An orange light blends into the gray clouds, creating a beautiful, deceptive calm.
Alexandria and I nod. We both know what to do.
The drake opens its mouth—a stream of fire erupts.
We dodge as the flame crashes into the rocks behind us. The once-gray boulders are now blackened and melted.
I dash forward, leaping high toward the dragon, claymore raised—then the drake snaps its head toward me, jaws wide, orange flames building.
How do I even counter that?!
Alexandria moves quickly, shoulder-checking the drake's side. The flames miss.
I land and move swiftly toward the beast. The drake twists, blocking my slash with its body. I step back, spin, and move forward, slashing the dragon's shoulder.
It roars. Alexandria descends, her axe raised, crimson lightning crackling around the blade. She lands the strike on its head—a sound like thunder.
The smoke clears. Alexandria's axe is caught in the dragon's teeth. She tries to pull, but the drake's grip is iron. With a sudden twist, it throws her far.
The dragon turns to me. I step back into a low stance—sword low, eyes focused.
I study it. Its whole body is shielded by scales. But I see it. The neck. Unarmored. Vulnerable.
Each footstep echoes through my ears. Its rhythm. Its movement. Its heartbeat thundering like a drum.
It lunges—mouth wide, flames already igniting. Inch by inch. Close enough.
Now.
A memory flashes.
One year ago. Training with Draka. We hiked into the forest to watch nature, he said. We saw a stag being hunted by a wolf the size of a horse. The wolf chased it down—but when it lunged, the stag turned. Lowered its head beneath the wolf's neck. Raised its horns.
It killed the wolf.
"Straug Contrav," Draka said. "Stag Counter."
A technique where you let the enemy get dangerously close. Low enough to expose their weak spot. Then you strike. High risk. High reward.
To others, it's suicide. To berserkers, it's euphoria.
And now I'm in position. The drake's jaws are inches from my face. I can feel the heat. See the flames building.
Now or never.
I shift into position.
Then I jump back—Lumin surging around the claymore, taking the shape of a stag. I raise the blade, striking the drake square below its neck—the only place not scaled.
Straug Contrav.
The beast's head snaps upward, fire shooting into the sky.
Blood pours from its throat. It tries to flee. But it stumbles. Collapses. Its golden scales fade as smoke rises from its mouth.
Stillness.
Alexandria walks to me, eyes on the dragon, then on me. She smiles—almost crooked.
"Guess I didn't really contribute much. Even with your Lumin limited, you still find a way to win."
"You did. You stopped the monster from burning me alive."
She kneels, placing a hand on the dragon's body. "At least we have food for tonight. Its body is still warm. Even in this rain."
The orange sky fades. Night is coming. We need shelter.
"Alexandria, the drake had a shed, right?"
She nods. "We can sleep there. At least the drake can be food."
She raises her axe and cuts off the dragon's tail. Blood pours from the wound. The tail is long—almost the height of a person—with a large spike at the tip, shaped like a book.
Alexandria hoists the tail over her shoulders. Blood drips over her armor.
I follow her into the rocky forest. Around us, spikes of rock rise like spears, tall as pine trees. Everything is gray and onyx. No green. No life.
The ground is rough, almost spiky. Even with shoes, each step is uncomfortable. I look around and sense nothing. No animals. No insects. As if the drake was the only creature on this island.
How can it survive with no prey?
Eventually, we see a massive spike of rock—larger than the rest, denser. At its center, a large hole.
"This is where we found the drake," Alexandria says. "Dominio snuck past it while it was sleeping. Then he stepped on a bone he couldn't see."
We enter the cave. It's large enough to fit a dozen people. Bones scatter the floor, some rocks, and patches of blue moss. It feels like a safe haven.
I kneel to examine a bone. It's almost human—but not quite. Similar to the mermaids. So the drake hunts them. Does it dive into the depths like a crocodile?
The cave is dark, but I can see through my enhanced vision.
"Can you see anything?" Alexandria asks, her hand guiding her along the wall.
My eyes catch something. Paintings on the wall—squiggles and curves. Words in a language I don't recognize. Not Arabic, but it almost looks like it.
Alexandria's axe crackles with crimson lightning, casting red light.
"There's some light." She follows my gaze. Her eyes narrow. "What is that?"
"I don't know."
I place my hand on the words. My fingers go numb. I pull back—and the words glow red. They shift and move along the wall, forming a large circle.
A bright light shines. A metallic safe-like gate appears before us, with English letters etched into it.
Břixo Krýainago...
"Long live Brixon," Alexandria mutters. "It's Zendorian—but different. An older version."
"You know Zendorian?"
She nods. "I was raised there. Thirteen years. I know the language and culture as well as any Zendorian."
I look at the gate. Large. Made of bluish metal. Mithril.
But Draka and Kora told me that metal is rare. How is there enough to make a gate this size?
"Should I open it?"
Alexandria's eyes glow red as she studies the door. "It's useless," I say. "Mithril is Lumin-resistant."
She looks at my sword. "Then how can your sword be surrounded by Lumin?"
"Surrounded by Lumin. My Lumin can only coat it—not pass through."
"I see." She studies the gate. "You know your metals well."
"A warrior should know everything about their weapon if they want to be efficient."
That's what Draka always told me. I must know my claymore—from its length to the sharpness of its edge.
I grab the wheel and turn. It doesn't stick. Smooth, as if it were new.
I push open the door. A long passage stretches ahead, light at the end.
We look at each other. Then we enter.
Each step is silent. No echo. No sound.
We walk into the light—and see it.
A vast cavern. Far larger than the one we entered through. Green everywhere. Grass. Moss. Trees. Crystals that glow with soft light. A river between us and...
A fortress.
A white stone tower with windows and blue patterns. Walls for soldiers to look out from. Near the fortress stands a statue—twelve feet tall—of a muscular man with long hair flowing past his shoulders. His face is strikingly handsome, carved with an almost divine precision. He's topless, with eight arms. Each hand holds something—a dagger, a spear, a machete, a rapier, a claymore, a knife, a short sword, and a scroll.
We cross the river stone by stone, approaching the statue.
"Řangrila," Alexandria reads. "God of war."
"How is there a fortress in this cave? The place looks clean."
Clean.
Memories of the cathedral flash before my eyes. The clean interior. The dead people. The Solorus crystal that kept it pristine.
Does the same thing happen here?
We approach the gate. It's not locked. I push open the large doors and see skeletons on the floor. Each in armor. Each holding a weapon.
Where are we?