Chapter 20: The Ashen Threshold

The Sea Panther rocked on an oil-black tide, her timbers groaning under a fractured dawn. Crimson and gold bled across the sky, where dark shapes wheeled high above—pterosaurs, wings cutting the haze, their shrieks faint and sharp. Smoke coiled from the volcano’s mouth—dragon’s breath over a restless sea. Sulfur stung the air, thick and wet.

Ai stood rigid at the rowboat’s bow, black hair lashing her fur-tufted ears. Her grey shirt clung damp to her skin, crimson sash snapping in the wind. Shield on her back, spiked flail at her hip—its chains rattled faintly. She unfurled a map across the bench, fingers tracing faded lines. “The Split Fang,” she said, voice low, eyes on a jagged rock piercing the jungle’s edge.

Kaito rowed, green eyes locked on the shore. His tail flicked, salt-crusted fur bristling. No words—just coiled readiness.

Mako the Blind sat at the stern, staff across his knees, white eyes staring through the void. “The island knows us,” he murmured. “It calls.”

Jiro Ironclaw pulled the other oar. The fever was gone, but the Phantom Pirates’ curse lingered—ghostfire had stripped his fur, leaving him raw, pink, scarred. His skin gleamed sickly in the dawn, a shiver rippling through him as if their spectral hands still gripped. Yet his eyes blazed, unyielding. “I’ll walk that shore,” he’d rasped earlier. Now he rowed like a man clawing out of a grave.

Ash fell like snow. The black-sand beach loomed—bones scattered across it, glinting. Beyond: jungle. Vines choked trees. Red dew dripped. Flowers pulsed in the gloom.

The volcano rumbled. Ai stowed the map, hand brushing her flail.

“Here,” she said. “Split Fang.”

The boat ground into ash-dusted sand. Jiro vaulted out, boots sinking, furless form stark against the dark shore. “Too alive,” he muttered, voice rough, a tremor in his scarred hand.

Kaito leapt after, sword half-drawn. “Tight formation.”

Mako stepped ashore, staff tapping. A pulse echoed from the trees—thump… thump—like a heart underfoot. “The Old Ones’ bones hum,” he said.

Ai adjusted her shield. Kaito flanked right, Jiro left, Mako behind.

Then Shiro emerged. He’d stowed away under the tarp, coiled in rope, ash smearing his fur. His wide eyes darted, breath thin. I can do this, he thought. I will. He trailed them, silent as a shadow.

The jungle swallowed them. Heat pressed close. Ferns grazed Ai’s legs, slick with sap. Shadows twitched—then stilled. Ash glittered down.

That thudding grew. Deep. Steady. The earth inhaled.

Ai’s grip tightened on her flail. Jiro’s jaw clenched, a phantom burn flaring under his skin. Kaito’s blade slid free. Mako froze, head cocked.

Shiro’s pulse raced, feet rooted.

A sudden gust lifted Ai’s hair, the faintest shriek from above rattling her bones. She stiffened, eyes darting skyward, but saw nothing through the thick canopy.

Mako’s voice was quiet, heavy with knowing. “The pterosaurs circle. We are not alone.”

The thudding intensified—closer, louder now. A crack split the air—wood snapping, vines tearing. Far ahead, through the tangle of leaves, something massive moved. Trees shuddered, bowing aside. A flash of scales, dull green and scarred, caught the dim light. Then a glimpse—jaws, long and jagged, parting the canopy. A low bellow rolled through, shaking the ground. It was distant, half-seen, but coming closer, crushing through the rainforest with deliberate, earth-shaking steps.

The island had unleashed its king.

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