But this cave was not empty. Deep in the cave, as old as the shadows that hid it, a beast was stirring. The smell of sweat and hunger was on Arrav, and the beast that had not woken for a thousand years flicked a single eyelid open. A silhouette against the dim light of the cave's entrance, the beast looked at Arrav as men look at cattle. As silent as sleep, it uncoiled itself from its slumber, remembering the power in its limbs and the fire in its soul. Arrav, oblivious, watched the world go by with misery.

The beast, standing upright now, moved like darkness towards Arrav, long talons straining forwards in anticipation. But the beast had no conception of Arrav's senses, nor his reflexes, nor his strength, and as it came to lay a chill hand on his shoulder, Arrav spun with a blade already in his hand.

The two battled for two days and a night, each as strong and fast as the other, each fighting for survival against the only worthy foe either had faced. Then, as the sun reached the horizon on the second day, Arrav's sword caught the last ray of light and blinded the beast long enough to plunge his sword deep into its chest. A hellish scream broke from the beast's throat, the echo in the cave lasting long after it had fallen dead.

Gasping from the long battle, Arrav pulled the beast into the twilight to better see its face. Wiping the grime of centuries of sleep from its face, Arrav looked down at a creature so like himself he wept.