I rip through the air, smashing my tail against myself where the bends in space allow it. The simple action increasing my speed tenfold. It still won’t be enough. The ascalaphus will reach the sciacylch long before I do now that the bat has stopped.

The damn owl’s eyes stare into mine as I rush forward, gloating its victory. It doesn’t hesitate despite my presence. Ascalaphi never do. They are far too assured of their own survival, no matter the circumstances.

Before either of us reach it, the sciacylch does something strange. It creates a bend around itself, but the bend is inexplicable. In no way would I call this normal. This is closer to the warping of space I witnessed with the Titan. Not the same — not even close — but the bat twists the space around itself until it folds over and the little sciacylch disappears.

Only by looking closely do I realise there is far more space in the tight confines of this cave than I previously realised. Maybe it’s because I watched the bat fold space, but hints that I never paid much attention to finally form properly in my mind.

The space in this cave ripples intensely. Like the churning waves of water frozen in place by a shrewdness of apikulls. I’ve never noticed it, but now that I have witnessed its creation, I can see within.

Hidden away in this unassuming cavern, are a colony of sciacylch. Small sections of wall have been bent and spread into layers which offer the hundreds of bats a place to hang from.

Even to my true-sight, the image is difficult to parse. I knew Scia’s ability to force the creation of spatial bends was incredible, but I didn’t know her kind was capable of this much. Are they only able to achieve such morphed space because of their numbers?

I can see within their home, but there is no visible way to enter. The sciacylch have entirely blocked themselves off from the rest of space. Is this why I’ve not seen their species prior to Scia? If they can hide away so perfectly, nothing could disturb them.

It makes me question — again — how Scia got caught in the first place.

But the hidden bat colony does explain why the fleeing bat didn’t cross my path. If even my superior true-sight barely pierces their obscurement, then the ascalaphus has no chance. The owl’s head twists, eyes searching as it enters the chamber, obviously unable to find the sciacylch. While its eyes look for its prey, the bird flies straight. Its wings flap, but no sound escapes the feathers.

Not for an instant does the ascalaphus deviate from its course. It knows the last place it saw the sciacylch and darts toward it.

Knowing the bat and the rest of its kin are hidden in their pocket of space, I don’t worry. The owl cannot enter, so I just need to strike at it while it wallows in confusion.

That is the plan… at least until the ascalaphus explodes into mist. I stare, uncomprehending, as the bird now exists inside the sciacylch pocket. Space didn’t fold for it like the bat, nor was there anywhere for it to enter. No, it simply appeared amongst the tiny mammals like that’s where it was meant to be. An echo of itself.

Chaos erupts amongst the sciacylch. One moment they are unbothered; confident in their safety. The next, terror ripples through their colony. Each and every one of the hundreds of bats are up and blinking around. Many avoid the predatory jaws that appear amongst them, but others are not so lucky. In a single motion, the owl snaps up half a dozen sciacylch and swallows them whole.

The lucky ones die in its beak. The unlucky ones don’t.

On my head, Scia shrieks in despair. I’m close now, but there is no path for me inside. Unlike whatever the owl did to enter, I do not have such capability. Instead, I’m forced to circle the folded space, unable to assist Scia’s kin as they are eaten by what must be their natural predator.

Only when the combined efforts of all the panicked bats collapse the folded space back into its normal state, can I strike at the owl. The sciacylch blink away from me, treating me much the same as the ascalaphus. Diving through a bend that takes me right on top of the bird, I snap my jaw shut. It makes a deafening clap that muffles the shrieks of the bats, but I collect nothing in my mouth.

The ascalaphus saw me coming, and diverted out of the way, snapping up another easy meal in the same motion.

I slither through the air, unbothered by my failed attempt. The owl regards me as I it. Its eyes follow my movements and I can pinpoint the moment it regulates me as something to avoid. When it does, it flaps hard, soaring into the furthest bend from me.

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Maybe I would let it go if it gave up the meal it already took, but ascalaphi are arrogant. Despite knowing I’m too much for it to take on directly, it doesn’t forfeit its prey. The bird follows after the colony of Scia’s kin.

I flash it with my presence, limiting myself so that the sciacylch are unaffected. The bird freezes. Its limbs lock in motion and cannot fight against the deep, instinctual terror my pressure inflicts. I snap through a distortion, my fangs crash into the neck of the flying beast without hesitation, but they slide through air. The ascalaphus devolves into a cloud of mist, again.

Behind me, the owl twirls in the air, doing its best to fly away. No longer is it held by the terror of my pressure.

This is the most annoying thing about these creatures; they are just as inflicted by presence as any lesser beast, but they can break free easier than any other. Unlike powerful predators, they gain no resistance over time. I can freeze them as often as I’d like, but they just flush the terror from their system without a moment’s delay. As if they can recreate themselves in an unaffected state.

At least it’s further from its prey now. Unfortunately, I catch its eyes following the swarm of sciacylch. Despite my intervention, it’s still determined to hunt them down.

Arrogant.

Even without Scia’s urging, I’ll do whatever I can to end this ascalaphus. Nothing is allowed to ignore me as a threat.

Except Scia.

… And the Titan.

But all others will learn just why it is a mistake to underestimate me.

I follow the owl. For now, my body moves with slow, confident slithers, placing myself between it and any path it has to the sciacylch. I make sure the bird knows I’m not giving up on the chase with the occasional long, droning hiss. With each resounding sound, the owl’s feathers stiffen and stand on end. A rather satisfying sight.

The creature is far faster than me. Despite that, it dares not attempt to pass too close in any attempt on the bats. It knows only death awaits.

In the large, undistorted cavern above the Labyrinthine Passages, simply placing myself between the predator and its prey would be enough to gradually widen the distance. But this is the warped tunnels; as long as we are continually moving, the distortions allow options for the bird to reach the bats. While I know which options I need to cover, it requires my timing and movement to be perfect, while also adapting on the fly. Such an effort prevents me making a move myself.

That is fine. Slow and meaningful movements may not bring me toward the ascalaphus, but it gives me time to analyse its movements. I watch and wait, learning its habits, its preferences when choosing paths.

One thing I note is that any time I give it space to pass me, it will still avoid me and take a less optimal path. Baiting it in doesn’t work.

The bird is patient. It continues flying out of my range while endlessly searching for a path I haven’t already seen. But despite how long we remain stuck in this back and forth, the owl never gives up. Its eyes continue to hunger for Scia’s kin. Each glance my way declares its determination to come out on top, despite its weakness.

Once I’m comfortable with the way it moves — the way it sometimes pierces through distortions as if they weren’t there and tries to throw me off with echoes of itself — I move on to pressing it. While never giving it the opportunity to pass, I begin lacing each of my hisses with presence.

Now, each and every time I flood its body with the weight of my power, it collapses. The bird explodes in a silent pulse of air and mist. Every collapse is followed by the owl reforming. It takes me almost a dozen attempts to realise that each time the ascalaphus reforms, it does so beyond a bend it just passed.

The discovery remains consistent no matter how many times it repeats. While I have no idea how it does so, it’s almost as if the moment it travels through a bend or pierces it, an invisible echo of itself is created that does the opposite. At will, it can abandon its form and take the echo as its new body.

When I finalise my tactic and act, it is immediately obvious to those watching. The ascalaphus eyes me while Scia chirps a cheer to show her support. I slither off track, giving the owl all the space it could need to attack the colony. But it doesn’t take the opportunity. Its wide eyes stick to me, wary of my sudden change of approach.

When the owl passes through a hole, I thread through one of my own, reaching the area behind the one they passed. The foolish creature doesn’t realise my plan even as I crush its body with the overpowering strength of my presence. It doesn’t think, it simply escapes the terror permeating its form. I open my jaw, and snap down. Fangs pierce feathers.

The owl shrieks. A high-pitched howl louder than anything that small has a right to make. The ascalaphus, in its thoughtless fear, reformed right between my jaws.

Unlike any other creature I’ve bitten, my long fangs do not hold it still. The bird slaps its wings at the side of my head and pulls its body from my mouth. Through the bottom half of its chest, and the entire length of its tail, the owl has two long puncture wounds from my fangs. But instead of blood, bone and muscle, only broken air fills the wound and body.

So the owl is an elemental? Didn’t think its binding was so high.

This ascalaphus’ body is of a rare type. Not made of flesh, but something far less tangible. Despite that, my attack still left it hurt.

A mixture of mist and condensed air billows out from the wounds cutting open the not-so-solid creature. Uninjured wings carry it away while it lets out a pained wail that echoes endlessly through the surroundings.

An injury like this, the bird half torn apart, would be enough to kill most creatures. But an elemental can survive worse.

Some creatures like the ascalaphi can take on aspects of elements, but I didn’t think the owls were elementals; those with twisted bodies lacking meat. I thought the airy feathers were simply a connection, like the diosgri have with lightning, or the apikulls with ice.

I dislike elementals. They are hard to kill, and harder to eat.

But eating isn’t why I’m hunting this owl. Plus, considering how the elemental’s chest and tail haven’t reformed immediately, this won’t be the worst I’ve faced. I can kill it without resorting to some more… undesirable options.

The bird is flying again, and I’m not so certain it will fall for the same trick.