The trail did not care that Crispin's life had come apart.
It did not slow for him or ask questions. It continued as it always had—packed dirt, roots, and stone cutting through the Appalachian forest with the quiet indifference of something older than memory.
Crispin walked.
The heavy pack rested on his shoulders, not because he overloaded it, but because his body still hadn't decided if it was a good idea. Muscles protested with every step. His boots were new. His calves burned as the trail climbed, and his breathing grew shallow.
He welcomed it.
Pain was honest. Pain did not pretend things were fine.
The forest thickened as the afternoon wore on. Oak, maple, and pine crowded together overhead, knitting the light into a muted green haze. The air smelled of damp earth, old growth, and the faint mineral tang of stone beneath the soil.
Other hikers passed him.
A couple early on, laughing and sunburned, moving with the confidence of people who had planned this together. Later, a solo hiker nodded once and continued on without breaking stride, eyes already fixed on miles Crispin could not see.
He liked those moments best.
No one asked anything of him. He did not talk about the job he had lost when the company "restructured." He did not talk about the apartment he could no longer afford or the way his girlfriend had looked at him like he was already gone weeks before she finally said it out loud.
Out here, none of that mattered.
Only the next step. The next breath. The steady rhythm of movement.
By late afternoon, the trail angled upward into rockier terrain. Stone showed through the soil like exposed bone, and the light shifted as the sun dropped lower, shadows stretching long between the trees.
A sound rolled up from somewhere off the trail.
Stone grinding against stone.
Crispin slowed and listened.
It came again, deeper this time, echoing faintly as if something large had shifted far below the surface. He glanced toward the slope rising to his left, where weathered warning signs marked abandoned mining tunnels and collapsed caverns.
Probably loose rock. Maybe a bear.
The Appalachians were old. Old things made noise.
He moved on.
Dusk settled quickly.
He found the spring just before dark, clear water trickling up between two stones before pooling shallow and slipping away downslope. Ferns clustered thick around it, their leaves beaded with moisture. The ground nearby was flat and sheltered.
Good enough.
He shrugged off his pack and set to work, motions automatic—stakes driven, poles set, fabric pulled taut. The small ritual steadied him. Each action had a purpose. Each task ended cleanly.
Dinner was simple. A dehydrated meal eaten slowly while insects filled the dark with sound. The spring murmured beside him, steady and constant.
When the last light vanished, Crispin crawled into his tent.
The dark out here was different. Not empty. Not silent. Just full.
Sleep came easily.
The sound that woke him was violent.
The tent collapsed inward as something slammed into it, fabric tearing and poles snapping in the same instant. Crispin barely had time to gasp before teeth closed around his torso.
Not crushing. Not biting.
Holding.
Air tore from his lungs as he was yanked free of the wreckage. His back scraped against earth and stone before the ground vanished beneath him entirely.
Darkness swallowed him.
Heat hit first, followed by the wet reek of iron and something ancient and alive. His face pressed against slick, muscular flesh, saliva coating his skin as he was carried through open air. Panic surged as his muffled scream disappeared between jaws lined with curved blades.
It was not eating him.
That realization cut through the terror with horrifying clarity. Whatever had taken him was carrying him—intentionally.
The motion changed, controlled and powerful, like falling and gliding at the same time. Wind roared past his ears. His body swung with each stride as they descended along something vast and sloping.
Then light erupted around them.
Gold and red flared as they burst into an immense chamber carved from stone veined with molten mineral. Heat rolled through the space in heavy waves.
The creature released him.
Crispin hit the ground hard and rolled across packed earth and ash before scrambling backward, lungs burning as air finally rushed back into his body.
It loomed over him.
Its head alone was longer than his body, crowned with ridges that glowed faintly in the firelight. Bronze-gold plates caught the glow as steam poured from its nostrils with every breath.
It lowered its head and sniffed him once, then again.
Then it settled.
Its massive chest pressed down over him, not crushing, not suffocating—just holding him in place as heat flooded his body. At first it was bearable, almost comforting. Then the warmth intensified, climbing fast into agony.
His clothes smoked. Fire crawled across his skin and then into him, flooding his veins, his bones, his heart. Crispin screamed as the world dissolved into white-hot pain.
[DRACONIC LEGACY SYSTEM ACTIVATION]
Host Status: Human (Unstable)
Compatibility: Confirmed
Lineage Imprint: Detected
The fire was no longer outside him.
It was inside him.
[REBIRTH SEQUENCE ENGAGED]
Form Integrity: Failing
Adaptive Override: Active
Ancestral Memory: Unlocking
Crispin did not understand. He did not have time. The fire consumed him.
Darkness followed, and something ancient, patient, and vast recognized its blood.