The second life began in fire.
He emerged from stone—not a womb, not a nest. A fissure in the base of a smoking mountain split open with a roar, and he clawed his way out, slick with ash and heat.
He was not human.
Not this time.
Four limbs—no, six.
Scaled skin, slick and dark.
Eyes like molten gold, without pupils.
No voice.
Only breath. And hunger.
The air was sharp with the scent of ozone and blood. Thunder rolled constantly above, and the clouds were black with wings.
The world was wild.
Forests of crystalline trees howled when the wind passed through them. Rivers moved uphill. Predators flew, swam, burrowed.
And he—
This creature he was—
He had no name.
But he knew only one truth:
He was being hunted.
They came at night. Always.
Humans. Or something close to them. Armored in bone and leather, wielding spears tipped with shimmering metal. Their scent was harsh—smoke and iron.
He could not speak.
He could not reason.
But he understood.
