under the vines. The cold clamped down on the wound. He heard the barbarians reach the bank above and shout for their dead. He heard one say the word lizard. He drifted until the voices thinned. Then he crawled out among the willows and lay in the mud, breathing. He had killed two. He had meant to kill all four and leave bones. Instead he had left a body and a witness. The barbarians at the bridge now knew what waited in the swamp — and knew it could bleed.