A faint crack echoed through the room.
The sound was small, but my heartbeat spiked instantly. I leaned forward without realizing it—then stopped myself. I had learned not to expect miracles.
The crack widened.
The egg trembled, rocking violently before tipping over. Something inside rammed against the shell again and again until part of it finally gave way.
A small, dark head forced itself out.
With a clumsy shove, the creature tumbled free, half-covered in broken shell. It kicked instinctively, scraping against the floor until it fully escaped its prison. For a moment, it lay still, its chest rising and falling rapidly.
Then it moved.
What emerged wasn't a clean shape—it looked unfinished.
Its body was black, the hide matte rather than glossy. Six legs stretched beneath it: four arranged like a horse's, with an additional leg placed slightly ahead of the front pair and another behind the rear. Those extra limbs were thinner, awkward, clearly meant for balance rather than power.
It tried to stand.
Its legs shook violently. It collapsed.
It tried again.
Brownish-red eyes opened—clouded, unfocused. They locked onto me not with recognition, but instinct. Small, blunt horns protruded from the sides of its head, barely formed.
I stepped forward without thinking.
Duracal stopped me with a hand to my chest.
"Not yet," he said quietly.
I froze.
The creature pushed itself up once more. It adjusted its stance clumsily, legs splaying outward, then inward. Finally—trembling but upright—it took a single step.
Then another.
After a few unsteady paces, it turned and limped back toward the broken shell. Without hesitation, it began chewing on it, crunching loudly.
Duracal spoke only once.
"Egg-born creatures do that."
That was all.
I watched in silence.
It was small—barely the size of my foot. Weak. Unbalanced. Nothing about it suggested strength yet.
And that, oddly enough, reassured me.
When it finished eating, I moved closer—slowly.
The moment my hand entered its reach, it snapped.
Pain flared as teeth closed around my finger. I pulled back sharply, blood beading at the skin.
The creature hissed and retreated, its body tense.
Duracal didn't react.
"It doesn't know you," he said. "Give it time."
I nodded, clenching my hand.
So this was how it would be.
I stayed at the shop that day, helping Duracal while keeping the creature within sight. It spent hours stumbling around the room, occasionally ramming into walls or furniture. Each time it fell, it got back up—slightly steadier than before.
When it came time to feed it, I experimented.
Vegetables were accepted, but barely tolerated. Then I placed a small portion of fried wolf meat—left over from my mercenary test—on the floor and stepped back.
The reaction was immediate.
It lunged forward, devouring the meat with frantic energy.
Monster meat.
That explained enough.
Later, when I set down another portion, it approached cautiously instead of attacking. After eating, it lingered nearby—but didn't touch me.
Not yet.
That was fine.
I didn't force it.
That night, I set up a small space for it near the workshop, separate from my bed. I watched as it curled up awkwardly, legs tucked beneath its body, eyes half-open even as it rested.
Still wary.
Still alive.
I lay down, exhaustion finally pulling at me.
Sleep didn't come immediately.
Across the room, I could still see its eyes—open, watching, unblinking in the dim light.
I exhaled slowly.
Rusty, I thought.
The name felt right.
The creature didn't react.
I turned my face away and let sleep take me.
The creature twitched—but didn't flee.
That was enough for now.
I lay there alone, listening to its breathing from across the room.
This wasn't a bond.
Not yet.
But it was a beginning.