Nighfall

The light was gone before Orion even realized it. Shadows had crept in quietly from the east, turning color into gray, and gray into black. The trees swayed gently above him in rhythm with the wind, whispering secrets to one another in a language of dry creaks and rustling leaves. The last thing he saw clearly before darkness settled was Tyrunt's silhouette standing alert near the edge of the clearing, jaw slightly open, tail low and swaying.

It was late, and they hadn't moved far that day—just a few kilometers through a tangle of hills and moss-slick rocks. They could've kept going. The terrain hadn't been impossible. But Tyrunt had been twitchy, off-rhythm. His steps were half a beat too fast. His weight distribution was wrong.

Orion had called for a stop not because the trail demanded it—but because Tyrunt had.

Now, under the cover of night, the forest felt heavier. Not dangerous—just dense. Thick with sound. Distant chirps. Soft clicking calls. Something loped through the undergrowth two ridges over. Not close. Not hostile. But there.

Orion didn't waste time. He cleared the area with practiced sweeps of his boot, setting up a wide enough circle for training without overexposing them. Then he dropped his pack, reached inside, and pulled out the thick bundle of cloth and leather that had once been part of a coat and was now wrapped tight around a broken fencepost. His makeshift dummy.

He hammered the post into the dirt and stepped back.

Tyrunt was already walking over.

"Start with Bite," Orion said, voice low and steady. "I want focus. Energy. Don't just crush it."

Tyrunt lowered himself into position.

No delay. No flick of resistance.

He lunged.

The first hit smacked high—above the centerline. Too much jaw, not enough channeling. It rocked the post, but didn't leave a mark.

Orion tilted his head. "Too fast."

Again.

The second landed cleaner, with a sharp crack of impact and the faintest glint of energy pulsing against the hide wrap. Tyrunt held the bite for a moment before releasing with a low exhale through his nostrils.

Orion stepped to the side and nudged the dummy with his toe. "Hold longer next time."

Tyrunt reset.

They repeated the drill a dozen times, each hit cleaner than the last. Not stronger. That wasn't the point. Strength without control was just recklessness. Bite had to be something else. Something precise.

A language.

And Tyrunt was slowly learning the dialect.

When the post finally split at the base, Orion didn't give a command. Tyrunt simply stepped back on his own, sides heaving, but his stance calm.

Orion made a note in his head. Not just instinct. Pattern recognition. Deliberate execution.

That was important.

They took a break.

Orion tossed Tyrunt a dense mineral biscuit—not one of the mass-market brands from the cities, but a custom blend from a Stonewall trader. Crushed shale, ground iron ore, and a hint of something sharp-smelling he hadn't identified. Tyrunt ate it without hesitation.

While Tyrunt chewed, Orion opened his notebook. Not to write yet—just to see the page. A diagram of a curved motion. A low tail arc. The idea of Dragon Tail sketched in rough pencil.

After five minutes, he stood.

"Let's do some motion work."

Tyrunt looked up, licking the edge of his teeth.

"We're not doing power tonight," Orion said. "I want rotation. Fluidity. The move won't land if you're stiff."

He set up the sack again—filled with weight this time—and tied it to a branch. The rope groaned slightly but held.

Tyrunt took position.

"Step. Twist. Tail through."

The first sweep was stiff, like watching a plank turn. The tail smacked the bag, but barely shifted it.

Orion winced. "Loosen your shoulders."

Second attempt—better, but the arc was short.

Again.

And again.

Half an hour passed in slow, grinding effort.

The tail moved better now, but it lacked muscle. Tyrunt's legs did the work, but the tail lagged behind like a cart not fully hooked to its wheel.

Still, Orion saw the pieces forming.

"Now anchor your front claws. Don't hop when you swing."

Tyrunt grunted in annoyance but obeyed.

This time, the arc was smooth. The tail skimmed the dirt and caught the sack just under its seam. It spun fast. Not powerful, but sharp.

"Good. Again."

They ran drills until Tyrunt's tail drooped slightly at rest, and his flanks were heaving again.

Orion stepped in.

He didn't call the break. He just untied the sack.

Tyrunt lowered himself into the grass without being told.

They'd worked past orders.

The wind had shifted. Cooler now, rolling down from the upper ridges. Orion could smell moisture in the air—streamwater, maybe a small pond nearby. He knelt at the firepit, struck flint, and coaxed a quiet flame to life. Not tall, not hot. Just enough to give the clearing shape.

He sat down with his notebook again and flipped past the training logs to a blank page.

He paused.

Then started writing—not data. Not move names.

Just thoughts.

"He doesn't flinch at orders anymore. He chooses to obey."

"His jaw strength is climbing faster than expected. Emotional triggers are fading. Bite is becoming pure."

"Tailwork is still weak, but the angle is there. The balance is coming."

"I don't think I'm afraid of him anymore."

"He scares me in the right ways."

The page filled faster than he expected.

He stopped when his hand started to cramp, then set the book down and lay back.

He listened.

To the insects. To the low groan of trees shifting.

To Tyrunt's breath, steady and close.

He didn't speak. Didn't reach for anything else.

Just let the quiet stretch, knowing they'd earned it.