The rope bridge swayed gently under Ed's boots as he descended.
Each step sent faint ripples through the hemp strands.
The morning air carried the first sharp edge of rot rising from below.
By the time he reached the forest floor, the smell was unmistakable—thick copper, wet meat, the sour undertone of bile.
Flies already swarmed in black, buzzing clouds around the lesser dragon's ruined body.
The corpse lay sprawled across a wide clearing it had created on the way down.
Wings crumpled like torn parchment.
One forelimb sheared clean at the shoulder.
Throat opened to the spine.
Skull split nearly in two.
Dark blood had pooled beneath it, soaking into the leaf litter and turning the earth black for twenty paces in every direction.
The sheer size of the thing—easily forty feet from snout to tail—made the surrounding trees look almost delicate.
Ed stopped a safe distance away and exhaled through his mouth.
"Nice work, Tia," he muttered.
"You really don't do things halfway."
He circled the carcass slowly, knife already in hand.
The runes along the blade drank the morning light rather than reflected it, leaving faint afterimages in his vision.
Up close, the scales were duller than they had appeared in moonlight—dull crimson mottled with black, cracked in places from impact.
One eye, still open, stared blankly at nothing; the pupil had already begun to cloud.
He crouched beside the severed forelimb.
The cut was mirror-smooth.
Triple Blade Frenzy had left no ragged edges. No splintered bone.
Clean. Efficient. Deadly.
A low growl rumbled from the underbrush to his left.
Ed didn't startle.
He straightened, knife held low and loose, and turned toward the sound.
Three shapes emerged from the thicket—lean, gray-furred, eyes glowing faintly yellow in the dappled light.
Dire wolves.
Larger than any he'd seen in the old days.
Ribs showing beneath patchy pelts. Hunger written in every movement.
The lead animal—scarred across the muzzle—lowered its head and bared yellowed fangs.
"Already?" Ed said quietly.
"You work fast."
The scarred wolf lunged.
Ed sidestepped—clean, economical—and brought the runed knife around in a short arc.
The blade met fur and muscle without resistance.
The wolf's head separated from its shoulders before the body even realized it was dead.
It collapsed in a spray of arterial blood.
The other two froze for half a heartbeat—then charged together.
Ed moved.
He didn't draw on any major exiled skill. Didn't need to.
A century of constant, grinding combat had burned certain reflexes into his bones.
He ducked the first wolf's leap.
Drove his shoulder into its ribs as it sailed past. Something cracked.
The second snapped at his leg.
He twisted, caught its throat in his free hand, and used its momentum to slam it face-first into the dragon's flank.
Bone crunched.
The wolf yelped once—high and sharp—then went limp.
The first wolf staggered back to its feet, ribs caved, breathing wetly.
It tried one last lunge.
Ed met it mid-air with the knife.
The blade punched through the soft underside of its jaw and out the top of its skull.
He twisted once—clinical—then yanked the weapon free as the body dropped.
Silence returned.
Only the flies kept buzzing.
Ed wiped the blade on a patch of unbloodied fur, sheathed it, and looked up toward the treehouse platform far above.
Tia stood at the railing—pale, hair loose around her shoulders, one hand pressed to her chest as though holding her heart in place.
Their eyes met.
She didn't wave. Didn't call down.
She simply watched—steady, unafraid, trusting him to come back.
Ed gave her the smallest nod.
Then he turned back to the dragon carcass.
He had work to do.
He rolled up both sleeves.
Pulled a length of heavy canvas from the wanderer's treasury.
Began the grim business of butchering what could be salvaged.
Scales for armor.
Teeth for trade.
Bones that might be ground into fertilizer or talismans.
Meat too dangerous to eat raw but potentially useful if properly preserved.
Every cut was deliberate. Every motion economical.
He worked steadily for nearly an hour—until sweat soaked his shirt and the worst of the stench had settled into his clothes like a second skin.
When he finally straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, the clearing looked less like a slaughterhouse and more like a strange, organized harvest.
He glanced up again.
Tia was still there.
Still watching.
Ed lifted one blood-streaked hand in a small wave.
She lifted hers in return—slow, certain.
Then she turned and disappeared back inside.
Ed exhaled—long and slow—and began packing the usable parts into the treasury.
He would be back before noon.
And when he returned, they would finally talk about what came next.
Not what had been lost.
What could still be saved.