Idalia was certain of one thing: she had never hated a creature so quickly in all her short, spark-filled life.

  That boy, that hairless, soft-skinned, two-legged thing, had stolen her kill, her glory, her moment of triumph! And then had the gall to look bored about it.

  She had fought tooth and claw, torn through Troodons with effort and pride, and here he came, flicking his wrist and dropping her enemies like overripe fruit. Unacceptable! She was going to make him pay for it, one scratch at a time.

  Lyrawinn was busy finishing off the Troodon leader which, for the record, had taken a very kinetic tumble down a small slope and was currently being pinned by her claws. She flicked an ear back. "Ida," she said, panting but amused, "let him go. He's no threat."

  "No threat?" Idalia's fur puffed up so hard she looked like a spiky puffball with claws. "He punched a Troodon so hard its ancestors felt it! He's a menace! He's a— he's a— prey thief!"

  Lyrawinn continued with a soft, "You sound like a hatchling whose lunch got stolen by a vulture."

  "That vulture," Idalia hissed, "is carrying my meal in each hand!"

  Indeed, the boy didn't seem to notice her fury. He bent down to drag the limp Troodons behind him, humming softly to himself, not a care in the world.

  The sound grated on Idalia's ears like bone scraping stone. She despised how his shoulders were too relaxed, his back completely turned, as though the idea of danger—or of an irate Liorex charging him—did not exist in his universe.

  She finally had enough. "Come back here, prey thief!"

  With abandon she leapt, claws outstretched, fully ready to leave clawed reminders of her wrath across that smooth, smug back. But her strike never landed.

  He blurred faster than a blink.

  The air crackled where he had stood. Idalia hit the dirt with a startled grunt, rolling and springing back up in the same heartbeat. Her pupils widened, her breath sharp with confusion.

  He had vanished.

  Idalia searched, [Spatial Sight] flickering alive within her mind. The world unfolded in outlines and traces of energy. She saw faint heat images of movement bending through the space continent itself. She scanned everywhere—trees, air currents, the faint vibration of footsteps—yet somehow, he didn't appear.

  Not above, not below, not through any dimension her senses could pierce.

  Then she smelled it. A faint trace of strange ozone and something electric.

  Behind her.

  She spun sharply. The boy stood there again, calm as a stone, holding both Troodon corpses by their tails. Not even breathing heavily.

  He had reached the edge of the clearing, plopped the two Troodons down beside a tree, crouched, and started poking them with a stick.

  Idalia slowed, confused. What kind of barbaric ritual was this?

  "Don't you dare!" she shouted, bounding closer. "Those are mine! I earned them fair and—wait—what are you doing?"

  The boy didn't even flinch. He jabbed the Troodon's snout again, as if testing its squishiness. The boy straightened, brushing his hands off as if he'd just done something very ordinary, like moving firewood. Then he looked at her. His golden eyes met hers again, calm, utterly unimpressed.

  Idalia's fur bristled. He wasn't even that tall. He barely stood twice the height past her shoulder, yet somehow, his presence pressed against her like a storm front rolling in from the east.

  His golden, steady, detached eyes turned back to the Troodons. The nerve.

  "Give. Them. Back," she growled.

  No response. The boy's gaze didn't even waver.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Idalia lunged. This time, she was sure she'd hit him. No tricks. No disappearing.

  But then he moved. Not fast. Just impossibly efficient. Instant. His leg lifted slightly, and with a lazy precision that mocked her every effort, his foot came down and pressed against her forehead mid-leap.

  The pressure wasn't painful, but it forced her head straight into the ground. The indignity of it burned hotter than fire.

  He stepped over her like one might a small obstacle in the road, his balance unshaken. She lay there, momentarily too stunned to breathe, then twisted up with a furious hiss.

  "Don't you walk away from me!"

  He kept walking.

  That calm, unhurried stride only made it worse. Each step was slow, deliberate, the kind taken by predators right before the strike.

  Idalia froze, her instincts twitching with unease. Something about those movements wasn't just practiced. It was natural. Too natural.

  And then, the air changed.

  A low hum rippled through the field, faint at first, then stronger, rising like a current. Idalia's fur lifted as static tickled her skin. The scent of ozone sharpened until it stung her nose. She saw it at first as a flicker, then a blaze. Blue-white light danced along his arm, forming into a slender coil that crackled and hissed like a caged storm.

  Lightning. That's what it was. The boy had conjured lightning and molded it around his arms as if they were snakes attracted to each limb.

  Idalia gawked. Her tail went rigid. "What… what is that?!"

  He didn't answer. He only turned slightly toward Lyrawinn, who had just slammed the Troodon leader into the ground. The golden Liorex looked up, breathing hard, muscles gleaming under her fur, her claws still dripping with battle.

  The boy tilted his head at her, an almost curious motion, and took one, two, three steps forward.

  Lyrawinn's ears flicked back. She straightened, cautious but proud. "You interfere with my battle, little Wanderan?"

  No answer again. Just that slow advance, the lightning humming louder. Idalia recognized those steps now. They weren't careless. They weren't lazy. They were the heavy, coiled movements of something about to strike. The kind a seasoned predator took when deciding where to bite.

  Lyrawinn's claws flexed. She was no coward, but Idalia saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The air felt charged enough to singe fur.

  "Lyra," Idalia whispered. "He's… not normal."

  The boy stopped just short of Lyrawinn. The wind around him buzzed, the ground hissed under the current. Lyrawinn bared her fangs, lifting her chin in defiance, but Idalia could feel the sheer unnatural power rolling off the boy in waves.

  He wasn't big. He wasn't built like a warrior. But his presence bent the air, as though the world itself knew not to touch him.

  Lyrawinn's tail flicked uncertainly. "What manner of Wanderan are you?" she demanded, her voice low and wary.

  The boy blinked. The lightning on his limbs crackled, flaring brighter for an instant, illuminating his unreadable face.

  Lyrawinn's warning roar split the air just as Idalia leapt for the boy's back. Then the boy had the gall to swipe Idalia up by the scruff of her neck mid-leap. Like she was a stray kit who'd wandered too close to a cookfire.

  "Let—me—go!" Idalia screeched, limbs flailing in all directions like a wind-spooked spider.

  The boy didn't answer. He simply turned his head to look at Lyrawinn. And that, that was when he made the mistake.

  Lyrawinn moved.

  A golden blur crashed toward him, claws cleaving the air. Idalia let out a squeak of sheer disbelief. She'd seen mountains quake slower than Lyrawinn's charge.

  But the boy didn't step back. He didn't do anything, really! Just shifted his weight, like he was about to dodge a lazy breeze.

  Lyrawinn's paw came down, and somehow, impossibly, he caught it. Not stopped it, not blocked it! Redirected it. He turned with her force, twisted at the hips, and used her own momentum to spin her clean off balance.

  Idalia yelped as she was tossed free in the motion, landing squarely in a bush.

  There was a crash. Dust. A growl that could melt bone.

  When the haze cleared, Lyrawinn was on her side, blinking up at the sky as though trying to recall how gravity worked. The boy stood a few paces away, steady as a tree in the wind, his hair lifting faintly as if the air itself bent around him.

  Idalia's mouth hung open. "He threw Lyra? He threw Lyra! Impossible! No one throws Lyra except maybe other Liorexes! Or big longnecks!"

  Lightning crackled again.

  Idalia's eyes widened as a thin stick of yellow light danced between the boy's fingers. It stretched, snapped, then coalesced into what could only be described as a lightning stick with sharp edges.

  A stick made of pure storm, humming softly like it was alive.

  "Oh stars," she whispered. "He made a lightning stick. He made a lightning stick with his hand."

  Lyrawinn stirred, shaking her mane, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What… are you?" she demanded.

  The boy didn't answer. He took a step forward. Then another.

  Slow, deliberate steps that thudded in Idalia's chest. Steps she recognized instantly. Those of a predator, closing in for the strike.

  Lyrawinn tensed, her claws digging into the dirt as she rose, though Idalia could see the tremor in her limbs. She'd fought Stegos and felled them. Troodons had been toppled by her, their leader vanquished. But now she stared at this boy like he was the storm that would unmake her.

  And still he came. Never stopping. Idalia's ears flattened, her instincts shrieking at her to run, yet her paws refused to move.

  There had to be a reason this little guy was so strong. Idalia knew she had to stop him before he could harm Lyrawinn.

  Then the world exploded with a flash as the boy charged.

  Lightning swallowed the clearing. Trees bent as if bowing to the surge. Idalia barely caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were no longer golden, but white-hot, threaded with light.

  And beneath that glow, for a split second, she saw it: not a boy at all, but something vast, old, and bound behind that human shape. Almost monster.