CHAPTER 82: SETTING THE STAGE

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By mid-morning Fenna halted at a rock ledge overlooking a shallow basin. A thin waterfall trickled down one side, pooling in a clear pond ringed by obsidian gravel, a natural filtration. Thick vine thickets marked the basin’s edges, but the inner ground was relatively flat.

She glanced back at Zephyr, raising a brow. "Shelter walls?"

He studied the geography of the place. Ridge behind, water source (a huge plus point), established vantage, plenty of sets for his traps, and enough open sky for Star and Aurora. He noted a lone hawthorn tree overhanging the basalt bluff saying, "It’s perfect for us."

"I like it," he said. "Two blind approaches, one hard cover for reserves."

They descended.

First order: clear underbrush. Fenna hacked through thorny tangles. Zephyr dug shallow post holes, inserted reed stakes, and lashed them into an A-frame for a lean-to. They worked in harmony, trading tools, and sharing water. Star landed twice to offer updates, no threats—then took off again with Aurora in tow. Each time they reappeared, Aurora flew a little steadier, wings cutting cleaner arcs.

When the sun reached its peak—casting hot daggered rays through gaps—they broke for lunch under the hawthorn canopy. Dried wolf meat, moss biscuits, and thin strips of crisp char-fruit. Aurora waddled between them, begging for crumbs. Star lay behind, head on forepaws, eyes half-closed with satisfied exhaustion.

"You ever think," Fenna said between bites, "back at Lowmoor academy, we’d spend a morning moving camp in a lava forest while babysitting a phoenix and a dragon?"

Zephyr leaned back on elbows. "At Lowmoor I thought I would never become a tamer... I was sad. But you were always there to support me. I never imagined this type of day." He flashed a memory of his awakening.

Fenna smiled, but her gaze drifted upward to Aurora. "She needed this," she said quietly. "Flying, I mean. She might not fully understand Matron’s death and rebirth, but she feels it less in the wind."

Zephyr nodded. "A moving body can’t dwell on sorrow." He tapped his head. "That’s why the books called it grief therapy with route marches."

They ate in peace, letting the afternoon settle. Birds resumed their distant chatter. Cicadas sang in the basalt crevices. A lizard skittered across stones, paused to bask on a warm patch of obsidian, then darted away.

When they packed up again, Zephyr unrolled a scroll of thin vellum and sketched a rough camp layout: lean-to here, trap lines there, fire pit angled to reflect heat off a stone wall. He marked the hawthorn tree with an X —counter-weight anchor and indicated two fallback points should Star need to defend from above.

Fenna watched over his shoulder. "Where do we dig the decoy pit?"

"Near the waterfall. A predator might assume water means safety. We bait it with smoked meat." He nodded toward the wolf meat travel sack. "We’ve got leftovers."

"Cruel," she said.

"We are facing Leopard’s no kitten."

They set to building.

Fenna carried rocks—flat basalt pieces that would line the trap pit. Zephyr drove stakes into the ground, hammered with the flat of his hatchet until each trembled firm. He strung gut-cord between them, weaving a grid. Over it he spread leaves, scattered dust, and draped charfruit fiber. It is the perfect illusion of earth.

The work stretched past mid afternoon. Sweat soaked clothes. Muscles burned. Aurora helped by flapping her wings to fan the embers of their new fire pit into steady flame. The chick took immense pride in each whoosh, puffing up as she saw sparks catch.

Star’s task was aerial scouting. Twice he returned to nudge Zephyr toward a vantage ridge. The drake would then flap up, hold a glide, and drop a marker stone along what Zephyr assumed was the leopard’s likely approach line.

Always thinking. Always guarding. "Good drake."

When the sun dipped behind high basalt spires, purple and amber painted the basin. They finally collapsed near the new lean-to. Zephyr rolled his shoulders, every tendon a dull ache. Fenna exhaled, plucked a stray reed splinter from her thumb.

Aurora flew forward, chest puffed.

Fenna arched her brow. "What is it, little sun?"

She squawked loudly, proudly and with surprising grace, leaped onto a boulder, spread her wings, and took off. This time, no wobble. Tiny jets of heat flared at her wingtips. She banked over the pond, looped the hawthorn, and zipped past the lean-to, feathers leaving a faint after-glow in twilight.

Star roared approval. It was short, sharp, more trumpet than growl and launched in pursuit, letting his wings scoop air. Within heartbeats they were weaving together across the sky, Star guiding, Aurora following, both trailing ribbons of heat-haze and embers.

Fenna laughed openly, leaning into Zephyr’s shoulder. "Look at her go. She is recovering from her pain."

Zephyr nodded, throat tight with unexpected pride. "Aurora," he whispered, her name rolling like a promise. "First light after darkest night."

The drake and phoenix circled above, turning dusk gold into molten streaks. Every swoop left joy echoing through the basin. Sorrow lifted, a little more with each beat.

Zephyr slid his arm around Fenna’s waist. They stood together beneath twilight’s first stars, watching two creatures that once carried only grief now dance in unfettered air.

"Tonight," he thought, "let the Fire Leopard come. We’re ready—together."

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(Mini-Scene: "How Could You Leave Me, Zephyr?!")

Somewhere, in a quiet grove far behind the new camp...

A lonely, beat up cart with old wheels sat under a crooked tree. Moss clung to its frame. A single pine cone rolled across the ground. Somewhere nearby, a squirrel farted and ran away.

The cart trembled slightly. Near the cart Stood Muse. (A cow.)

A large, dramatic, emotionally unstable cow.

She stood in silence, tied to the cart’s front yoke by a slightly frayed rope. Her big, soulful eyes glistened in the morning dew. A fly buzzed around her tail. She didn’t swat it.

Muse stared at the empty trail, sniffled once, and then internally screamed:

"YOU. FORGOT. ME."