Logan didn't stop until he'd put several kilometers of rugged terrain between himself and the robbed thief. He finally ducked into a shallow, natural rock overhang. Gently, he uncoiled his tail and set the egg on the ground before him, examining his prize.
It was a perfect oval, over half a meter long and thirty centimeters wide. The shell was a breathtaking, crystalline sky-blue, as if carved from a single gemstone. When he ran a claw over it, it produced a soft, pleasing, granular sound.
What kind of egg is this? This isn't a common breed.
He tapped the shell lightly with a claw. A hollow tok-tok echoed back. Then, without warning, the egg shuddered.
Crack.
A sharp, clean fissure split the pristine surface.
It's hatching? Now?
Before he could process it, the crack multiplied, spiderwebbing across the entire shell with alarming speed.
As Logan watched, stunned, a wet, canine-like muzzle shoved its way through the fractured shell, twisting and pushing, eager to be free.
What… what is that?
He stared in disbelief. This was supposed to be a dragon egg. Why was there a… puppy head?
The creature was slick with embryonic fluid that glistened in the dim light. It squirmed with surprising strength, its stubby legs kicking, emitting tiny, urgent whimpers. More shell fell away, revealing a round, sturdy body covered in soft, azure-blue scales. A broad, powerful tail unfurled. Most striking were the tufts of dense, snowy-white fur growing across its back, chest, and legs.
A Zinogre… a Zinogre whelp.
His gamer's knowledge clicked into place. He hadn't recognized it at first because the characteristic yellow horns on its head were still just small, soft nubs.
The newborn was soaked and vulnerable. A proper parent would be diligently licking it dry to prevent hypothermia. Logan was neither a parent nor inclined to lick anything. Fortunately, it was a summer night, and hatchlings were naturally hardier than mammalian newborns.
As minutes passed, the whelp's fur began to fluff up as it dried. It struggled onto its feet, wobbling unsteadily, and opened its eyes—a brilliant, electric blue.
It looks like a husky puppy.
The first living thing the newborn saw was Logan. Imprinting was immediate and powerful. It stumbled toward him on clumsy legs, nuzzling its damp head against his forelimb with a soft, trusting whine.
Logan felt a profound sense of exasperation. If this had been an unhatched egg, it would already be digesting in his stomach. Even a slightly older juvenile would have been fair game. But this… this was a helpless, imprinting newborn. He couldn't bring himself to kill it.
While he hesitated, the scent of the whelp's birth fluids, carried on the night breeze, found a receptive audience.
Three pairs of green, phosphorescent eyes snapped open in the darkness nearby. Nostrils flared. The rich, tempting scent of vulnerable newborn flesh was an irresistible beacon.
The lead Velociprey let out a low, guttural chitter. As one, the pack began to move, their slender bodies flowing through the underbrush with predatory grace, closing in on the rock overhang with terrifying speed.
The sound of swift, skittering footsteps on stone snapped Logan from his dilemma. Danger. Immediate and close.
He straightened, his senses sharpening. With a swift motion of his tail, he coiled it around the confused whelp and deposited it deeper into the shadowy recess of the overhang. Then he turned to face the entrance.
In the darkness, three pairs of green eyes gleamed like malevolent embers. Silhouetted by starlight, three Velociprey stepped into view, fanning out to block the only exit.
They swayed their long necks back and forth, beaks agape to reveal rows of needle teeth. Their bladed foreclaws clicked against the stone. Their eyes held a cunning, cruel intelligence.
This is bad.
Logan's scales tightened. In the game, these things were cannon fodder, easily swatted aside by larger monsters. But reality was different. Each was four to five meters long, standing taller than a man. Those bladed forelimbs and hooked hind claws made them as dangerous, pound for pound, as any big cat from his old world.
Alone, he could probably evade them, maybe even pick one off. But with the newborn whelp behind him? Impossible.
He glanced back. The Zinogre whelp huddled in the shadows, its blue eyes wide with innocent confusion and dawning fear. It crept closer, trying to hide behind his hind legs.
If he bolted now, the whelp was dead. If he tried to carry it, the Velociprey's agility would run them down in moments.
That left one option: stand his ground. Use the terrain of the overhang to protect his back. Force the fight into a choke point. Take them on, one by one if possible.
It wasn't a hopeless plan. While he was smaller and outnumbered, his evolved musculature and bone density gave him superior raw strength and faster reflexes. And he had his venomous tail.
Decision made, he dropped into a low, ready stance, weight centered. His tail rose like a living scorpion's sting, coiling defensively above his head, guarding against any pounce from above.
In that moment, silhouetted in the mouth of the cave, he looked like a creature of myth—part lion, part serpent.
The Velociprey's patience, thin to begin with, snapped. With a chorus of shrieking cries, they charged.
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