The journey east took two weeks.
They traveled through forests where the trees whispered secrets, where the wind carried the scent of decay, of things that had died and refused to stay dead. They crossed rivers that ran black with taint, with the poison of the Plague, with the corruption that had once been life. They climbed mountains where the wind carried the screams of the dead, where the very air seemed to remember the deaths that had happened there, that had stained the land forever.
The Plague was spreading faster now—every village they passed was either abandoned or burning, the dead roaming the countryside like packs of wild dogs, like death itself taking form, taking shape, taking the world. The Church's inquisitors were everywhere, hunting dragon-blooded heretics, burning magic users, spreading fear and death in the name of purity, in the name of light.
Thorne's dragon blood grew stronger with each passing day, the fire burning hotter in his veins, the scales beneath his skin growing thicker, more visible. He could feel the transformation taking hold—his skin was harder, his senses sharper, his temper shorter, his humanity fading like embers in a fire that wouldn't stop burning. The amulet Morgana had given him helped, the silver metal pulsing with light, with power that pushed back the darkness, that slowed the fire's consumption, but it was a constant battle to keep his humanity, a war he was losing with every passing day.
Lyra's silver magic also grew stronger, the light burning brighter in her blood, the runes on her wrists glowing with power that shouldn't exist. She could now see not just death, not just the shadows that coiled around people like snakes, showing her how they would die, when they would die. She could see the threads of fate that connected all things, the patterns that bound the world together, the web of causality that made every action matter, that made every choice echo through eternity. She could sense the Plague's spread, could feel the darkness gathering in the East, could feel the wrongness that was coming, the horror that waited.
On the evening of the fourteenth day, they reached the Desert of Ashes.
It was a wasteland of gray sand and black rock, stretching to the horizon in every direction, endless and dead. The air was filled with ash that fell like snow, coating everything in gray, burying the world in layers of death. No plants grew here, no animals lived here, no life could survive here. Only the dead walked these sands, only the Plague's weapons moved through this place, only death itself had a home here.
"The Plague's heart," Lyra whispered, her eyes wide as she looked out over the wasteland, seeing the death that filled it, the corruption that had stained it forever. "I can feel it. It's like a wound in the world, like the darkness itself has taken form, has made this place its home."
"We have to cross it," Thorne said, tightening his grip on Dawnbreaker, the blade responding to the dragon fire that burned in his veins, the power that shouldn't exist feeding on his will. "The Oracle is on the other side. The only way forward is through."
They rode into the desert, the horse's hooves crunching on the gray sand, the animal trembling with fear, sensing the death that filled the air. The ash fell thicker here, stinging their eyes, coating their clothes, burying them in layers of gray. Within an hour, they were covered in ash, like ghosts haunting a dead land, like the dead themselves, like they had already become what they were fighting.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in blood-red and black, they saw movement ahead. Not just the dead—something larger. Something worse.
A fortress rose from the ash, black stone walls towering into the sky, defying reason, defying the hope that the Plague could be stopped. Around it, thousands of the dead moved like ants, digging, building, carrying something from deep beneath the ground, from the bones of things that had died long ago, that should have stayed dead.
"What are they doing?" Lyra asked, her voice tight with fear, with the sight of death shadows that coiled around the fortress like snakes, showing her the end that was coming if something didn't change.
Thorne narrowed his eyes, dragon blood enhancing his vision, letting him see through the ash, through the darkness, to the truth beneath. "They're digging up something. Something old. Something that shouldn't exist anymore."
He could see it now—deep pits in the sand, where the dead were pulling up ancient bones, bone by bone, fragment by fragment. Dragon bones. Black as night, larger than any living creature, carrying the weight of a thousand years, of a power that had once ruled the skies.
"They're raising a dragon army," Thorne said, his voice filled with horror, with the realization of what Morthos was doing, of what the Plague was becoming. "Morthos isn't just building an army of the dead. He's raising the Great Dragons themselves. He's finding their bones, calling their fire back from the corners of the world, giving them form again. But they won't be dragons anymore. They'll be undead dragons. Death Dragons. And they'll be worse than anything the world has ever seen."
Lyra's face paled, the color draining from it, leaving her white as the ash that coated them. "That's impossible. The Great Dragons were all destroyed. The last Dragon Lord hunted them down, burned them, scattered their bones to the corners of the world. They're gone. They're supposed to stay gone."
"Apparently not," Thorne said, and there was bitterness in his voice, bitterness that came from knowing the truth, from seeing what Morthos was doing. "Morthos is finding their bones and using the Plague to bring them back. He's twisting dragon fire, corrupting it, using it to create Death Dragons, weapons that will serve the darkness, that will destroy everything. But they won't be dragons anymore. They'll be undead, corrupted, wrong. They'll be Death Dragons, and they'll be the end of everything."
He looked at the fortress, where a figure stood on the walls, watching them, sensing them. Even from this distance, Thorne recognized the black armor, the crown of bone, the presence that carried the weight of a thousand years, of a horror that had once destroyed kingdoms.
Morthos.
"He knows we're here," Thorne said, and there was weight in his words, weight that went beyond simple observation, beyond simple fact. "He can feel us. The dead can feel us. The darkness knows we're coming. We can't go through the fortress. He'll see us. He'll send the dead. We'll be overwhelmed."
"There is no around," Lyra said, her voice tight with fear, with the realization that there was no escape, that the path ahead led only to darkness. "The desert stretches for hundreds of miles. The fortress blocks the only pass. We can't go around. We can't avoid this."
"Then we fight our way through," Thorne said, raising Dawnbreaker, black fire trailing from the blade, the power that shouldn't exist responding to his will, feeding on the dragon fire that burned in his veins. "We create a distraction. We draw the dead away, and we slip through while they're distracted. We find the Oracle, and we continue."
"There are thousands of them," Lyra said, her voice trembling with the weight of the odds, of the impossibility of what he was suggesting. "We can't kill that many. We can't fight that many. We'll be overwhelmed."
"Then we don't fight them all," Thorne said, and there was determination in his voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "We create a distraction. We draw the dead away from the pits, from the bones they're digging up. We buy time."
He looked at the pits where the dead were digging, where ancient dragon bones were being pulled from the earth, being called back from the corners of the world. "If we can destroy the dragon bones they've already raised, it will set them back. Morthos will have to start over. It will buy us time to find the Oracle, to find the source of the Plague, to find a way to stop this."
"How?"
"Dragon fire," Thorne said, and there was power in his voice, power that came from the dragon blood that burned in his veins, from the fire that shouldn't exist. "My dragon fire can destroy undead bones. It can burn through the Plague's corruption, can return the dead to true death. It's the only thing that can. The only power that can harm what Morthos is creating."
He looked at Lyra, saw the fear in her eyes, saw the hesitation, the knowledge that this was suicide, that this was madness. "I'll go in and destroy the bones. I'll burn them to ash, I'll return the dead to true death. You create a distraction with your silver magic. Draw the dead away from me. Make them look at you, make them chase you. Buy me time."
Lyra nodded, her face determined, her eyes burning with purple light, with a power that went beyond sight, beyond magic. "I can do that. I can draw their attention. The silver light is bright, and the dead are drawn to light, to life, to the things they've lost. I can make them chase me. I can buy you time."
"Be careful," Thorne said, and there was gentleness in his voice, gentleness that came from caring, from the fear of losing something he had just found. "If anything happens to you, if they catch you..."
"I'll be fine," Lyra said, and there was determination in her voice, determination that came from acceptance, from knowing there was no going back. "I can move fast. I can hide. I can survive. You be careful too. The dragon blood... don't let it consume you. Don't let the fire burn away everything you are."
Thorne touched the amulet at his neck, the silver metal warm against his skin, the gem pulsing with light, with power that pushed back the darkness, that slowed the fire's consumption. "I won't. I'll use the fire, but I won't let it use me. I'll burn the bones, but I won't let the fire burn me."
He waited until nightfall, when the dead were less active, when the darkness was thicker, when the ash fell like snow and buried the world in gray. Then he slipped away from their camp and moved toward the pits, his movements silent, careful, the movements of someone who knew this was suicide, who knew there was no going back.
Lyra went in the opposite direction, toward the fortress walls, silver light already beginning to glow around her hands, around her wrists, brighter and hotter than it had ever been. She moved toward the dead, toward the darkness, toward the death that waited for her.
Thorne reached the first pit unseen, black dragon bones piled high, waiting to be animated, waiting to be called back from the corners of the world, waiting to become Death Dragons. He raised Dawnbreaker and called on the dragon fire, letting it burn, letting it consume, letting it become what it needed to be to destroy what shouldn't exist.
Black flames erupted from the blade, consuming the bones, reducing them to ash, burning through the Plague's corruption, returning the dead to true death. He moved to the next pit, and the next, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake, nothing but ash where there had been bones, where there had been the makings of Death Dragons.
Then he heard it—a roar that shook the ground, that cracked the sky, that made the very air tremble with its power. Not from the fortress, but from beneath it.
Something was waking up.
Something that shouldn't exist.
Something that had been destroyed a thousand years ago, that had refused to stay dead.
And Thorne knew, with a certainty that terrified him, that the world had changed forever, that nothing would ever be the same again.