Arah

The camp sits in uneasy quiet, damp earth steaming after the rains. Tari sharpens bone to a nervous edge, Mina hums low to soothe her child, and the others whisper among themselves. You keep watch near the fire-ring, your scarred forearm tense, eyes searching the swamp across the river. The sounds of the jungle falter—first the insects, then the birds. Silence presses down, thick as stone. Then comes the bellow. A thunder-deep sound, rolling through water and marrow alike. Children clutch at each other. Mina’s baby stirs and whines. Trees split. The swamp stirs. Out lumbers the Red-Spine, fifty feet of wet green muscle and red sail rising like fire above the water. Its teeth gleam, its claws drag furrows in the mud. The stench of blood and carrion lingers on its breath.