"After the skies of Ardent's Cradle finally fell silent…"
The world had not yet healed from the battle that ended . The scent of smoke still clung to the mountains, and the air still quivered with the last echoes of unleashed power—Kael's power, Maelor's interference, and the awakening of the Silver Dragon's ancient instincts. Yet the silence that followed was deceptive, thin, trembling like something waiting to break.
Kael felt it long before he understood it.
He stood at the jagged outcrop overlooking the valley below, the same place where he had collapsed days before, torn between himself and the dragon inside him. The wind brushed against him like cold fingers, whispering memories he didn't want to remember.
Kael exhaled, shaky.
His breath fogged in the chill morning air.
Behind him, footsteps approached—light, careful, familiar.
Lira.
"Kael," she called softly.
He didn't turn at first. He couldn't. His hands were trembling again. Not from fear… but from the thing inside him shifting, restless, hungry for the skies.
"You're awake early," he said.
"So are you."
She stepped beside him, her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. The rising sun caught strands of her hair and painted them copper. But her eyes—steady, sharp, refusing to cower—watched him closely.
"You felt it again, didn't you?" she asked.
Kael swallowed. "...Yes."
A pulse, deep in his chest, like a dragon's heartbeat overlapping his own.
The Silver Dragon—older than kings, older than kingdoms—stirred its memories within him.
"Kael," Lira said, firmer this time, "don't drift from me. I'm not losing you to that thing."
He looked at her then, really looked. And he realized something had changed in her. No more trembling hands, no more helplessness. She stood rooted, braver than he had ever seen her, carrying a blade strapped across her back—not a decoration, but a weapon she had trained with for nights while he slept.
"You've changed," he murmured.
She shrugged, not looking away. "I had to. You're not fighting alone anymore."
Before he could answer, the mountain trembled—
—but not from the dragon inside him.
This was different. He felt it through the stone, through the air, like a distant roar.
Lira's eyes widened. "What was—"
A shadow swept across the sky.
Kael's instincts flared.
Wings. Massive ones.
Not Maelor's.
Not any dragon he recognized.
He grabbed Lira's arm. "Get back."
A deafening crack split the air as something landed on the cliffs above them—dust exploding outward like a wave. Lira shielded herself. Kael stood firm, ready to transform if he had to.
The dust cleared.
A figure crouched on the rock, talons scraping stone. Not fully dragon, not fully human—skin plated with obsidian scales, eyes burning gold.
A Wyrmbound.
One of the ancient dragon-kin who had sworn themselves to Maelor centuries ago.
And its voice came out as a guttural snarl:
"Kael Rathwen.
By decree of Maelor the Pale, you are summoned."
Lira reached for her blade.
Kael stepped in front of her.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
The Wyrmbound tilted its head. "Then you choose defiance. Very well."
It opened its jaw—
—and fire gathered.
Kael shoved Lira aside as the blast hit him full-force. The impact hurled him against the rock, the Silver Dragon raging inside him, begging to be freed, to rise, to burn.
He tasted blood.
Lira didn't scream—not this time.
Instead she charged the Wyrmbound with her blade drawn, fearless.
"LIRA—!"
She didn't stop.
As the Wyrmbound swung a claw toward her, Kael's eyes burned silver.
He transformed—partially, violently, wings tearing from his back in a burst of light as he launched himself between them.
The cliff shattered under the force.
The battle had begun.
And this time, Kael was not the only warrior on the field.