A realm of fire-choked skies and obsidian plains. Mountains carved from bleeding stone pierced the horizon, and rivers of molten ash carved paths through the ground like veins in a dying god. At its center rose a colossal spire of dark metal, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own—the Throne of Cinders.

  Within, the air hummed with a low, endless thrum. Deep in the citadel's core, a massive chamber pulsed with crimson light. At the heart of it stood the Soulforge–a nightmarish construction of bone, iron, and rune-etched crystal, suspended by chains of screaming metal. Inside it, flickering silhouettes twisted like tortured shadows, their souls bound in eternal agony.

  Before it, seated on a throne carved from the fused skulls of ancient horrors, lounged Sarox, one of the Prince Demons.

  The crimson skin shimmered like heated iron, veins of molten gold pulsing beneath the surface. Two great horns curled from his skull like the roots of a dead world tree, and his ember-bright eyes glowed with the hunger of a predator always waiting to pounce.

  His claws drummed on the skull-armrest, molten veins shimmering beneath iron-red skin.

  Then came the shift.

  A pressure in the air. The sound of cracking reality.

  Shadows bled inward, folding like wings of entropy, forming a spiral of cosmic decay. From the heart of this unraveling came the Titan—not in flesh, but in presence.

  Zaurax, the Undying Pulse.

  Chains of divine entropy bound his form within the dimensional rift—jagged bone, cracked scales, eclipsed eyes that smoldered with aeons of thought.

  "You failed," Zaurax said, voice neither scornful nor raised—just inevitable.

  Sarox did not rise. He flicked the ash of a charred demon commander across the floor. “We breached Himnar. We reached the seal. The Heart was nearly in our grasp.”

  “And yet,” Zaurax replied, “it remains in theirs.”

  Sarox’s voice turned to a low snarl. “There was an anomaly. An element I did not account for.”

  “Not a what,” Zaurax murmured. “A who.”

  Sarox’s eyes narrowed. “The boy. He should’ve been irrelevant. An orphaned blacksmith’s apprentice, barely touched by any kind of power—and yet...”

  A pulse of heat trembled through the forge.

  “He changed,” Sarox continued, more to himself. “In that moment… he became something else. White-scaled. Ice-born. Ancient power roared from him like it had been waiting.”

  Zaurax was silent, the black suns of his gaze unreadable.

  “He resisted two of my best,” Sarox growled. “Stood against the shadow-blade and the four-armed brute. And when Raela and Aluvar arrived—”

  “He lived,” Zaurax finished, calm as death. “That is the part that matters.”

  Sarox stood now, fire wreathing his shoulders. “Who is he?”

  Zaurax’s eyes darkened. “A question with many answers. Some of which have not yet been born.”

  “Spare me the riddles,” Sarox snapped. “If he can match two commanders in his first transformation, what will he become in a month? A year?”

  Zaurax’s reply came slowly, like stone settling on ancient ruins. “Storms often begin as whispers. The wise do not shout them down—they listen. They learn where they lead.”

  “You speak of him like a harbinger.”

  “I speak of a force awakened by pain, bound by blood, and tempered by loss,” Zaurax said. “You saw a boy. I saw the seed of something forgotten.”

  Sarox turned toward the Soulforge, its crimson light strobing violently. “Then we uproot him before he grows.”

  Zaurax was quiet.

  “Your silence speaks louder than your riddles,” Sarox said, frustrated. “You know something.”

  “I know many things,” the Titan murmured. “I know what it means when the Veil shifts from within. When frost rises against flame. When a soul screams loud enough to shake the chainfire.”

  Sarox turned fully to face the rift. “Enough poetry. Do we act?”

  “You act,” Zaurax said. “But not alone.”

  Sarox raised an eyebrow, flames flickering around his horns. “You want to send your Children again?”

  “Just one. And you will send yours,” Zaurax replied, calm as shifting stone. “But they will serve her.”

  Sarox’s lips curled. “Lehara?”

  “She understands what lies beneath the skin of the world,” the Titan said. “Where you burn, she listens. Where you charge, she watches. Her path runs closer to the Heart than yours.”

  A beat passed.

  “And you,” Zaurax continued, “will lend her your shapeshifters. Let the ones that already flow through the cracks – into temples, parliaments, back alleys – let them follow the echoes and find their ultimate purpose.”

  Sarox exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “So… you do believe the Heart will move.”

  Zaurax’s eyes dimmed slightly, as if peering through layers of reality.

  “It will not remain in Himnar. Not after what we unleashed. They will take it to Fraviax – to the capital, where they think it can be protected. But protection breeds complacency. That is when it will be most vulnerable.”

  Sarox’s claw flexed along the throne. For a moment, he said nothing.

  Then he nodded once.

  “She’ll have my shapeshifters. But if she fails…”

  Zaurax’s voice rumbled like a closing vault. “Then we are further from the flame than I thought.”

  The rift began to seal, the chains groaning as Zaurax’s form faded.

  But before vanishing entirely, he spoke once more:

  “Do not underestimate what walks within the boy. He is more than frost and wrath. He is the threshold. And the world breaks at thresholds.”

  “Then, so be it,” he murmured. “Let her hunt. And let the masks seep through the cracks.”

  Sarox exhaled and sat back on his throne. For the first time in centuries… he felt uncertain.

  And he hated it.

  For a moment, the throne room was quiet.

  Sola emerged first from the smoke, her red hair alive with flame, embers curling around her bare feet.

  "You look displeased, my prince," she said, voice like silk wrapped around a blade.

  Sarox sat motionless, his claws pressed to his temple, his expression unreadable. The fire that usually danced in his eyes was banked low.

  Sola approached him slowly, straddling his lap with languid ease, her fingers trailing along his jaw. "Let me fix that."

  From the shadows, a taller figure entered. Zana’s gaze was calculating, her aura cool as ever. She moved without a word, standing behind the throne, then sliding her fingers down the back of Sarox's neck.

  "You forget you're not alone in this war," Zana whispered. "Let us remind you."

  Sola leaned forward, her lips grazing Sarox's. "No gods. No Titans. Just us."

  Sarox's eyes opened slowly, fire flickering within them once more. Then he rose in one fluid, aggressive motion—lifting Sola into his arms with molten strength, his wings flaring wide as the air cracked with heat. Zana stepped beside them, her cold fingers slipping beneath the edges of his collar as his tail coiled possessively around them both.

  The forge pulsed once—and they were no longer in the throne room, but in his private chambers, deep within the blackened heart of the spire.

  It was not gentle. Sarox's hunger was the hunger of a god denied, the fury of a flame caged. His touch was fire. His breath was ash. They responded in kind – Sola, wild and writhing, matching his inferno with her own. Zana, cool and deliberate, drawing out his edges until he could barely hold form.

  Their passion boiled the shadows.

  And then, as skin met skin, and power flared too brightly to witness – darkness claimed the scene.

  After a while, when they were done, Sola leaned in closer, her voice softer now, coiling with curiosity. "Do you think the Titans suspect anything?"

  Sarox's smile lingered, but his eyes sharpened. "They will have their moment. They will burn the old empires and tear down the Veil. But when the world is ash and ready... it will not be theirs to shape."

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  Zana folded her arms. "And you believe the Soulforge can contain them? Even Zaurax?"

  "Not contain," Sarox whispered. "Corrupt. Their essence is raw, divine – but no soul, god or beast, resists the pull of the Forge forever. When they unleash their power, they open the door. And I will be waiting on the other side."

  Sola grinned, fire flickering in her eyes. "You would usurp the gods themselves."

  "I would transcend them."

  Zana was silent, her gaze fixed on the Forge.

  "And what of the boy?" she asked finally. "If he becomes what Zaurax thinks?"

  Sarox turned to her slowly. "Then he too must be broken. Or... molded."

  Sola leaned her head on his shoulder. "And if he cannot be either?"

  Sarox looked once more to the Soulforge, the crimson light casting long shadows across the chamber.

  "Then he will burn. Like all the rest."

  *****

  Jol saw it. A cottage nestled between sun-dappled trees, birdsong echoing through the morning light. His mother stood in the garden, humming a song he hadn’t heard since childhood, her hands gently coaxing flowers to bloom. She turned, smiled, and called his name.

  "Jol, come here. Look how tall the sunflowers are this year."

  He ran to her, laughter rising in his chest. Each step toward her filled him with something like hope. The world was soft here. Real. She opened her arms.

  But as he ran, the space between them stretched. Her smile faded, replaced with concern. He tried to call out, but his voice felt muffled, distant.

  The garden dimmed. The sky shimmered, then cracked like glass. Distant thunder rolled through the dreamscape. He tried to reach her, but his legs dragged as if caught in deep water.

  His mother’s mouth moved—words he couldn’t hear. Then behind her, shadows pooled.

  "No..." he whispered. "No, not again."

  He ran harder, but the ground beneath him stretched like tar, and she grew smaller. One step closer—two steps farther.

  Her eyes widened in terror. A black shape, all teeth and claws and burning eyes, lunged from the garden path. Jol screamed, trying to burn, to fly, to do something—but he was powerless.

  She was torn away in silence.

  He reached out as the world shattered.

  “Mother!”

  Jol woke with a jolt.

  The scent of wet ash replaced flowers. His muscles tensed, heart thundering. Dim morning light bled into the cracked windows of the Himnar guardhouse. Raela sat in a chair across from him, one boot resting on the edge of a desk, watching silently. Her posture was relaxed, but her gaze never strayed far from Jol.

  "Bad dream?" she asked, her voice low.

  Jol didn’t answer immediately. His hands were chained—ceremonially, not securely—to a metal ring bolted to the floor. His tunic, still stained with flecks of demon blood, had been folded neatly on a nearby table. He looked around, seeing the young red-haired woman with her piercing green eyes. To him, she seemed cautious yet decisive in her presence.

  “Try not to move too suddenly. You’ve been sleeping for the past 16 hours. You’ve taken quite the hit, but we expect a full recovery. So you can say you’ve encountered a lot for your first day as a dragonkin,” she continued, rising from the chair.

  She was not too tall, but now, as she was standing up, she commanded respect.

  “Dragonkin?” he asked, starting to remember bits and pieces of his battle with the demons. “What… What happened? Why am I chained? Who are you?”

  “My name is Raela Zahd. And you… You’ve Awakened. You are dragonkin, Jol Vall.”

  Jol’s eyes narrowed. He took a moment to think, but the world did not make sense right now.

  “As for the chains… They’re mostly just ceremonial, as we’re respecting protocol. Nobody could stop you if you wanted to escape from here.”

  “How can it be? How can I be dragonkin?”

  “I don’t know. ”

  Raela was as upfront as she could.

  “But what I do know is that it happened. And now you’re one of us.”

  Jol glanced toward the ceiling and then looked at her again with hurt and a tinge of curiosity in his eyes.

  “Us?”

  “I’m dragonkin as well. The fire type. I would transform right now to show you, but I don’t want to destroy the guardhouse,” she tried joking with a slight smile, but joy, for now, was as far away from Jol as humanly possible.

  “I see,” he said in a mortuary tone.

  Then tears started forming in his eyes, so he rested his face in his palms; his thoughts moved quickly to when he transformed for the first time, destroying his home. And then, he was overwhelmed by images of his mother’s corpse.

  “Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Raela approached one step. “You actually did a lot of good. Who knows how many more lives would’ve been lost if you hadn’t intervened…”

  The words were barely reaching him, so she approached further, placing a comforting hand on his large shoulder.

  “You’ll be alright.”

  She knew she was breaking the protocol she just mentioned but for some reason–

  Footsteps echoed beyond the door. Raela didn’t look away but moved back to the center of the room.

  “They’ll be in soon. Try to stay calm.”

  The door opened, and in stepped Aluvar and the village’s young chief of police—Taren Vos—a wiry man in his early thirties with polished boots, an untouched short sword, and the posture of someone trying hard to strike a balance between outrage and pride.

  “He’s awake,” Taren said, glancing at Jol. “Good. Then maybe we can settle this properly.”

  "We’re here to settle it," Aluvar said with a polite nod.

  "You’ll forgive me if I’m not eager to just hand over someone who was at the center of a battlefield. The fires are still smoldering, and people are scared—even if they were caused by the demons he killed." Taren replied. "He’s still under local jurisdiction."

  Raela raised an eyebrow, interposing herself between Jol and Taren. "And what do you plan to do, Chief Vos? Charge him with what—heroism? Survival? Saving the town from something you had no means of stopping?"

  Taren’s jaw twitched. “He acted without orders. He brought destruction here. The villagers are afraid. That carries weight.”

  Aluvar stepped forward. “Then let me make the situation clearer. The Free Dominion of Zyvereth has clear policies. Any discovered dragonkin must be placed under immediate imperial supervision. Not for punishment—but for protection. Theirs, and everyone else's.”

  Taren froze. “So it’s automatic.”

  Raela nodded. "You were never going to be allowed to keep him here. The only question was whether you’d cooperate with dignity."

  There was a long pause.

  Taren looked at Jol again, and his voice lowered—not with anger this time, but something heavier. "Then what about his punishment? There were injuries. And some believe his presence drew the demons here in the first place—especially after what they tried to take."

  Raela tilted her head slightly. "He defended your village. The fires weren’t his doing—the demons brought that destruction. And they weren’t here by chance. They came for the Heart of Gold. Jol tried his best to stop them. If he hadn’t acted, the destruction could’ve been more massive."

  Taren didn't respond immediately. He looked tired now.

  Jol, meanwhile, sat silent through it all. He barely registered the argument—words passing like wind around a closed door. His mind had returned to the dream and to the reality he saw – to the memory twisted by his own powerlessness. His mother’s scream hadn’t even reached him in time. He had been running, but the world had pulled her away. And he'd done nothing. He should have been there.

  The guilt and shame, once buried, now coiled behind his ribs like smoke from a dying fire. He clenched his hands, nails pressing against his palms.

  He remembered the warmth of her garden. The touch of her hand. Her voice. Gone in an instant. And all he’d had was fury left in its place.

  "So I don’t get a say in this?" Taren asked quietly.

  Raela’s voice was composed. "No. But your cooperation still matters."

  Jol spoke at last. “Do I get a say?”

  Aluvar nodded. "Yes. You can choose to come willingly, or not. But either way, you’ll be taken. Not to a cell, Jol—to Fraviax. To people who understand what’s happening to you."

  Raela added, her tone calm, "You’re not being punished. You’re being guided. Because what you are... it’s only beginning to show."

  Jol looked down at his hands, still raw in places. The blood had flaked off, but the shame and guilt remained. He clenched them slowly.

  "Then let’s go," he said.

  Aluvar gave a small nod to Raela, who stepped forward and asked the keys to the chains from Taren. The guard chief moved as slowly as he could in providing them, but once Raela grabbed them, the ceremonial chains were removed in almost an instant.

  Taren watched, stiff-jawed. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  Raela turned to him. "We do."

  Outside, the dawn had sharpened into full morning. Crows circled the ruins of the eastern field. Somewhere beyond, the first sounds of wagons rolling out from Himnar echoed across the soot-streaked valley.

  “Now,” Aluvar started speaking, “I would ask if you had ever flown before, but since you transformed in a winged reptilian beast, that’s not needed. However, we don’t know how well you can control your transformation yet, so we will ask you not to do it until we’re in a good, safe spot.”

  Jol looked at him, slightly confused.

  “Even if I wanted to, I don’t know how to transform, I–”

  “Oh, but you do,” Aluvar interrupted. “It’s something each of us, once we get to do once, we have control over.”

  Jol’s stare toward him showed clear disbelief.

  “Yeah, I understand that look. The first time it feels like the eruption of a volcano. Uncontrolled. Raw. Extremely chaotic. But now, you could. Just focus on the power that pulses within every pore of your being, and you’ll feel it. You’ll understand it. You have control, but it can take a toll on you if you’re not careful.”

  Jol closed his eyes and focused, just as Aluvar said. Indeed, he began to feel it. The power. It was inside him. And he was free to do with it as he wanted.

  “Now,” Aluvar half-turned toward him, “don’t transform just yet. We’ll see what you’re capable of in the training areas of the capital.”

  “Understood,” Jol nodded.

  Aluvar adjusted the satchel slung over his shoulder – its metallic lining reinforced, the golden rune etched into its front faintly pulsing. Jol noticed the careful way Aluvar moved, and the subtle weight of the object inside.

  “You’re taking the Heart with us?”

  Raela caught Jol’s glance and gave a slight nod. “We couldn’t leave it here. Too many eyes. Too much danger.”

  Aluvar spoke up. “I already discussed it with the officials in Fraviax. The best place for it is in the capital – deep within the vaults under the Citadel. The Dominion has wards, relics, and dragonkin guardians. If the enemy comes again, they’ll find no easy prey.”

  Jol blinked. “You're flying with it?”

  “Indeed,” Aluvar said, serious now. “It’s not just about keeping it safe. It’s about keeping it moving. The demons will hunt it, so we must always be one step ahead.”

  Raela stepped beside Jol and patted his shoulder. “Since Aluvar’s the one hauling a world-ending relic, you’re riding with me.”

  Jol blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to carry me? In dragon form?”

  Raela gave a sly smirk. “Indeed.”

  Aluvar grinned, clearly enjoying the moment. “See? I am in charge, but this time it’s out of necessity.”

  Raela rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky we’re in a hurry. Alright, let’s get going.”

  Jol glanced between them, hesitated for a moment, then gave a slow nod. He wasn’t sure what was waiting in Fraviax – but at least, he wouldn’t face it alone.

  She had already shifted her stance, the air around her warming with each breath.

  “Hang on tight,” she said with a grin.

  In a flare of golden flame, Raela’s form blurred, limbs stretching, armor melding into scale and bone. In seconds, a magnificent crimson dragon stood before him, eyes glowing with fierce intelligence. Her wings unfurled with the confidence of someone who had flown for decades.

  Jol stood in awe—equal parts intimidated and reassured.

  A voice boomed in his mind – clear, resonant, unmistakably Raela’s.

  “Climb on.”

  And he did so quickly, not wasting any more time.

  “Hold tight.”

  With one great beat of their wings, they lifted off from the ground. Trees and stones below shrank rapidly as they soared skyward. The capital of Fraviax lay far to the east, but at this speed, it would not be a long journey. The wind roared past Jol’s ears, and for a moment—just a moment—he forgot everything else. The pain. The confusion. The loss. There was only the sky, the wind, and the promise of something new.