The creature roars. A wave crashes across the remaining shoreline hard enough to soak my legs, and for several long seconds I can do nothing except watch and hope that the dragon who has repeatedly demonstrated impossible levels of competence remains as impossible as I've begun to believe.
When the water finally settles enough for me to see again, the outcome is obvious.
The monster has resurfaced farther downstream, its head tilted slightly to one side as it stares back toward the island. Vyrathion stands waist-deep in the floodwater watching it, looking completely unconcerned. Neither moves.
Rain continues hammering down between them while the river rushes past, and eventually the creature submerges and vanishes into the darkness. Only after several more seconds pass without any sign of its return does Vyrathion climb back onto the island.
As he approaches, I find myself looking around at the damage instead of at him. Large sections of shoreline are simply gone. The island isn't dramatically smaller than it was an hour earlier, yet I can feel the difference.
Earlier, the shrinking was an abstract concern. Now I can point to specific places where ground existed and no longer does. Somehow that makes the situation feel worse. A sudden catastrophe gives you very little time to think. Watching a disaster arrive piece by piece leaves plenty of opportunity to imagine where the process ends.
“Hopefully it will stay away now,” Vyrathion says, flicking a speck of dirt off his pants with obvious disgust.
Back inside the shelter, the atmosphere feels completely different. The stories about distant worlds are over, and even the memory of them seems strangely far away now.
Rain roars steadily overhead while the three of us settle back into our previous places. Clyde eventually curls up nearby, although I notice that he keeps glancing toward the entrance as if he expects the monster to come crashing through at any moment.
For several minutes nobody speaks. I find myself studying the shelter with new appreciation. Earlier it seemed crude, cramped, and entirely ridiculous. Now I'm painfully aware that it represents our entire survival strategy. We have one shelter, one rapidly shrinking island, and one enormous predator waiting in the river beyond. Looking at the situation that way does very little to improve my mood.
"What if we're trapped here for days?" I finally ask.
Vyrathion doesn't answer immediately. He sits staring at the shelter wall while rain patters against the roof overhead, and the length of the silence makes me wonder whether he's trying to formulate a reassuring lie. When he finally speaks, his voice lacks its usual confidence.
"You’ll be trapped. I won’t."
I don’t want to check too carefully what he means. It could mean that he will just leave if he gets bored. That’s the most likely outcome here. But it could, if I twist my mind just a little, mean that he will be able to leave the island and come back with, say, clean water and berries and fruits for me.
Vyrathion prefers solving problems through overwhelming force, overwhelming confidence, or some combination of thetwo. Hearing him acknowledge uncertainty makes the situation feel more serious than the collapsing shoreline ever did.
Unfortunately, I can't disagree with him. The storm shows no sign of ending. The river remains impossible to cross. The monster is still somewhere out there in the darkness. For the first time since reaching the island, I begin considering the possibility that I might be stranded here much longer than either of us wants.
Night settles over the island gradually. The rain beyond the entrance becomes a shifting wall of darkness, and the temperature drops enough that I eventually stop pretending not to notice it. My clothes remain damp despite hours beneath the shelter, and every passing hour seems to pull a little more warmth from my body.
I try ignoring the chill. My body ignores my decision.
A shiver runs through me, followed by another a few moments later. I fold my arms across my chest and attempt to look perfectly comfortable, which might have worked if Vyrathion were blind.
"You are cold,” Vyrathion says. “Have we seriously found yet another need you have? The need for warmth? As if there weren’t enough already!”
"You figured it out," I admit. “I need some warmth to stay alive. Usually not a problem in the jungle, but it’s never rained like this.”
"I see. Your list of needs is growing."
I rub my upper arms. "Did you see me shivering?"
"It is, in fairness, not very hard to spot. And you are staying astonishingly close to me, as if you want me to notice."
I roll my eyes, but another shiver betrays me before I can continue. Vyrathion watches for several seconds with the expression of someone reluctantly accepting an unavoidable responsibility.
Eventually he sighs. "Come here."
I blink at him. "What?"
"You are losing heat." The speed of the explanation suggests he's prepared it in advance.
"It’s difficult to stop."
"Then come here," he repeats. "You will warm up more quickly."
