The skies bled silver and ash.
Silver light flared across the clouds as he cut through the air, his massive wings leaving trails of light and crystal behind. His scales were cracked and scorched from battle, streaked with the black blood of the dragons he'd killed. Far below, the bodies of the fallen rained down into the earth, the last remnants of the Black Dread's brood.
He had won.
The taste of victory lingered sharp as ozone on his tongue. The Black Dread, scourge of the western ranges, had fled back into his chasm with half his brood dead and the rest fleeing. His flames had burned whole valleys clean. His roar still echoed across leagues of sky. Dominion restored. Balance reasserted. His balance.
And yet… beneath the triumph, something inside him sagged. The battle had carved rents through his perfect form; molten light leaked through cracked scales, crystallized as he flew. Power mended him, but slowly. Even a Noble could feel fatigue. He told himself it was the ache of age and victory, not doubt.
"The world remembers its order," he thought. "And I am its axis."
He banked east, toward his tower, his sanctum. Behind him what remained of his forces followed, they were battered and many were dead but they served their uses.
The thought threads that connected him to it should have been clear and strong, a chorus of energy pulsing through his mind. But as he flew, something felt off. The link stuttered, faint and uneven, like a heartbeat missing its rhythm. He frowned, expanding his awareness. The tower answered faintly across the great distance, the familiar mental hum of crystal hearts and bound minds but its tone was wrong. Dull. Muffled. Distorted.
Something was wrong.
Traveling back with great hate, the winds shifted; clouds peeled away to reveal the horizon. There rising from a sea of storms stood his Tower, home, laboratory, throne. Its spire reached through the sky like a needle of living light, once silver and serene. But now…Gold veins crawled through it like fire trapped beneath glass. The pulse of its heart was no longer his.
He slowed, wings beating steady as he descended. The closer he got, the stronger the sense of wrongness became. The air smelled of burnt metal and ash. The tower's outer veins its ley conduits pulsed too slow, out of sync with his own heartbeat.
No guardians came to greet him. No mechanical chimeras circled the spire defending it. The sky above the tower was empty and silent. "Be on the defence," he called out to his warriors.
He landed on the wide obsidian plateau before the entrance, the impact cracking the stone. The thunder of his arrival rolled for miles, shaking the cliffs. His wings folded in with a metallic rasp. The gates ahead remained shut.
He waited a moment, expecting them to react automatically to his presence. When they didn't, his eyes narrowed. "Open," he commanded.
The command hit the tower like a ripple through water. Normally, the structure would respond instantly, recognizing his authority. This time, the crystal walls hesitated. Energy flickered weakly through the seams before the great doors finally began to move not smoothly, but slowly, grinding against their own hinges. It sounded like a throat swallowing something bitter.
Warm air gusted out, carrying the smell of burnt ozone and blood. The Noble Dragon's head tilted slightly, his eyes scanning the dark corridor beyond. There was movement deep inside faint, shifting shadows but the link with the Tower felt… wrong. Too quiet.
He flexed his claws once against the stone, testing the tension in his body. Something had changed here. The tower he had built, the one that pulsed with his essence and obeyed his thoughts, no longer felt like his.
He stepped forward, wings brushing against the frame of the gate as he entered. The walls pulsed weakly around him, like a heartbeat struggling to remember its rhythm. He had expected celebration, the reverence of creations awaiting their master. Instead, the silence of the tower felt like judgment.
The corridors were darker than he remembered. When the Noble Dragon had rebuilt this place after his uprising, the walls had shimmered with flowing light, veins of crystal energy alive with his will. Now, their glow was faint and uneven, flickering like dying embers. The air felt heavier, almost humid, filled with the metallic tang of blood and smoke.
As he moved through the hall, his claws clicked against the crystal floor, each step echoing down the length of the corridor. The resonance sounded wrong. The tower's hum once a comforting extension of his mind was out of sync, pulsing in time with something else. Something foreign.
He slowed as he passed through the first open chamber. The floor was littered with bodies, the warped remains of his lesser constructs. Their crystalline hides were cracked, their cores burned out. Scorch marks stained the walls where energy blasts had struck along with claw marks of the battle.
The Dragon's eyes narrowed. These were his creations. Loyal, obedient, and powerful enough to kill any intruder. For them to fall in such numbers meant something deliberate had happened. He inhaled deeply. The air carried traces of ash, death, and… freedom.
"Interesting," he murmured. His voice filled the space like distant thunder. "So the rabble found courage." He continued toward the heart of the tower, following the familiar pull that led to the throne room. The closer he got, the worse the damage became. Walls were scarred and melted. Entire sections of crystal had collapsed, exposing veins of molten rock. But beneath the ruin, one detail stood out: the crystal still pulsed with life not silver, but gold.
It wasn't dead. It was changing. A low growl built in his throat. "To dare tamper with my design?" The gates to the throne chamber stood open when he reached them. Once, they had been engraved with the sigils of his dominion, his name etched into every surface. Now, those sigils were gone. The crystal had been melted smooth, erased by deliberate hands.
He stepped inside. And froze. The great chamber that had once been his sanctum looked almost unrecognizable. The massive crystalline pillars still reached up to the vaulted ceiling, but their color had changed. Where silver and blue once shone, gold light now glowed. The atmosphere felt heavier, hotter, and tyrannical.
And sitting on his throne was someone else. The young fleshy with no scales, the experiment he had carved apart, broken, and remade countless times. The one whose screams had once been music in his laboratory. Now the boy sat calmly upon the crystal throne, back straight, one hand resting on the haft of a gleaming lance. Gold light traced through the veins of his body, glowing faintly beneath the skin. A pair of half-formed draconic wings arched behind him, folded like a predator at rest.
On his shoulder, coiled in lazy circles, sat Ouroboros, that smug, ancient serpent. The creature's eyes gleamed with amusement. He should have killed that thing a long time ago, all it had been was a nuisance. Well no problem, he was going to rectify this right now.
The Noble Dragon stopped just beyond the threshold, his massive body half-filling the room. He tilted his head slightly, studying the two of them. His voice came low and even. "Ah," he said. "Now I see why the tower's pulse is broken."
Ouroboros grinned, showing far too many teeth. "Welcome home, Master," he said, emphasizing that last word mockingly. "You'll notice a few renovations. New management, fresh ideas. A little less tyranny in the workplace."
The Dragon's gaze shifted from the serpent to the boy. His expression remained calm, but there was a hard edge beneath the stillness. "So it was you," he said. "You did this."
Artorius didn't rise from the throne. His tone was controlled, almost detached. "All here called out for one thing… Freedom. So I gave them what they wanted."
The Dragon's wings unfurled slightly, silver fire glinting between the scales. "Freedom?" it asked with a chuckle. "They don't even know the true meaning of that word. You are my creation. Every breath in your lungs was given by me."
"And every scar on my body was carved by your hand," Artorius replied, voice steady. "You made me to be less than you. You forgot that pain teaches."
The Dragon's eyes narrowed. "Pain breaks."
"Not me," Artorius said. For a long moment, neither moved. The tower groaned quietly around them, the pulse of its living core shifting faster, feeding off the tension.
Then the Dragon exhaled. His breath shimmered with molten light. "Tell me something, little hatchling. Did you imagine this rebellion would end differently?"
From the shadows around the chamber, movement stirred. Dozens of figures emerged, Artorius's new followers. Twisted draconic hybrids, liberated experiments, and broken constructs he had freed. Their eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, every one fixed on the Noble Dragon. "There is only one way this thing could end, Death!"
He looked at them, then laughed softly. "Ah. So that's where the missing ones went."
Ouroboros leaned forward on Artorius's shoulder. "Surprise reunion. Though I doubt you'll like the guest list."
The Noble Dragon smiled, sharp and cold. "No," he said quietly. "But I'll enjoy the cleanup."
He raised his wings, and the chamber filled with light. Behind him walked in his war-machines, the elite creatures he had taken to war against the Black Dread. Their crystalline bodies ignited with energy as they prepared themselves for confrontation, eyes burning white. The floor cracked under their weight as they roared to life, ready to serve.
For a moment, silence hung between them two armies, two ideologies, facing off in the broken heart of creation. "Fight," Artorius called out, pointing his weapon at the Silver Dragon. The moment the word left his mouth, the world exploded.
The floor cracked open as the war-chimeras charged, they were towering beasts of metal, flesh, and crystal. They were nightmares made with precision: multi-headed serpents with fused armor plates, quadrupeds with molten blood and spines that glowed like volcano glass. The Dragon had made them to kill any threat to him, and now they turned their blazing eyes toward the rebels that filled the hall.
Artorius didn't flinch. "Hold your ground!" he shouted, voice carrying through the chamber. His followers answered with a dozen roars and war cries. The wyvern he had first awakened lowered its head beside him, scales glinting dull red in the shifting light. Behind it came the others, twisted beings with too many eyes, half-shattered wings, molten claws, and mismatched bodies. They had once been his master's victims. Now, they were his army.
The clash began in an instant. The chimeras surged forward in a wall of teeth and rage, smashing through the front line. The floor shattered beneath their weight as Artorius's forces met them head-on. Claws sparked against steel. Jaws snapped on necks. Wings beat against storms of debris.
Letting his wings snap open, Artorius surged from the throne. His Extendable Lance snapped open, the blade elongating with a hiss. He thrust it forward, striking through the heart of a charging chimera as he made his way towards his foe. The weapon punched through its chest, crystal light spraying across the floor. The creature convulsed, limbs flailing, before it collapsed in a burst of crystal shards.
Above him, the Noble Dragon spread his wings and rose, the ceiling splitting open from the force. Light poured down around him, turning his silver scales to a halo. "You learned rebellion," he said. "But you forgot humility."
He swept his claws, and a wave of crystalline spikes erupted across the floor. Artorius dove aside, but a follower of his wasn't fast enough. The shards impaled it where it stood, pinning its bodies like insects.
Rage flared in Artorius's chest. He lunged forward, wings beating once, propelling him upward. His lance shot out, stabbing for the Dragon's chest.
The Noble Dragon moved faster than something that size had any right to. His claw rose, catching the lance mid-thrust. Sparks and light screamed as metal met crystal. "Child," the Dragon said softly, voice full of scorn. "You're reaching beyond your station."
Then it smacked his weapon back as if swatting a fly, then closed in on him in a blink. He wasn't able to get his weapon up in time as it was recoiling back so he was thrown backward like a cannon ball with a smack of its tail.
He hit the ground hard, rolling across the shattered floor until his back slammed into a broken pillar. His body screamed in pain, but he forced himself up, ignoring the blood spilling down his side.
He noticed his forces were losing ground. The chimeras were stronger, faster, and disciplined. Every rebel that fell made the next one hesitate. Ouroboros darted through the air, circling above the chaos. "You're bleeding, boy," the serpent said. "You'll need more than guts to kill him. Use the Word, you have it, I know it. It's on the tip of your tongue."
Artorius wiped the blood from his mouth. "Then I'll use everything I have." He lifted his lance, the weapon trembled in his grip, golden light crawling across its surface as he unleashed a Heroic Blow.
The Noble Dragon turned toward him. "You refuse to kneel to your better. How admirable. It is pointless and foolish, but admirable nonetheless."
With nothing to say, Artorius spread his wings wide and he took to the air. They collided mid-sky. The impact sent shockwaves tearing through the room. Artorius struck with the speed of lightning, his lance driving for the Dragon's eyes. The Noble Dragon's claws caught him mid-lunge, crushing down on his chest. Pain exploded through his ribs, but his body adapted instantly, flesh forming over the wound, hardening under pressure. He roared and struck again.
The lance pierced the Dragon's neck, not deep, but enough to crack its crystalline body and make light instead of blood leak out. The Noble Dragon roared, shaking him loose with a burst of force that sent him crashing through a column.
Artorius hit the ground hard, but he was already moving, rolling to his feet. "You're not untouchable," he said through clenched teeth. Ouroboros revealed much about his foe, its race stood at level 13 granting it 3 mutations.
One was the defensive mutation which along with the Word for Crystal made it impervious to most damage. Its second mutation was mental, allowing it to invade the minds of others. With the third unknown to Ouroboros.
Then there was its class which he assumed was some crystal magic class, that one he believed was Lv. 10 and his skills were the first that let him summon crystals, its main form of attack. The second that let him use crystals to recover, and the third was to bring crystals to life.
Then there was its Archetype which was some research type, it was the weakest one that Ouroboros believed wasn't in the double digits. Its first trait had to be one that gave it understanding, the other arrogance, he thought it was a joke but Ouroboros wasn't kidding.
The Dragon's gaze burned white-hot with rage. "I am eternal."
He unleashed a wave of energy pure crystal magic that exploded outward powered by the Word he knew, vaporizing everything in its path. The other creatures nearby were caught in the attack and dissolved into glittering crystal dust particles.
Artorius raised his hand instinctively, using Draconic Adaptability to tank the attack. At this point he just as this thing wasn't sure of his limit and more than that a part of him had to thank it for 'training' his mutation. The energy slammed into him, searing through his flesh. His wings burned, his body cracked, but he stayed standing.
Every nerve screamed. Every breath was fire. And still, he didn't fall. He took one step forward. Then another. The air around him shimmered with heat. The Noble Dragon watched him approach through the haze, head tilting slightly, as if curious. "How far will you crawl before you break?"
Artorius's eyes glowed gold. "As far as I have to."
The tower shook again, walls collapsing, flames consuming the edges of the chamber. The battlefield had become an inferno of crystal and destruction. The Noble Dragon's forces pressed harder. Artorius's followers were dwindling, their courage stretched thin. But they still looked to him waiting for a command, for hope, for anything.
Then everything changed. A pulse hit the room, quiet but unmistakable. It wasn't sound, it was pressure. The Noble Dragon's eyes flared white. "Enough games," it said.
Artorius felt it a heartbeat later, the mental weight pressing down on him, sliding into his head like ice water. For a split second, his vision doubled. He could hear whispers that weren't his, voices speaking in his own tone. The Dragon's second mutation was at work.
He gritted his teeth, but it wasn't just him, it spread. His army froze mid-motion. The wyvern nearest him turned, eyes glassy, its claws rising as if to strike him. Others followed, twisting toward him with jerky, puppet-like motions.
The Dragon's laughter filled the air. "You freed them from me," it said. "But you never understood they were made through me. My will lives in their veins. My voice is the echo in their bones."
Artorius tried to push the pressure back, but it sank deeper. The world tilted. His hands shook. The whispers grew louder: Kneel. Yield. You were born to obey.
For a brief, horrible moment, his mind went quiet. He stood completely still, the light fading from his eyes. The Dragon's grin widened. "There," it murmured, satisfaction rumbling in its chest. "Even you break eventually."
Then Artorius smiled. Slowly. Deliberately. The gold returned to his eyes, brighter than before. "Thank you," he said softly.
The Dragon's head tilted. "What?"
"I had a suspicion," Artorius said. "Thank you for confirming it. Now I know what my trait can do." Looking at his Stoic Trait he read it over again; Stoic: Bears pain, stress, and other negative effects without issue; steadying presence for others that can inspire or intimidate.
The Dragon's expression changed, realization dawning just then, "You were using me as a test?"
Artorius straightened, his mind clear as glass. The whispers fell silent, the pressure vanished. He looked at the Dragon, the same being that had dissected him, tortured him, shaped him and smiled wider. "I learn from the best," he quipped.
The Dragon roared, the sound half fury, half disbelief. Artorius lifted the lance, the veins in his arm glowing brighter with every heartbeat. "And these are my men!" He took a breath and shouted not words of magic, but command. Pure, commanding presence, every syllable carrying the weight of his will.
"Get up and stand with me!" The effect was instant. His followers blinked, the glassy film over their eyes shattering. The mental hold broke. The wyvern dropped to one knee, wings unfurling in defiance. The bull-serpent raised its head and roared. One by one, the enslaved experiments turned back to face their creator not as tools, but as free creatures ready to fight again.
"Your power makes slaves," he said, voice steady. "Mine makes soldiers."
The Noble Dragon's reply came as a growl that cracked the floor. "Then let's see which lasts longer."
Artorius raised the lance in both hands, its blade burning bright. "Gladly." Turning to his followers he shouted. "We fight until the end." And then he charged again toward the being who had made him, broken him, and taught him what it meant to rise.
The battle around them was brutal. Neither side was going to give up, the tower's heart chamber was collapsing, the walls melting under the heat of clashing magic. Shattered crystal hung in the air like floating glass shards, reflecting streaks of gold and silver light. Artorius barely registered the screams of dying dragons or the sound of the tower breaking apart. His focus had narrowed to one shape, the massive, silver-scaled creature standing across the ruined floor.
The Noble Dragon's breath steamed with molten air. Its scales had cracked in a dozen places, but even wounded, it radiated power. Each motion sent ripples through the chamber. "You've done well to come this far," the Dragon said, voice calm, almost gentle. "You even learned to stand upright." His eyes glowed, twin stars of cold light. "But you've mistaken resistance for strength."
Artorius spat blood, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Even though he was able to injure it, he was even more wounded. His body was like the chamber, littered with destruction. The floor around him still glowed where crystal magic had scorched it. His lance hummed in his grip, alive with stored power.
Nonetheless he knew just as his force, he was slowly losing and needed to change this citation before it ended badly for him. Then goading him, the Dragon remarked, "I will enjoy putting on my slab once again and truly finding out how you tick."
Artorius froze. Those words echoed down to the pit of him, deeper than flesh or bone—down where pain had once lived. He saw flashes of the past: the experiment table, the metal restraints, the Dragon's voice dissecting him with questions. How much fire can you take? How long before it burns your inside?
He remembered begging. He remembered screaming. He remembered adapting, because dying would've meant losing. The heat that once destroyed him had become his teacher. That's when he heard it: Ouroboros's voice, quiet and close, not in his ear but inside his skull. "Use it. You got this. I believe in you!"
He straightened. His breath steadied. He let his eyes close for just a second. He could still hear the tower's pulse, its living heartbeat. He focused on it. Matched it. One breath, one beat. Again. The rhythm of Draconic Communion. He felt it rising through him like magma under pressure, the memory of every spark that had ever touched his skin, every flame he had ever survived.
Then, from somewhere unguarded in the back of his mind, a different memory surfaced uninvited and too human. He was small again. A child. His father's study smelled of ink, smoke, and pine. There was a fireplace burning low, crackling in the quiet. He remembered crying loud, ugly, childish sobs. The other kids had teased him again, asked why he didn't have a mother.
He remembered his father setting down his pen, kneeling beside him, resting a heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder. "People mock what they don't understand," his father had said. "You'll learn to carry it."
He'd wiped his eyes, looked up and seen his father's hair glowing red in the firelight. Not glowing, burning. Actual flame, curling at the tips, soft and alive. His father smiled through it. "We're born of flame, Artorius. Don't fear what you are."
The memory collapsed back into the present like glass shattering under heat. Artorius's eyes opened. The world looked sharper, colors deeper, edges clearer. He could see every ember in the air, every pulse of heat under the Dragon's skin.
The word came to him not as thought but as instinct. "Flame."
He didn't speak it loudly. He didn't have to. The world froze. Then it moved. A single syllable burned through reality, rewriting its geometry. Fire folded through the air like ribbons, curling into perfect spirals.
Fire burst from Artorius's chest. Flame tore through him but didn't consume him. It filled him. His scars lit up like constellations. The molten veins under his skin flared, gold turning to white. Every scream, every wound, every fallen ally became fuel.
The lance in his hands caught fire and began to change. Its metal melted into pure plasma, its shape stretching and reforming with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The air around it shimmered, the floor beneath him melting from the heat. He looked up at the Dragon through the light. His voice was hoarse but certain. "This ends now."
He charged. Every step left craters of fire. The Dragon struck, claws blazing, but the blows turned to vapor before they reached him. The world had slowed to match his will. He swung. Heroic Blow, fused with the Word of Flame, a strike of faith, fury, and fire given form.
The impact hit like the birth of a star. The blade tore through the Dragon's chest, piercing straight into the heart beneath all that silver scales. The explosion that followed wasn't sound but pressure light collapsing into heat, then expanding outward.
The Noble Dragon screamed, a sound that split stone and reality alike as the force drove him backward. His massive body crashed through the walls, smashing through chamber after chamber, each one blooming into fire and molten crystal as he passed.
Shockwaves rolled through the tower, ripping its spine apart. Whole sections of the structure broke loose, rising into the sky on streams of heat before falling like meteors. Artorius stood in the center of the destruction, every part of him burning but still alive.
And through it all, he could hear Ouroboros laughing softly in the distance. "There you are," the little dragon whispered. "The son of flame."
Artorius didn't answer. He stared at the hole torn through the far wall, where the Dragon had vanished into fire and ruin, and felt his heartbeat steady again. He'd done it. He'd pierced the heart of a great dragon. And yet, somewhere deep inside the tower, he could still feel that heart beating.