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Whatever the reason, he was grateful. Battling giant snakes while on the run (and protecting a Door Master) wouldn’t be optimal — or an activity he considered fun.

Always the way things went on the Great Plain. Fun never factored in, the entire reason Azlandians didn’t venture here. No one who valued their life risked the inhospitable expanse.

Assentas, though, prided themselves on being braver than most. His kind liked to nibble around the edges, play the odds, and still they remained wary, venturing only so far into the hinterland.

For the most part, the area had been left to wildlings, to the underthings that roamed the open plains and dense forest. Westvane could smell the trees in the distance. The scent of rich loam, leaves, and deep root systems called to him. The aroma opened a yearning so deep, he struggled to keep his pace even. He wanted to lengthen his stride and speed up, but quelled the urge. He couldn’t leave Truly in the dust. Not yet. Maybe, not ever. He was still on the fence, confused about what to do about her, so…

His affinity for woodlands would have to wait.

Especially since the one he approached owned an interesting reputation.

Not much was known about the forest beyond the Great Plains, but rumors abounded. Some said the woods teemed with caustic magic. Others insisted the trees had minds of their own. Westvane only knew what he’d been told — and now scented on the evening breeze.

Running at a steady clip, he scanned the trail ahead. Shadowy edges of woodland rose in the distance. Unnatural power simmered above the canopy, rolling like a slow boil as tall trees stood strong against an endless sky.

Beautiful, formidable, luring weary travelers in, only to kill them.

Westvane huffed. His thoughts had grown fanciful. Perhaps even idiotic. He knew better than to become distracted by a myth. Something Truly would no doubt categorize as an old wives’ tale. A warning to the already wary. A story told to misbehaving children late at night. Viciousness given a name and a place to keep people in line. The promise of violence sufficient enough to keep the greedy away.

Not a bad plan. Clever, all things considered. The land benefited from the lack of outside interference. That didn’t mean, however, all the stories were lies.

Dangerous creatures lived in the treetops, beneath the ground, and hidden in the underbrush. So far, he’d hadn’t seen any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, crouched in the long grass, following his progress, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Westvane already knew a pack of Hyraxes trailed them. He smelled the musk of the rock badgers’ thick fur coats. Scented the funk of acidic saliva in the air. Heard the whisper of venomous claws scraping over compact earth. Not too close to worry about… yet.

So far, the pack had kept a respectable distance. Maintaining the gap. Not rushing in to flank him. Not exploiting the weakness in his group. His strength, the scent he carried on his skin, warned of danger. The Hyraxes smelled him and, like every other creature in his world, reacted with uncertainty.

Not surprising.

Accomplished killers recognized the presence of another, more skilled member of their class. Westvane understood the pack Alpha’s thinking. Proceed with caution. Gather more information. Investigate the potential of his quarry. Assess. Determine. Then attack.

Most predators aligned in the same way, waiting for the right opportunity to increase the odds of a successful kill. Which meant the faster he crossed the plains and navigated the Stepping Stones, the better for Truly. A hungry pack in need of a fresh meal wouldn’t hesitate long. His strength wouldn’t keep the Hyraxes at bay forever.

Tracking the proximity of the pack travelling in their wake via scent, Westvane upped the pace. Truly breathed heavily behind him, the rush raspy and harsh. Remorse simmered through him. He was pushing her too hard, permitting no breaks, making her drink from water pouches on the run. The pace didn’t faze him. He could run for days at greater speed and not tire. He heard Montrose stumble on the uneven trail. Build for speed, not distance, the gargoyle cursed under his breath, quietly protesting the tempo. Truly, however, had yet to utter a single complaint.

Her stoicism surprised him.

Humans, as a group, weren’t known for stamina. Or stalwart attitudes.

As a male born of an Assenta female, he’d taken his lessons seriously as a child. His mother had been thorough in their delivery. Aware his existence was a serious threat to Lyonesse, she armed him with knowledge. From an early age, the lectures began. She’d taught him of Azlandia and all those living in it — people, plants, animals, and creatures. She’d instructed him in the ways of Earthlings. As an Assenta from a lauded family, her education had been extensive. She’d passed on all she knew, making him memorize whole passages, weaponizing his intellect.

Knowledge was power, truth its handmaiden. And according to his mother, humans made terrible teammates.

Most didn’t know how to work together in order to achieve a shared goal. Their thirst for power always got in the way. Obstinate. Quarrelsome. Vain and poisoned by self-interest. His mother had actually used those words to describe those who lived in Earth Realm. But after observing Truly, he suspected his mother might have missed some of the finer points.

Maybe even gotten a few things wrong.

Glancing over his shoulder, Westvane checked to make sure she was still behind him. He clenched his teeth to keep from laughing. He had to give her credit. Even coated with dust and exhausted from exertion, she stayed the course. Breathing hard. Refusing to break stride. Bent, bruised, but nowhere near broken.

Meeting Montrose’s eyes, Westvane tipped his chin. The gargoyle nodded, understanding what he wanted, and lengthened his stride. Montrose narrowed the gap between him and Truly, close enough to protect, far enough away to not impede her run. Westvane sprinted ahead. He needed to find the best spot to enter the Stepping Stones. Some of the rocks would need to be climbed. Others could be skirted, the narrow trails between acting more like labyrinth than path. He wished he could go around the rock field, but avoiding it would take too long.

A week, perhaps. But in all probability, much, much longer.

Wings tucked to his back, he upped his pace. His feathers reacted to the uptick in speed. Wind rustled through the singed plumes. A wave of pain clawed over his back. He clenched his teeth, then dismissed the discomfort, searching for the landmark on the horizon.

There.

In the distance.