42
THE FIRE SCALE
The Fire Scale heaves. It knows this will be its last sleep. It will die before the next Emerging. It will not taste the sky again; now it cannot even fly.
It strikes its talons, deep, into the rock, yellow hooks sharpened by the climb up the face of the alp.
Its claws scrape, shrill against the stone, making handholds for other creatures to hang onto.
It is tired. Very tired. It has not felt altogether awake this Emerging. Maybe it should have died already.
It will be safe in a topmost lair. Safe, safe, safe. The wood is sparse at the top of the Alps. There’s nowhere there for blue-ticked creatures to lie in wait. The Fire Scale can do little else to prevent the Night Beasts eating it.
It hauls its great body onto the craggy mountain peak. There’s a spi
