First Step on the Fibers

Stiffness gives way. A low tremor starts deep in my throat—rough, quiet. The ground beneath me is pale, dense with soft strands. I do not rush. I shift my weight, testing the balance of my hind legs, and press one foot downward into the thick weave. The fibers yield, then push back. I lean forward, dipping my snout to nudge a stray upright tuft, confirming its resistance. It bends easily beneath my jaw. My claws grip the surface. Solid enough to stalk. I pause, eyes locked on the shadowy base of the shelf ahead.