Two months passed.
Winter faded into spring without warning. The snow thinned, the river thawed, and the sky stretched longer each day. The forest shed its brittle silence, filling instead with the rustle of wind and the chirping of birds that didn't fear claws or fangs anymore.
For Orion and Tyrunt, the world hadn't gotten easier.
Just louder.
But they were changing too.
Tyrunt was growing.
Not taller—at least not noticeably. But denser. Heavier. More solid. His steps hit the ground with more weight. His movements, once jerky and unsure, had smoothed out into something that felt natural. Wild, yes. But deliberate.
Orion had started training.
Not the League way—not that he had a League license, or a mentor with a training badge—but his own way. The wilderness way.
He started with sprints.
Ten paces. Then twenty.
Tyrunt hated it.
He'd start strong, bounding forward like a boulder with legs, but by the halfway mark, his tongue would loll, his steps would drag, and he'd huff like he'd just chewed through a steel door.
Which, as it turned out, wasn't that far from the truth.
The steel crate had been Reid's.
Empty. Rusted shut.
Orion had hauled it out into the clearing one afternoon for firewood storage.
Tyrunt had taken one look at it, sniffed, and—out of either boredom or spite—clamped down on the corner.
The sound it made was unnatural.
Like someone had twisted a steel beam in a vice.
When Orion turned around, the front of the crate had caved in like a tin can. Tyrunt sat proudly beside it, a jagged hunk of metal still stuck between his teeth.
"You weren't supposed to do that," Orion said, deadpan.
Tyrunt sneezed.
The metal clanged against a rock.
They were getting better at working together.
Not just surviving. Not just feeding and watching and not dying.
But moving. Testing. Building something.
Orion had started measuring everything.
Bite strength was off the charts—not that he had a chart, but Reid's old hunting armor now had a crescent-shaped gouge in the thigh plate from a "light test."
Stamina, though?
Tyrunt could hit like a tank.
But he gassed out fast.
Orion made a note in his journal.
Explosive bursts. No long chases. Train endurance without dulling aggression.
He started taking Tyrunt on longer walks. Climbing small hills. Wading through the river upstream, just deep enough to give resistance. No commands. No rewards. Just movement.
And every time they stopped, Tyrunt looked back at him like, Is that all you've got?
Right before collapsing in the shade and refusing to move for ten minutes.
At night, Orion would sometimes lay back on the cabin roof, journal open on his chest, and listen to Tyrunt snore.
The dragon didn't sleep lightly anymore.
He slept hard, deep, curled tight and warm against the outer wall like a breathing boulder.
And still—not once—had he left.
Not after the fight. Not after being confined in town. Not even when Orion had snapped at him for biting through their water barrel.
He didn't follow because he was trained.
He followed because he chose to stay.
That was worth more than any command.
Reid noticed the shift.
"You're softer with him now," he said one morning, sipping from a chipped mug.
"I'm smarter with him."
"Same thing."
They stood outside the cabin, watching Tyrunt nose around the firewood pile with single-minded focus, as if looking for another excuse to ruin something valuable.
"You're starting to act like someone with a partner."
"I've always had one."
Reid gave him a look.
Orion shrugged.
"He just didn't know it yet."
Later that week, they took a trip down to the riverside trail to check for late-spring traps. Orion walked ahead, staff in hand, not because he expected trouble—but because the wild didn't care what month it was.
Tyrunt trailed a little behind, tongue flicking out every so often to taste the air.
Halfway through the trail, Orion stopped to reset a snare line and spoke without turning.
"Why'd you stay?"
Tyrunt tilted his head.
"I mean, really. I caught you when you were half-dead. Could've run when you got your strength back. Could've tried to eat me. Could've taken off the first time I dropped my guard."
Tyrunt grunted.
Orion tied the knot, tested the tension, and straightened.
"I'm not complaining. Just curious."
Tyrunt sniffed the air again, then wandered a little further upriver to stomp on something that offended him.
Orion laughed under his breath.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
That night, he brought it up to Reid again.
"Why do people go on journeys?"
Reid didn't look up from the blade he was honing.
"To get stronger."
"Is that it?"
"For some. Others want money. Recognition. Freedom."
Orion poked at the fire with a stick.
"Do they always get it?"
Reid finally looked at him.
"No."
"So why do it?"
"Because some of them can't imagine not doing it."
Orion leaned back.
"Would you have?"
"I did."
That made Orion pause.
"You went on a journey?"
"Didn't last long," Reid said. "Got a partner. Went to a few towns. Got into a fight I didn't win. Realized I liked the woods more than the road."
"And the partner?"
Reid glanced outside.
Houndoom's silhouette paced past the window.
Orion nodded.
He didn't ask when he should go.
Not yet.
But the question had planted its roots.
And like everything else in his life lately, it was only going to grow.