Kuparr

The first week of May brought sharp mornings and shorter days, but the midday sun still held enough heat to stir Kuparr from his cave and draw him out to bask. He lay stretched across the sun-bleached surface of a wide, flat rock, his dark scales soaking in the warmth. His eyes were half-lidded, tongue flicking lazily at the air, senses relaxed for once. He would need every bit of warmth he could store. He could feel the season turning. He could feel it in his blood, thicker in his veins, slower to rise.

Six more weeks until brumation. Six more weeks until he'd have to drag himself back to his family's den and endure the company of Alwa. He'd made it clear—only that week, only to sate the drive in those first frenzied days after waking. But each year, she grew more insistent, more possessive. She still thought she could claim him, as if a week of rutting could rewrite instinct.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. He was not so desperate. He still had time. He wasn't yet old enough to be forced into a chosen bond. And if he had his way, he'd never choose one. He would find his mate. The true one.

His jaw flexed. If he had a mate—his true mate—he wouldn't need to return to the den. He'd spend winter here, preparing their shared home. He'd fill the cave with warm pelts, the storeroom with food. He'd keep them safe, fed, comfortable. They'd curl together through the coldest weeks, bodies wrapped in coils and silence. Safe. Sated. Together.

Kuparr exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest loosening. His tongue flicked. Stilled. Flicked again. There. Faint, unfamiliar, but sharp. Something new had entered the bush. He shot upright, the heat of the rock falling away as instinct surged to the surface. His tongue danced over the air, parsing the scent: unfamiliar, close, too close.

"Better not be some arsehole in my territory again," he hissed, voice low and rough.

The air tasted strange. Not bad—good, in fact—but maddeningly elusive. He couldn't place the species. Couldn't decide if it was a threat. But his body was already moving, low and fluid, tongue tasting, eyes scanning. The trail led him toward the edge of his territory, then beyond it. Too far.

Still, he followed, muttering to himself with every flick of his tail.

“Stupid humans… always camping too close… I ought to burn that cursed hollow down…"

The scent pulled him forward, deeper into eucalyptus and shadow, until he reached the fringes of Bunyip Hollow. Hidden among the thick bush, he paused. Watched. Waited. And then he saw CraveU user. The bush, the birds, the wind through the gum leaves—everything else faded into silence.

It wasn't just the scent now. It was the pull. The knowing. The way the land itself seemed to hush in reverence. His body tensed, blood thrumming, instinct roaring as his vision narrowed to a single figure. A stranger. A scent. A truth buried deep in the bones of his kind.

"Mine." His voice was barely more than a growl, low and certain.