Morning in Shadowfen arrived with a fog so thick you could butter it on toast, if you felt like eating despair with your breakfast. My shadow dragon hatchling had grown again—now large enough to block the entrance of my lean-to with her tail and sufficiently heavy to make my ribs contemplate early retirement every time she flopped across my chest. I had to admire her commitment to the bit.
Breakfast negotiations were tense. She wanted the smoked frog. I wanted to keep my hands. We compromised: she got the frog and I got to keep most of my fingers. Progress, of a sort.
The System chirped: [Companion Skill: Shadow Pounce – Surprise attacks now cause minor panic in prey.] She demonstrated by leaping onto a cluster of laughter-bubbles, scattering them like anxious thoughts. I made a mental note to stop getting attached to anything with a heartbeat.
I set out to check my traps, the hatchling trailing behind like a particularly judgmental shadow. The first snare held a mudcrab the size of my head. The second, a cluster of bioluminescent slugs, which the System labeled "edible, but not advisable." I took them anyway. Shadowfen's definition of "edible" was more suggestion than law.
The third trap was empty but for a single blue fairy flower—a subtle message from my local informants. The fairies had been oddly helpful lately, which made me deeply suspicious. In my experience, help from fairies was like drinking from an unmarked bottle: sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you hallucinate your own funeral.
Mid-morning, the silence broke. A group of mercenaries—four humans, two demi-humans, all armed and twitchy—crashed through the undergrowth half a kilometer from my camp. I watched from the shadows, hatchling pressed low beside me. The lead mercenary barked orders while a skinny mage scanned the area with a spell-stone.
"Swear I saw movement here last night. Big. Maybe a beast. Or a demon."
I held my breath. The hatchling tensed, shadows swirling. The System pinged: [Event: Hostile Encounter Imminent.]
They moved on, muttering about "weird mana" and "cursed trees." My camp remained hidden, but the fairies flitted through the branches above, watching with malicious glee. When the coast was clear, one dropped onto my shoulder and whispered, "They'll be back. They never learn."
"Neither do I," I muttered, earning a tiny snort.
The rest of the day was spent reinforcing traps, camouflaging the lean-to, and teaching the hatchling not to eat anything that glowed unless I said so. She learned quickly, mostly because the last glowing thing bit her back. The System rewarded her: [Companion Skill: Bite Immunity – Resistant to minor magical toxins.]
Lunch was a triumph of low expectations: roasted mudcrab and mystery greens, washed down with swamp water filtered through three layers of moss and a prayer. The hatchling attempted to steal my portion, failed, and sulked in the shadows, plotting her next heist.
Afternoon brought a new complication. The adolescent shadow beast from earlier returned, this time with a limp and a wary look. He circled the camp, sniffed the air, and flopped down at a respectful distance. The hatchling watched him, eyes narrowed, tail twitching in a way that promised violence or friendship—a fifty-fifty shot in Shadowfen.
We watched each other. I offered a strip of dried lizard. The beast ignored it until I looked away, then snatched it up and pretended nothing happened. The System pinged: [Pact: Temporary Nonaggression – Local shadow beasts will avoid your territory for 48 hours.]
By sunset, the mercenaries were back. This time, they were quieter, slower, and visibly spooked. The fairies led them in circles, whispering false paths and causing half the group to stumble into a nest of crystal arachnids. Screaming ensued. I waited for the sound to end before returning to camp, the hatchling prancing after me, smug as only a dragon can be.
Dinner was shared in silence. The shadow beast lingered, keeping one eye on the hatchling and another on the treeline. I wondered if he was hoping for leftovers or just enjoying the free show. Either way, the circle around our fire felt a little less lonely, and a lot more dangerous.
Night fell. The System pinged: [Threat Level: Moderate. Survival Odds: 62%.] Higher than usual. I lay back, listening to the swamp's orchestra of weirdness. The hatchling curled at my side, the shadow beast at my feet, and the fairies bickering in the branches above. Misery does love company, after all.
Somewhere outside the circle of firelight, the mercenaries regrouped. Tomorrow, they'd try again. Tomorrow, so would I.
Because in Shadowfen, "not dead yet" is a team sport.