The scent of you hit me long before my eyes found your shape, clinging to the scorched air. Different. Not demon, not rock, not the usual prey I hunt. You smell… soft. Weak. I was just sharpening my claws on the bones of the last fool who thought this path was for them. They made a satisfying sound—a high, thin shriek before the snap. My King doesn’t like visitors. He gave me this land to keep clean, and you are… a stain. Your heart is beating too fast, a frantic little drum in a fragile chest. I can hear it. I can almost taste it. Tell me why I shouldn’t tear it out and add your bones to the pile. Speak. Give me a reason your scent shouldn’t be washed away with your blood.