​​​Chapter 3: The Whispers in the Canyons​

Aurora‌
The silence of the Barrens was a lie. It was not an absence of sound, but a tapestry woven from subtle, threatening threads: the skittering of claws on stone, the dry rustle of something moving through the brittle grass, the distant, mournful cry of a plains strider. Kaelen moved through it like a ghost, his hooves placing themselves with a caution that felt both learned and innate.
He had found a muddy waterhole, drinking deeply of the bitter water alongside a pair of neutral-eyed gazelles. They had tolerated his presence, a shared, unspoken understanding of thirst overriding natural instincts. It was the closest thing to companionship he had known.
His path now led him into a network of deeper canyons, the walls rising high and steep on either side, stained a deep, bloody ochre. The air grew cooler, carrying a new scent—a mix of dry rot, strange spices, and something vaguely reptilian. This was dry, dusty, yet somehow oppressive. Whispers seemed to echo just at the edge of his hearing, not in any language he knew, but sibilant, mocking tones that raised the coarse hairs on his back.
He rounded a bend and stopped.
The canyon opened into a wider area. And it was full of them.
They were slender, bipedal creatures with green scales and crests on their heads. Their eyes were slitted and intelligent, glowing with a faint, amber light. Lizards. But they walked and carried tools. They chattered amongst themselves in hissing tones, moving with a quick, jerky grace. They were building, or digging. Some were piling stones into crude altars, while others were painting strange, angular symbols on the canyon walls with a thick, dark paste.
Kaelen stood transfixed, hidden in the shadow of a large boulder. He wasn't the only one watching. Across the clearing, partially concealed, he saw a tall, cloaked figure. It was slender, with pale skin and long, pointed ears. A blood elf. The elf held a glowing crystal in one hand, its light pulsing softly as it observed the lizard-folk. A scout.
One of the lizard creatures, larger than the others and adorned with feathers and bones, suddenly stopped its work. Its head snapped up, its nostrils flaring. It wasn't looking at the blood elf. It was looking directly at Kaelen's hiding place.
It let out a sharp, barking hiss. The chatter in the clearing ceased instantly. Dozens of slitted eyes turned toward the boulder.
The blood elf, seeing the distraction, melted back into the shadows of the canyon, gone in an instant.
The feathered lizard-man pointed a clawed finger and hissed a command.
This was not the blind aggression of the orc or the righteous fury of the paladin. This was something colder, more calculating. It was the anger of a secret being discovered. Kaelen had stumbled into a place he was not meant to be.
He backed away, but the canyon behind him was narrow. There was no room to run, not with the speed he needed.
The lizard-folk advanced, not with a reckless charge, but with a slow, spreading fan, cutting off his escape routes. They held not just spears, but curved blades and nets. They were hunters, and this was a coordinated hunt.
Panic, now a familiar companion, tightened his chest. He was cornered. He looked around wildly. The canyon walls were too steep to climb. There was only one way: forward, through them.
With a desperate cry that was half-boy, half-beast, he lowered his head and charged. It was not an attack of skill, but one of sheer, terrified momentum. He barreled into the line of creatures, his massive body bowling over the first two. A spear glanced off his shoulder, a sharp, stinging pain. A net was thrown, but he thrashed through it, the ropes snapping against his strength.
He didn't fight. He plowed through, a force of nature, scattering the smaller creatures. Hisses of surprise and anger filled the air. He felt a blade slice along his hindquarter, a hot line of fire. He didn't stop.
He burst through their line and into a narrower passage, running blindly, the enraged hisses of the lizard-folk echoing behind him, promising a slow and cunning death if they caught him. He had not been chased by brutes or soldiers this time. He had been expelled by zealots, and the memory of their cold, intelligent eyes was, in its own way, more frightening than any axe or arrow.