Pholos Ironside knelt in the ash of the longhouse where his clan had died. He had come to kill the beast that killed them. But he could not name it. The scar over his right eye still ached when he tried to remember its face. On the night of the attack, blood had filled that eye. He had swung his axe at a shape he never truly saw. Now he had a hunter's goal and no prey to track. The fire had left little behind. Charred beams sagged over the doorway. The smoke smell still clung to the timber after all these months. Pholos moved through the wreckage on careful hooves. He searched the floor for anything the beast had dropped. He found it under a fallen roof plank. A black fang, longer than his hand, snapped off at the tip. Its edges were worn smooth. The surface caught the gray light with a dark shine. Pholos lifted it and felt its weight. This tooth had torn into his people. But the fang alone told him nothing. Dozens of beasts grew fangs. He needed to know which one. A small clicking sound made him turn. Near the hollow oak by the ruins, a tiny creature crawled along the bark. It looked like a dragon shrunk to the size of his thumb. Its wings shimmered with a hundred colors. Its body wore stripes of red, green, and gold. The little thing froze when Pholos stepped closer. He almost ignored it. Then he saw what it carried. Stuck between its front claws was a black scale, the same dark shine as the fang. The creature had scavenged it from somewhere near. Pholos held the fang out flat on his palm. The tiny dragon crept forward. It sniffed the broken tooth. Then it lifted into the air, wings buzzing, and darted toward the tree line. Ten feet out, it stopped and hovered. It looked back at him. He understood. The creature knew the scent. It could lead him to the beast that wore these teeth and scales. Pholos stood and gripped his great axe. His heart beat hard against his ribs. For months he had chased a shadow with no shape. Now something living would show him the trail. He tucked the broken fang into his belt and followed the flash of bright wings into the woods. But the little dragon flew fast, and it did not fly toward safety. It led him deeper, toward the dark heart of the trees, where the light thinned and the trunks grew close. Pholos followed anyway. He finally had a path to his enemy. He did not yet know it led straight into the beast's own ground.

The tiny dragon led Pholos deeper until the trees blocked out the sky. Then it stopped over a stretch of torn ground. Pholos slowed his hooves and looked. The little creature hovered, wings buzzing fast, and would not fly ahead. Bones littered the trail. A deer lay split open, its ribs cracked wide. The flesh was still wet. Blood pooled black in the dirt. Flies had not yet found it. Pholos knelt and touched the wound. Warm. The kill was fresh, made within the hour. He rose and gripped his axe. The weapon had belonged to his clan. Pale carvings ran down the bone handle. Faint colors glowed along the blade. He had pulled it from the ash of his ruined home. Now his hands sweated against the grip. The small dragon darted to a twisted, hollow oak nearby. Its trunk bent like a wrung rope. A black gap opened at its base, wide enough for a man. The creature landed on the bark and clicked at him. It pointed its snout toward the hollow, again and again. Pholos understood. The beast denned inside that tree. His enemy slept close. His heart pounded. For months he had chased a shadow. Now the shadow had a home, and he stood at its door. He crept forward. His hooves pressed the soft dirt with care. He raised the axe over his shoulder. One strike into the dark, before the beast woke. He reached the hollow mouth and peered in. Empty. Only more bones and a foul, warm stink. The den was fresh but abandoned. The beast had left, and not long ago. Then the ground shook. A deep growl rolled from behind him, close and low. Pholos spun. Branches snapped in the gloom across the clearing. Two eyes caught the thin light. Something huge shifted between the trunks. The beast had not been sleeping. It had been out hunting, and now it came back to its den. The small dragon shot upward and vanished into the branches. Pholos stood alone before the hollow oak. He had wanted to strike first. Instead the beast stood between him and open ground. It knew he was here. He planted his hooves and lifted the axe. His whole body burned. This was the thing that killed his clan and marked his eye. His old scar throbbed as if it remembered. The beast stepped from the trees. It was larger than he had feared, black scaled, its jaw lined with fangs like the broken one at his belt. It lowered its head and fixed both eyes on him. Pholos did not run. He roared and charged. He would not wait to be hunted. If the beast wanted this ground, it would fight for it now. The hunt had ended. The battle had begun.

The beast met his charge. Its shoulder slammed Pholos and knocked him sideways. He kept his feet and swung the pale bone axe. The blade bit scale and skidded free. Black blood welled, then closed. One cut would not be enough. The beast was too large, and Pholos fought it alone. He backed toward the twisted oak. His hooves slid in wet leaves. The beast circled, patient now, cutting off the open ground behind it. Pholos glanced up through the branches. The little dragon had fled when the fight began. His only ally was gone. He gripped the axe and set his jaw. So be it. The beast lunged. Its jaws snapped shut where his throat had been. Pholos wheeled and kicked. Both back hooves cracked against its skull. The beast staggered, and for a breath Pholos saw his opening. Then the branches burst above him. A streak of color dropped from the leaves. The small dragon dove straight at the beast's eyes. Its wings blazed red and green and gold in the gloom. It clicked and shrieked and clawed at the beast's face. The beast roared and jerked its head, blind for a moment, snapping at the buzzing thing. Pholos did not wait. He drove forward. He raised the bone axe high and brought it down on the exposed neck. The blade sank deep this time. Faint colors flared along the metal. The beast screamed and thrashed. Pholos wrenched the axe free and struck again. Black blood sprayed his chest. The beast dropped to its knees. The small dragon darted clear. Pholos stood over the fallen beast, chest heaving. The thing that killed his clan lay in the dirt. Its breath came in wet gasps. Its eye rolled up toward him. He lifted the axe for the last blow. But the beast was not finished. It heaved up with a final surge and swept its tail. The blow caught Pholos across the flank and threw him against the oak. Pain tore through his side. When he rose, the beast had crawled into the trees, leaving a wide trail of black blood. It fled, wounded and slow, but alive. Pholos pressed a hand to his ribs. Blood ran between his fingers. He had wounded the beast at last, but it had escaped him. He would have to hunt it down before it healed or found its strength. The small dragon settled on a low branch. It clicked at him, then at the blood trail leading into the dark. Pholos understood. The creature had not abandoned him. It had waited for the right moment, and it would lead him again. He drew the broken black fang from his belt and held it out. The dragon touched its snout to the jagged tip. Then it lifted off and flew toward the trail. Pholos took up his axe and followed, limping, into the deeper woods.