Behind me I hear Morgan emerge from the shelter.
"You should stay inside," I tell her without turning around. “It’s the only dry place.”
"But what if we have to escape?"
"Then I will get you."
A brief silence follows. Then I hear her footsteps squelching through the mud beside me. "This way I’ll be ready."
Earth females possess a fascinating inability to obey reasonable instructions. Morgan has repeatedly demonstrated courage in situations where courage serves no practical purpose whatsoever. Under other circumstances I might even admire the trait. At present it merely complicates matters.
Together we move farther across the island. The ground feels different beneath my feet. Even before I identify the cause, I know something has changed. The island seems narrower somehow, as though the river has crept closer while we were otherwise engaged.
Then lightning flashes again and the damage becomes immediately obvious.
One of the larger trees near the center of the island now leans at a dangerous angle. Fresh earth has vanished from beneath its roots. A wide section of shoreline has collapsed entirely, leaving only a jagged scar where solid ground existed earlier.
Morgan stops beside me. For a moment neither of us speaks while rain pours from the leaves overhead and mud slides steadily into the river below.
"What happened?" she finally asks.
I already know the answer. The creature is learning. Earlier it attempted to climb onto the island. When that failed, it began attacking the shoreline itself. Now it has discovered something even more effective. It isn't trying to reach us anymore. It is dismantling the island piece by piece and allowing the river to do the rest.
The realization is deeply unpleasant. Most predators rely on strength. Some rely on patience. A predator capable of adapting its tactics becomes considerably more troublesome. The beast is no longer behaving like an animal defending territory. It is studying us, identifying weaknesses, and adjusting accordingly.
Morgan follows my gaze toward the leaning tree. "If that comes down, it'll take half the shoreline with it."
"More than half," I say. "The roots are still holding the soil together."
Neither of us says what follows naturally from that observation. We don't need to. Every section of shoreline we lose leaves less island behind. Every day the storm continues makes the problem worse.
For several moments I watch the floodwaters rushing past. The solution should be obvious. I am not trapped here. The river presents no obstacle to me. Neither does the current. The beast is dangerous, but not dangerous enough. If I wished to leave, I could walk directly across the riverbed and quickly reach the mainland.
The problem belongs entirely to Morgan. A dragon without a hoard grows weaker. Every hour matters. Every hour spent on this miserable island delays my return to proper strength. Every hour delays my search for gold. Remaining here serves no useful purpose. So why haven't I left already?
The answer should be simple. Morgan is a human. An unusually stubborn human. A useful travelling companion. An occasional source of unimportant information. A remarkably enthusiastic bedmate. At best a severely lackluster servant. Nothing more.
Yet as I stand there watching the storm, I find myself calculating how long she would survive alone. Not long. The beast would attack again, the shelter might collapse on top of her, the island itself could disappear beneath the floodwaters.
I immediately reject the entire line of thought. Morgan is not my responsibility. Unfortunately, the more often I repeat that fact, the less convincing it becomes. And the longer I watch the floodwaters, the more irritating the situation becomes.
A dragon should never be trapped by geography, even in this cursedly weak form. Mountains can be crossed. Rivers can be crossed. Entire oceans can be crossed if the reward on the far side is sufficiently valuable. The swollen river surrounding the island is unpleasant, but unpleasant things have never possessed the authority to dictate my actions. If I wished to leave, I could walk into the water immediately and reach the mainland long before sunrise.
The realization ought to be reassuring. Instead, I find myself increasingly annoyed.
Beside me, Morgan studies the damaged shoreline while rain runs from her hair and clothing. She has wrapped her arms around herself against the cold, but her attention remains fixed on the sections of ground that have disappeared into the river. Earlier, she would have looked frightened. Now she looks thoughtful. Somewhere during our travels she has apparently become accustomed to disasters. An unfortunate development.
"You are thinking," she says.
I glance at her. "I am aware of my predicament. No dragon should ever have tothink. I’ve had to do it too much as it is on this goldforsaken planet."
"I actually like it when you think." She’s watching me with the confidence of somebody who’s being sincere.
"Thinking is a poor substitute for doing, for acting, for simply taking what my whim tells me I want," I state bitterly. “Having tothinkabout what to do next is utterly degrading.”
Morgan shrugs. "I don’t think so. I can think about this, too."
I scoff. "You have more experience with that, I’m sure."
