Horn First
They'd been on the road for two days when the jerky finally ran out.
Orion stared into the mostly-empty ration pouch, then tilted it upside down.
Three crumbs. A smear of grease. One string of meat so dried it cracked between his fingers.
He gave it to Tyrunt, who didn't even chew—just crunched it like gravel and looked up for more.
"Nope," Orion muttered. "That's it."
He looked out at the ridgeline ahead. There was no sign of another town. Maybe another day, maybe two, depending on the trail. His stomach rumbled.
They needed food.
An hour later, they found a slope thick with brush and short trees. Game trail. Worn paths. Flattened grass and claw marks near the rocks.
Something lived here.
Tyrunt sniffed the air, head swaying slightly. Then he dropped low.
"Let's track something we can eat," Orion whispered.
Tyrunt gave a snort—quiet, focused—and began to stalk.
They found the prey near a shallow ravine. Three of them—Patrat, small, quick, constantly twitching and alert.
Orion pointed.
Tyrunt moved wide, low, silent for once.
The first two didn't notice.
The third did.
But too late.
Tyrunt lunged from the side, slamming the nearest into the dirt before the others could squeal.
One down.
The others bolted.
Tyrunt made it two steps before giving up the chase.
Orion knelt beside the body. It was intact. Not crushed.
"Good."
They cleaned it, cooked it, and split the meat. Orion didn't think too hard about it.
The protein helped.
Tyrunt bit down with the usual focus, bones cracking under his teeth. He made short work of it, then looked up for more.
Orion shook his head. "Save some for later."
They set up camp that night near a cold stream. Orion checked Tyrunt's limbs, cleaned his teeth, checked the soreness from the last fight.
The bruising had faded. The muscles were sharper now. More control.
But there was something missing.
He'd been thinking about it since the alley fight with Buizel.
Tyrunt hit hard.
But he didn't guard.
"Alright," Orion muttered, tossing a smooth rock into the clearing.
Tyrunt turned his head, blinked.
Orion tossed a second one, this time underhand.
It bounced off Tyrunt's cheek.
"Don't just take it," he said.
Tyrunt grunted.
Orion picked up a stick and pointed to the ridge on Tyrunt's head—the small horn that curved slightly upward, more decorative than dangerous.
"You've got this for a reason. Start using it."
They practiced the next morning.
Orion took a padded stick from his gear and began tapping—then swiping—toward Tyrunt's shoulders, chest, and head.
"Don't dodge. Deflect."
Tyrunt tried to twist away.
"Wrong."
Tyrunt tried to duck.
"Wrong again."
Then, finally, when Orion came in from the left—
Tyrunt lowered his head slightly.
The stick glanced off the horn.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
By the third hour, Tyrunt was stepping into the blocks—pushing with his front leg, shifting his weight to meet the strike and redirect it.
Orion smiled for the first time in hours.
"Now we're talking."
That afternoon, they found another nest.
Nidoran—small, aggressive, territorial.
Tyrunt moved in.
The Nidoran charged first.
Instead of biting, Tyrunt stepped forward and slammed his horn downward.
The Nidoran flipped back, dazed.
No wounds.
Just force.
Orion made a note in his journal.
Impact Shift – 40%
"Next," he muttered, "we get your tail working."
Later that night, they worked in silence.
Orion tied a rope to a tree, weighted the end with stones, and began swinging it like a pendulum. Tyrunt stood in the arc.
"Spin," Orion ordered.
Tyrunt tried.
His tail missed.
"Again."
Missed again.
"Again."
The fourth hit was better.
Not fast. Not fluid.
But when the weighted rope hit, it bounced back.
That was enough.
They kept at it until the moon crested.
The move didn't have a name yet.
But Orion could feel it in his bones.
Something coiling.
Something waiting.
Dragon Tail was coming.