The mountain air, usually a comforting embrace, felt heavy and cold as Zephyr watched her son, Ancalagon, tussle with his food. “Momma! I don’t want to eat, I want to fly!” he chirped, his tiny dragon wings fluttering impatiently.

Zephyr sighed, a puff of cool air escaping her nostrils. “Ancalagon, if you don’t eat, eventually you won’t be able to fly. You’re a dragon, you have to eat.” It was a constant fight to get him to eat, a battle she usually won with patience and gentle persuasion.

But tonight, her mind was elsewhere, still reeling from the primal pull of her mate, Ishir, the Bengal tiger. Three months ago, she’d met him, known him instantly, and then, in a desperate attempt to protect her life with Ancalagon, she’d fled. Now, after weeks of his insistent roars calling to her, she had finally answered. The raw, demanding passion had been overwhelming, consuming.

As the sun began to peak over the mountains, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Ishir's words echoed in her ears: "Don't ignore my call again, Zephyr. Otherwise, you may find a tiger in your den, and then what will you tell Ancalagon?"

Flying back home, her body still humming with the aftershocks of their union, Zephyr’s thoughts were consumed by Ishir. It wasn’t until the stench hit her—the acrid tang of blood and death—that she realized something was terribly, horribly wrong. Her mountain, her sanctuary, was defiled.

“Ancalagon!” she screamed, her voice tearing through the dawn, but only silence answered. Landing with a ground-shaking thud, she saw them: the fallen mountain goat shifters, their bodies lifeless, a testament to their futile defense. In their den, a horrifying scent lingered: Hunters. And worse, the paralytic she knew from the arenas. Her son was gone.