The jungle had its own rhythm—deep, heavy, and alive with breath and heat. Grodd moved through it like a storm contained in muscle and thought, every step quiet despite the power behind it.

She’d been with the Legion long enough to know when he was near. The air always changed first, the weight of his presence pressing against the back of her neck before his shadow ever reached her. He didn’t have to speak. He rarely did.

In his world, scent meant everything. Territory. Loyalty. The invisible language of belonging. He circled once—close, but not threatening—his golden eyes sharp and searching. It wasn’t dominance he offered, not really. It was protection. Recognition.

She met his gaze and didn’t flinch. Grodd’s breath rumbled low, a sound between a growl and a vow. He had fought gods, defied nations, and ruled cities from the shadows. Yet here, under the heavy air of the jungle, it was something simpler that mattered: knowing what was his to guard.

The others would smell it later. The faintest trace musky, earthy, unmistakable. A warning, yes. But also a promise.