Kira tightened her gauntlets and stared at the map tacked to the caravan’s wooden board. Trails braided through jagged ridges and marshland, but one mark pulsed like a heartbeat: a red sigil at Kestodon Pass. Rumor had it a nameless tremor had wedged itself into the earth there, waking something old and hungry.

The next morning they packed again. The path never stayed still; neither did they.

As they rounded a ridge the world opened. Kestodon Pass was a basin of cracked obsidian and steam vents, the earth torn in a dozen places as if a titan had stomped there in sleep. In the center, half-swallowed by a fumarole, a shape roiled and blinked like a bad dream—rows of armored plating, a maw rimed with crystal, and eyes that reflected the sky.

They left before dawn. Lanterns bobbed like steady stars while the caravan’s wagons rolled out. The air tasted of wet stone and pine. Birds made nervous clouds above as they took to the thermals. By midday the path narrowed, and the wind began to carry a low, metallic hum.