The retreat Kael expected didn't happen. As the Alpha’s massive body skidded into the freezing stream, its lifeblood staining the water a dark, heavy crimson, the two scouts didn't bolt for the fog. Instead, they went deathly still.

  Kael stood over the carcass, his chest heaving, his mana-burned muscles screaming for him to drop his guard. He gripped the hilt of his Black-Vine glaive, ready to pivot. He was a driver used to finishing the race—he didn't leave runners on the track.

  "Come on then," Kael rasped, his eyes flashing with the same cold intensity that had just dropped their leader. "Who's next?"

  But the growling stopped. The two Howlers lowered their massive, charcoal-furred heads. Their bellies brushed the mossy stones in a low, submissive crawl. In their brutal, collective logic, the hierarchy had just been rewritten. The Alpha was dead. The human was the new apex.

  Kael watched them, his thumb still hovering over the spring-trigger. He saw the shift in their posture—the tucked tails, the averted eyes. He didn't relax, but he stood tall, planting the butt of his glaive firmly against the rock. He pointed his free hand toward the perimeter.

  "Back off. Guard the line," he ordered.

  The Howlers didn't hesitate. They turned and slunk toward the edges of the clearing, taking up positions in the fog like stone sentinels. They weren't hunting the Drake anymore; they were guarding the new Alpha’s prize.

  With the perimeter secure, Kael knelt by the Zephyrix Drake’s side. The "Ghost of the Spires" was pressed against the cliff, its injured hind leg trembling. Kael pulled a small vial of Ministry restorative salve from his belt, but as he applied the glowing ointment, the Drake hissed. The "Blue Fire" static dancing on its scales neutralized the medicine before it could sink in.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "It’s not enough," Kael muttered. "The chemistry is off. You need something specific to these peaks to stabilize that charge of yours."

  He looked straight in the eye. "Look, you can’t run on this. And if I leave you here, the next pack won't be as easy to convince. You follow me, stay close, and I’ll get you through this. We clear?"

  The Drake tilted its head, processing the steady vibration of Kael’s voice. With a soft, submissive trill, it lowered its head and nudged Kael’s shoulder. It was an agreement.

  As the sky turned a bruised purple, Kael led the wounded Drake uphill. The two Howler scouts trailed them like silent shadows. They found shelter at the edge of a sheer cliff—a wide plateau dominated by a single, massive Aether-Oak. Kael struck a flint against his glaive, and soon a small fire flickered to life.

  He checked his inventory, his heart sinking at the meager pile of dried meat. "Great. I've got a crew to feed, and the pantry is empty."

  As if sensing the shortage, the larger Howler suddenly vanished into the brush. Ten minutes later, it returned, dropping a fresh Mountain-Buck at Kael’s feet. It sat back on its haunches, waiting. Kael stared at the carcass, then at the beast. The intelligence in their pack mind was staggering; they were actually bringing in supplies.

  Kael used his glaive to dress the meat, roasting a large portion over the flames. He divided the meal fairly—raw cuts for the Howlers, seared meat, and scavenged Cloud-Berries for the Drake.

  The night settled over the cliff. The fire crackled, casting long shadows of a man, two wolves, and a dragon against the ancient tree. Kael watched the stars, his hand on his weapon. He was miles from the Ministry, but as he looked at his "team," he knew one thing: the race had officially begun.