Before Arthur could inspect the mastiff pens, a low, painful wail echoed from the central forge platform.
The larger of the two Molten-Slag Drakes—the alpha male whose copper feeding pipe Grimm had cut during the duel with Vorn—was in severe breathing distress. The creature lay curled on its side beside the cooling melted rock waste moat, its leathery chest heaving in rapid, shallow spasms that rattled its ribs. Thick, black smoke poured from its nostrils. Its swollen throat sac bulged with a dark, pulsating mass that glowed with sickly orange heat. The beast’s claws were locked in rigid, reflex tetanic contractions, gouging deep trenches into the iron floor plates.
“Arthur, get over here!” Tanya shouted from the narrow high walkway, her rifle slung over her back as she waved him forward. “His throat is swelling shut! The copper pipe broke, but whatever sludge the cult was pumping into him is backing up into his lungs!”
Arthur sprinted across the metal bridge, dropping down beside the thrashing drake.
Grimm was already there. The dread-wolf stood near the drake’s head. That kept his weight anchored to the floor while pressing his black forehead gently against the drake’s scaly brow. Grimm’s old family pack deep ring was the only thing preventing the scared, half-blinded reptile from thrashing itself into the boiling melted rock waste moat. Through the squad link, Arthur could feel Grimm transmitting waves of stoic calm directly into the drake’s agitated nervous system, suppressing the panic reflex that would have triggered…
