Dawn came without light.
It arrived as a thinning of shadows, a loosening of the jungle's grip on the night, but the canopy above remained sealed—immense leaves layered like plates of armor, denying the sky any real claim. Mist clung to the forest floor, breathing in slow, patient waves. Roots, bark, stone, and moss all glistened with moisture, as if the jungle itself had sweated through the dark.
Two years had passed since Midarion had begun training in the Jungle of Giants.
He moved through it without sound.
Barefoot, knees bent, weight forward, he let his steps follow the pulse of the ground rather than the shape of any path. He knew where the earth softened before collapsing, where roots waited beneath fallen leaves, where silence meant safety—and where it meant teeth. His body adjusted instinctively, correcting itself without thought.
The Jungle of Giants no longer felt foreign.
That did not mean it felt welcoming.
It watched him.
He felt it in the way birds fell silent when he lingered too long, in the way insects shifted their rhythm when he crossed certain invisible thresholds. The jungle did not teach. It tested. It did not correct mistakes. It consumed them.
Midarion had accepted that.
His breathing was steady, measured. Months of isolation had stripped him of excess—habits, hesitation, the need to announce his strength. He spoke rarely now, and only when there was purpose. Even his thoughts had grown quieter, honed into something lean and sharp.
Ahead of him, Keel moved cautiously.
The dragon was no longer small—no longer something that could be carried, caged, or dismissed as harmless. His body had lengthened, wings thickening with muscle, scales hardening into layered plates that caught the light when it managed to slip through the canopy. He paused often, head lifting, nostrils flaring as he tasted the air.
Alert. Wary.
The jungle had taught him too.
Theomar will join me in a few days, Midarion reminded himself.
The thought grounded him, though he didn't slow. Theomar's absences had grown longer over the past months—duties, obligations, things Midarion no longer asked about. When Theomar left, he always summoned Grey to watch from the unseen spaces between trees.
The ritual had become familiar.
Symbols drawn into the dirt with deliberate care. A single drop of blood pressed into the center. The low, ancient cadence of words that tightened the air and bent the jungle's attention inward. Midarion knew the signs now. Knew the subtle pressure in the forest when Grey was near.
Today, there was nothing.
No weight. No presence. No invisible gaze tracking his steps.
That should have warned him.
He had gone farther than usual. He knew it in the distant, uncomfortable way one knows they've crossed a line long after stepping over it. The trees here were older, thicker, their trunks swollen and scarred. Roots rose from the earth like petrified serpents, coiling over one another in vast, tangled ridges. Light fractured here, breaking into thin beams that never quite reached the ground.
This was giant territory.
He had been forbidden to come here alone.
Elhyra's voice surfaced uninvited in his memory—calm, concerned, edged with something sharper. Strength doesn't make you ready. Discipline does.
Midarion exhaled through his nose.
He was stronger now. He felt it in his bones, in the way the jungle no longer pressed him flat with its presence. He had walked deeper before—but never without Theomar or Elhyra.
Today, he wanted to know if he could.
Birdsong vanished.
Midarion slowed.
He crouched beside a narrow river, its surface smooth and clear as glass. The water flowed so quietly it looked unreal, reflecting the canopy above with unsettling precision, as though the forest had folded in on itself.
He stared at his reflection.
His face looked older. Leaner. The softness of childhood had been carved away by hunger, sun, and effort. His eyes were steadier now—but darker too, holding something tempered by isolation.
"…I'll mark the way," he murmured.
He drew his blade and cut a shallow notch into the trunk of a massive tree.
The sound barely existed.
The jungle swallowed it instantly.
He turned.
The hiss was soft.
Too soft.
Pain detonated through his thigh.
It wasn't the clean pain of steel or the blunt shock of impact. It was alive—burning, spreading, invasive. Midarion stumbled back, breath tearing from his chest, eyes snapping downward.
The serpent was already withdrawing.
Thick as his arm, its scales shimmered black and deep green, catching what little light there was like wet obsidian. Its fangs slid free of his flesh with lazy confidence, venom dripping in slow, deliberate drops before it vanished beneath a lattice of roots.
Midarion dropped to one knee.
His knife slipped from his fingers and struck stone with a dull sound. He barely heard it.
The wound darkened before his eyes.
Veins rose beneath his skin—black lines threading outward, crawling through muscle like spilled ink. Heat surged through his leg, then cold, then something worse: a spreading numbness that felt deeply, terribly wrong.
"No," he breathed.
He pressed his hand to the wound, instinctively pulling at his Cosmo, trying to force containment, control—anything. The energy responded weakly, flickering and scattering like sparks in a storm.
His heart began to race.
Too fast.
The jungle tilted.
Voices threaded through the fog.
Ren's—sharp, unforgiving. Again. Focus.
Reikika's laughter, distant and impossible, echoing between trunks that had never known her name.
And beneath it all, softer, fraying—
Do not sleep.
Filandra.
Colors fractured his vision. The ground lurched. He tore through thorns, skin ripping without sensation. Vines snagged his ankles—or maybe he imagined it. He fell, dragged himself upright, fell again.
Then the earth vanished beneath him.
Midarion slid into a hollow beneath the roots of an ancient tree, crashing hard against damp soil and stone. The impact drove the last of his air from his lungs. He lay there, chest convulsing, watching the world dissolve.
Time lost meaning.
Fever came in waves—burning heat followed by shaking cold. The jungle pulsed around him, the ground rising and falling as if breathing. Roots coiled in his vision, tightening, constricting. The earth beneath his back felt alive, its heartbeat slow and immense.
Stay awake.
Midarion bit into the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth. Pain anchored him—for seconds, maybe minutes. His thoughts unraveled anyway.
Then the ground shook.
Heavy footsteps crushed foliage nearby. Something large moved through the trees, drawn by the scent of blood. A low growl rolled through the hollow, vibrating through his bones.
Predator.
Midarion dragged himself backward, one arm useless, the other trembling violently as he reached for his blade. His vision split—one shape becoming two, then three.
"Move," he rasped. "Move—"
The beast lunged.
The jungle erupted.
Light tore through the clearing in a violent arc. A blur of motion intercepted the charge. Steel met flesh with a sound like splitting timber. The predator's jaw separated from its body in a spray of dark blood that hissed as it struck poisoned soil.
The creature convulsed once.
Then fell still.
Theomar stood over it, chest heaving, claws retracting, eyes burning.
He dropped beside Midarion instantly, hands moving—pressing, assessing, swearing under his breath.
"You foolish young wolf," he muttered. "What have you done?"
Midarion tried to smile. Failed. "Got… lost…"
Theomar's jaw tightened. He lifted him carefully, arms trembling beneath the weight. "You shouldn't have been this deep. Only I walk this far."
Darkness closed in.
Weeks later, Midarion woke to singing.
Soft. Steady. Familiar.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The air felt different—cleaner, held. The smell of damp earth was muted, replaced by herbs and old wood. His body felt heavy, anchored, aching in places he didn't remember injuring.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was timber and stone.
A shadow moved.
Theomar stepped into view.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared.
Then his breath left him in a rough, disbelieving sound. He crossed the room in three strides, gripping the edge of the bed like it was the only thing holding him upright.
"…You're awake," he said.
Midarion swallowed. His throat was dry, but he managed a weak smile.
"Guess… I didn't die."
Theomar exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for just a second. When he opened them again, they were bright with something dangerously close to relief.
"You're at the Black Post, again." he said quietly.
Midarion let his head sink back into the pillow.
The jungle had almost claimed him.
And it would remember.