CHAPTER 83: MIDNIGHT CLAWS

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Her ears twitched. Her tail flicked slowly like the hand of fate tapping out betrayal in Morse code. Her hooves dug into the dirt like she was preparing for emotional combat.

"Zephyr..."

"Fenna..."

"Star... I even let you sneeze on my back and didn’t say a word!"

"How could you just... leave me here?! Alone. With the cart! With the CHEESE."

Her cowbell jingled mournfully.

Muse stomped once.

The cart creaked in protest behind her, but she ignored it. She was deep into her internal monologue now.

"I carried your things. I carried your food and tools. I carried Fenna’s ridiculously alchemy kit that smells like boiled socks and volcano farts. Did I complain? No! I mooed with honor! I even walked sideways once to dodge a sandworm puddle."

She flared her nostrils. A squirrel darted by and dropped a half-eaten fruit. It bounced off her nose.

She stared at it. Then stared back at the trail.

"This is it. This is how it ends. A proud bovine war veteran abandoned for a slightly cuter bird and a black lizard boy with wings."

"Am I not majestic? Am I not glorious? I have four legs, hooves of steel, and a stomach strong enough to digest three weeks old grass!"

The cart tipped slightly. Muse flared her eyes.

"No. No, I will not cry. I am a professional cart puller. I will chew my cud. I will keep the flies off my own butt. And I will survive."

Muse turned toward the cart and slowly nudged open a side flap.

Inside: moldy biscuits, dented pans, one pillow, and Zephyr’s emergency beast fed grass stash.

She stared at the cheese. "This... This is mine now."

She took a bite. Then spit it out. Then chewed it again out of spite. Suddenly, a distant growl echoed through the trees.

Muse’s ears perked. Her eyes narrowed. She looked at the cart. Then in the jungle. Then back at the cart.

Mooo!

Then she turned her head toward the trail and mooed loudly, dramatic, like an opera soprano calling her long lost love.

"IF I DIE OUT HERE, I SWEAR I’LL HAUNT YOUR TENT, ZEPHYR!!"

A leaf fluttered down dramatically and landed on her head. Muse stood there. Statue-still. Heroically tragic. The forgotten queen of logistics. The cart creaked once in sympathy.

(End of the Mini/Side scene)

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A hush settled over the basalt basin after Star and Aurora’s fiery loops faded into the dark. Zephyr and Fenna stood a moment longer beneath the hawthorn, letting the last orange glow slip from the sky, then turned toward the lean-to.

Star landed first, folding his wings with practiced precision. He nudged Aurora gently toward the fire circle; the chick hopped, puffed with triumph, and promptly flopped onto a moss pillow Fenna had set near the embers. Exhaustion overtook pride in seconds. Aurora tucked her head beneath one wing and slipped into a slow, even breathing.

Fenna ruffled her feathers once—heat still clung to them like sun-baked stone and whispered, "Good flight, little Aurora."

Fenna smiled, gathered their few remaining tools, and stowed them beneath the tarp to keep dew off the steel. The new camp smelled of ash, pine pitch, and waterfall mist. Crickets struck up their night chorus; a lone owl hooted far up-ridge.

Zephyr banked the fire to low coals, orange dots instead of flames—then tapped their watch schedule on a scrap of birch bark:

First watch: Star (sky patrol).

Second: Zephyr (ground perimeter, traps).

Third: Fenna (dawn fletching & water run).

Fenna nodded, yawned, and slipped under the lean-to awning with Aurora curled against her shoulder. Zephyr took a last scan of the basil walls, adjusted the trip-wire knot on the hawthorn snare, and gave Star a two-finger gesture: "patrol arc three." The drake snorted softly and lifted into the night.

A few hours later... Zephyr couldn’t sleep.

(Human Time: 22:11)/ Emberwood Night Cycle.

Zephyr padded along the east ridge, senses pricked, every step measured as if the grass itself might snap. His boots barely disturbed the dew-glossed moss. The moon hung high and pale, casting silver blades across the charred woodlands below. Every shadow looked like a predator’s crouch. Every gust of wind whispered in a tongue only beasts understood.

He passed the traps he’d strung earlier, gut-cord pulled tight between volcanic rocks, almost invisible under low moonlight. They were strong enough to snag a leg and slice deep. A pit, leaf-covered and framed with glass fern edges, yawned silently nearby—its false floor supported by layered branches and dried bark. If something stepped through, it would fall into three feet of charcoal ash and tangled stakes.

Beyond that, a pair of ember-rocks sat on pressure plates carved from the disks, primed to explode in a blinding flash if jostled. Star’s flame had sealed them earlier, so they’d burst hot and bright even in damp night air.

Zephyr knelt beside the stream-fed waterfall pool, the gentle roar softening now that the basin was still. He pressed his palm to the cold ground. No fresh tracks. No claw furrows. The soil hadn’t been disturbed—not by beast, not by prey.

Still nothing.

Maybe the leopard gave its warning and left, he thought. But he didn’t believe it.

Predators didn’t leave warnings for sport. They didn’t show themselves only to slink away. That display from before—it was a claim. A declaration. And declarations had follow-ups.

It would come. If not now, then soon.

(Human time 23:04) – Emberwood Night Cycle

A sudden breeze rustled the glass ferns. Zephyr looked up.

Star glided silently overhead, wings stretched wide like twin sails of midnight ember. He was nothing but a black crescent against the night stars, blotting constellations for seconds before banking northward again. His patrol pattern was disciplined, smooth—silent but sharp.

Zephyr paused, cocked his head. No other wingbeats. No rustle of leaves beyond what wind allowed. No predator howls.

"Good. For now."

He continued west, careful not to disturb the bed of dry vines he’d laid as a sound trap. Any stalk stepped on would crack loud enough to wake a corpse.