The scent of blood hung heavy in the jungle air, sharp and iron-sweet, clinging to every leaf and root like a warning. Somewhere beneath the canopy, hooves thundered over moss and dirt, frantic and uneven. Each gallop rang like a war drum, a countdown echoing through the trees.
Then, with a burst of foliage and a flash of white, the deer burst into view.
It was unlike any other creature in the jungle—tall and ghostly pale, its coat shimmered with streaks of blue that ran from its antlers to its tail, like twin bolts of lightning etched into flesh. Adorning those antlers were several crystalline blue globes, humming and crackling with arcs of electricity. From a distance, it could've been mistaken for something divine—a creature carved from stormlight.
But divinity meant nothing when bleeding.
Gashes tore across its legs, some shallow, others so deep the bone gleamed beneath. Blood streaked its flank. It didn't just run—it limped, dragged, fought for every trembling step. Its breaths were sharp and ragged, misting the air as it forced its battered body onward. Each jolt of its hooves sent a spray of blood behind it, marking its trail in crimson ink.
Behind it came the sound of its doom.
Branches shattered. Trees shivered under the weight of something massive crashing through them. Four monstrous reptiles moved like shadows with substance, their brown-and-gold scaled bodies slithering in and out of view. Their claws gouged bark and left trenches in the dirt with every leap. They were bigger than anything Shaun had seen—one and a half times the size of the reptilian leader he'd barely survived. These were not scouts or stragglers.
These were killers.
The Thunder Dropper, as Shaun had come to call it, wasn't weak. On open ground, it would have been a god—able to flatten these things with bolts from a kilometer away. But this wasn't its domain. Here, in the suffocating labyrinth of trees and shadow, its lightning was wild and misdirected, crashing against trunks and exploding through branches like misplaced artillery. The jungle smothered its strength, reduced its divine fury into flashes of light and heat that did more to blind than kill.
Still, it fought.
With every step, sparks bled from its horns. At one point, it stopped, spun with a desperate cry, and fired a bolt directly into the trees. One of the lizards was obliterated, the lightning tearing through scale and sinew with a roar that shook the air. But power came at a price. The blast staggered the deer, draining more of its already-fading strength. Its knees buckled, and for a moment, it seemed it might collapse then and there.
But it didn't.
It roared—a sharp, keening sound that defied its elegant form—and ran again. Every stride now was a miracle, every turn an act of defiance. It scraped against tree trunks, stumbled over roots, but it kept moving. The jungle wasn't letting it go, and it wasn't ready to die.
The pack adapted fast. They flanked with eerie coordination, one always circling ahead while the others herded from the sides. The Thunder Dropper tried to pivot, but the terrain worked against it. A low ridge sent it stumbling. A hidden gully nearly swallowed its front legs.
One of the reptiles lunged from the side.
The deer twisted and kicked—its hoof crushed the predator's chest with a sickening crack—but the price was time. Three others lunged, not biting yet, but surrounding. Herding.
And the fourth—the leader—waited.
It had hidden in plain sight, pressed against the bark of a massive tree, its camouflaged scales blending seamlessly into the trunk. As the Thunder Dropper gathered its strength, charging one last desperate bolt between its antlers, the leader leapt.
Like a boulder loosed from the sky, it crashed into the deer's flank, claws gouging deep into muscle. The deer shrieked and flailed, but it was too late. The reptile coiled around it like a vice, its jaw striking fast, two glistening fangs punching into the soft flesh beneath the deer's front leg—directly over the heart.
Venom surged. The paralysis was almost immediate.
The deer collapsed, limbs jerking, electricity flickering uncontrollably from its antlers. Its jaw trembled, eyes wide with helpless terror. Tears rolled down its blood-speckled cheek as it twitched in place—alive, aware, and completely unable to move.
The leader—larger, crueler, and more composed than the others—dismounted slowly. The yellow scale crest across its head was now a full comb, jagged and regal like a crown carved from ivory. It moved to the fallen member the deer had trampled and placed a heavy foot on its chest. There was no ceremony, no hesitation. It tapped once, twice, then drove its hooked toe through the ribcage, straight into the heart. A clean execution.
The others watched from a distance, lowered heads betraying submission.
As the scent of blood thickened once more, the pack turned toward their prize. The Thunder Dropper still twitched, trying to cry out, to crawl, to do anything. Its body betrayed it. And as the first bite tore into its side, it didn't even scream.
But then—just as the feast began—a sound cracked through the air like thunder.
A tree collapsing? No. Too sharp. Too fast.
The leader's eyes narrowed. It flicked its head toward the undergrowth and motioned to one of the smaller hunters.
Go.
The runt obeyed, slinking off silently.
Then—another moment of silence. Broken by the distant thud of flesh hitting earth.
The leader tilted its head. Something was off.
It barked once—low and guttural—and two more lizards darted off to investigate.
They never came back.