89

  Somewhere beyond waking, beyond sleep—a pce that was not reality, not memory, not even dream—

  va breathed.

  It pulsed beneath a skin of fractured earth, glowing veins crawling through stone like the arteries of a dying world. Bubbles rose and burst with wet, violent sounds, spshing embers into the air. Heat pressed from every direction, a suffocating weight that bent even thought.

  From that cracked soil, a hand emerged.

  Fingers—grayed, split, leaking bckened sludge—dug into rock. The hand trembled, slipped, then clenched again with stubborn refusal. With a groan that sounded like stone grinding against bone, the figure hauled himself upward.

  He rose inch by inch.

  His body was ruin. Skin cracked like drought-stricken nd, glowing faintly from within as molten veins bled through fissures. Bck sludge poured constantly from him, pooling at his feet, evaporating in hissing steam. He should have died—had died—hundreds, thousands of times.

  Yet still he stood.

  He staggered forward, colpsed to one knee, then forced himself upright again. Each breath sounded like air dragged through fire. Every movement tore him apart anew.

  Above him, at the edge of a vast ridge, something watched.

  A dragon.

  It y coiled in terrible stillness, massive beyond reason. Four cwed limbs anchored its body like pilrs. Wings folded tight against its sides, membranes dark as burned night. Its scales were bck—but beneath them, its body glowed red-hot, as if it might rupture at any moment.

  Spines jutted along its back like jagged crowns. Its tail stretched long and sinuous, ending in a scythe-like bde that scraped stone with a slow, deliberate sound. Two great horns curved from its skull, bent slightly backward, framing eyes of molten red—vertical slits that burned with ancient intelligence.

  The dragon tilted its head.

  Amused.

  The man staggered forward again, feet sinking into soft, glowing earth.

  The dragon inhaled.

  The world screamed.

  A roar thundered outward—not just sound but force. The air itself colpsed, crushing the man ft. Fire followed, not wild but precise, a torrent of controlled annihition. Pressure smmed into him first, driving him to his knees. Then the bst struck fully, hurling him across the va field like a broken doll.

  He smashed through one earthen pilr, then another—BOOM—until a solid wall finally stopped him. Stone exploded outward. A crater bloomed behind his back.

  For a moment, there was only silence and falling embers.

  Then—

  He moved.

  The man dragged himself upright, bones cracking, flesh reforming with sickening wet sounds. Lava hissed where it touched his skin, but he did not scream.

  A shadow passed overhead.

  The dragon’s tail came down like judgment.

  WHAM.

  The impact sent him flying again, tumbling end over end, skidding back into the molten field. Before he could rise, a massive cw descended, pinning him effortlessly. Talons pierced his shoulder, driving him deep into the earth.

  The dragon leaned down, heat radiating in waves.

  “What drives you, human?”The voice did not echo—it pressed directly into his mind, heavy with authority older than mountains.

  The man coughed bck sludge. His vision swam.

  Then—

  He grinned.

  The dragon’s eye narrowed. It pressed harder, forcing the man deeper, cracking the ground around him.

  Still, the grin remained.

  With a sound like irritated breath, the dragon withdrew and settled once more along the ridge, resting its head on folded cws.

  It waited.

  Time passed. Or maybe time did not exist here.

  Eventually, the man crawled back to the surface again. His movements were slower now, but no less determined.

  “I will take your power,” he said hoarsely, voice scraping like stone, “and use it against the Phoenix.”

  A low sound escaped the dragon—something between a scoff and a ugh.

  “You could,” it replied zily, “if you were a druid. But you are only human.”

  The dragon’s gaze sharpened.“Do you not find it curious?” it continued. “That even your will may not be your own?”

  The man faltered. “What do you mean?”

  “You possess a heart that does not waver,” the dragon said. “A rare gift. One that bends fate.”

  Its tail tapped the stone once.“And yet, you have been pyed, human.”

  The man clenched his fists. One name anchored him, heavy and absolute in his chest.

  Helena.

  He did not answer. He stepped forward again.

  The dragon sighed—and vanished in a burst of fme and wind.

  The world changed.

  The va faded, cooling into soil. The sky softened. The man found himself standing at the edge of a vilge.

  Simple homes. Wooden fences. Smoke curling peacefully from chimneys.

  People walked past him—and did not scream.

  They smiled.

  They offered him water. Food. Bandages for wounds that should not have healed. Children tugged at his ruined clothes and ughed without fear. For the first time in endless torment, no one recoiled.

  Then he saw her.

  A girl in the woods, gathering fallen branches. She looked up, startled, then smiled shyly.

  “Will you help me?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  He helped her once. Then again. Then every day.

  In the forest. At her home. With small, ordinary things that somehow felt heavier than battles.

  She grew sick.

  He stayed by her side as her breath weakened, as her hands grew cold. He listened to her until she could no longer speak.

  When she died, the vilge grew unbearably quiet.

  He left.

  At the edge of the road, fire descended.

  The dragon stood before him once more.

  “I will give you my heart,” the dragon said. “Use it.”

  Its chest opened.

  Light poured out—red, gold, living. The heart pulsed in the man’s hands, heavy beyond comprehension. Power screamed through him, threatening to tear him apart.

  He turned back toward the vilge.

  Then stopped. He thinks of Helena.

  He looked at the dragon.

  Then he turned fully around—and ran.

  He pressed the heart into the girl’s chest.

  Life surged.

  Her eyes opened.

  The world shattered.

  Everything dissolved into dust.

  He stood once more in the va field.

  The dragon regarded him silently.

  “Very well,” it said at st. “I am warning you human, do not be misdirected.”

  It exhaled—not fire, but life itself.

  —

  At St. Editha, deep within the cave, the air shifted.

  Barang’s eyes snapped open. He got up.

  Cracks still marred his body, but the spreading decay slowed—stilled. Power settled inside him, heavy, restrained.

  The white-cloaked figure recoiled a step, staff tightening in his grip.

  “This one,” he whispered, uneasy, “is different.”

  Barang breathed.

  Pain remained.

  But so did will.