Being in a man’s body was… weird. Not just any man either—Xaleth was a walking mountain, standing over 6'4", built like a brickhouse that’d skipped leg day once and never forgave itself. The mont that bizarre hologram blinked out of existence, I felt the reins slip into my hands. Finally, control.
Vesryn lingered a bit longer, probably out of morbid curiosity, before her patience gave out. The usual human nonsense was too much for her dragon standards. She muttered sothing snide, rolled her eyes in sixteen different ways, and quite literally jumped out the window and vanished. Sha she didn’t stick around—I had questions about whatever cryptic nonsense they were discussing. But would asking have tipped her off?
I thought this was so vision or mory dive, but now that I was steering the at ch? It didn’t feel staged. At all. I walked over to the desk and picked up a cold cup of tea—room temperature, left out long enough to have regrets. Gave it a sniff. Took a sip.
My taste buds lit up like soone had flipped the wrong switch. It was awful. But real. I closed my eyes and flopped into the overly plush chair behind the desk, and damn if it wasn’t suspiciously comfortable.
It reminded of when I possessed Brana. Except, back then, I still had access to my core. This ti? Nada. Zilch. Core was as out of reach as a snack at the bottom of a mana pit. I couldn’t even poke at this body’s core, and I knew Xaleth had to be leagues above power-wise. Which made sense—this was a mory shard, after all.
I glanced around. Everything had that uncanny sheen of authenticity. For just a mory fragnt, this was disturbingly… vivid. Exactly how powerful was this system?
My eyes drifted to the window. How much of what was out there was real? The thought stirred sothing reckless in —an urge to explore, to test the boundaries. But then I rembered: I couldn’t fly in this body. And worse, the trial was nearly upon .
A glowing tir hovered into my vision: 2 hours, 12 minutes left. My guess? That’s how long I got to poke around in here. And I had one mission—get that spellbook. Quantum mana matrices, nested runes—ugh, I was practically drooling just thinking about it. Lotte would never share that kind of arcane candy, not even if I begged on all fours. No way I was letting this chance slip through my claws.
Besides, that hologram had made one thing clear: no ti dilation. I was out of the evolution chamber, and the clock was ticking in real-ti. Two hours in here ant two more hours of being an airborne popsicle floating above Varkaigrad.
I exhaled sharply. Hah. Nothing ever ca cheap, did it? At least I’d be safe until the shield faded—and hopefully still hidden. Hopefully.
Wait… was I actually hidden?! Last ti, the soil had covered—literally. This ti? Wind. And wind wasn’t exactly known for its protective cuddles.
Oh Thalador… I really hoped I was cloaked. Because if I wasn’t? I was one glimr away from a whole heap of very real, very pointy trouble.
Phew. Deep breaths. Think positive! Manifest sothing nice, anything nice. Whatever this ss was—it’d be fine. Once I popped back out, even if there was so smug Gold Core elite hovering nearby, I trusted my escape ga. I wasn’t exactly a newbie at slipping away from death’s awkward handshake.
And really, would it be so bad if one of the beastkin caught a glimpse of ? Dragons were supposed to be their sacred ancestors, right? Surely that earned a pass. Maybe a stunned gasp, a bow or two, not a spear through the ribs.
Still—just in case—I’d already planned it out: the second I saw anyone lurking nearby, it was Clone Ti™. Phase straight into the shadow dinsion, yeet myself into the nearest bush and run like I was allergic to consequences. Maybe even invoke the mighty Court of Quantum Edicts and loudly declare, “Chasing is hereby ILLEGAL.” Would it work? Who knew. Worth a shot.
AAAAAAAAAA. I really needed ti to actually experint with my powers. Reading vague descriptions on skill sheets was one thing—actually using them when the body was a stranger? Totally different. Felt like trying to dance with a sword for a partner.
But—no. Focus. I had sothing important on the line. That spellbook was worth every drop of anxiety-flavored sweat in my system.
So. Where to begin?
I finally pulled up the mission screen—the one that had popped up the mont I took control of this glorified muscle-tank, but I’d been too distracted by Vesryn’s whole “ethereal disdain” thing to check it properly. Even if this was technically a mory… it felt real. Too real. My instincts told not to screw around or break character.
Active Mission
MISSION:Render Judgnt – Quantum Clause
OBJECTIVE: You’ve stumbled (or been shoved) into a Trial. All you have to do is deliver a ruling on a petty legal spat between a black-market botanist and a solar-powered scamr!
TASKS:(The more satisfying your ruling, the greater the reward. Think like a judge, feel like a dragon.)
Study the Case – Absorb all the sordid little details. Who’s lying? Who’s worse? (Progress: 1/1)
Render a Ruling – Pass judgnt that satisfies Xaleth. It all hinges on a single order. (Progress: 0/1)
Optional: Identify Hidden Threads – Notice anomalies or hidden truths for a bonus reward. (Progress: ?/?)
REWARD:
~ Mysterious Spellbook ~ – Access to the long-lost spellcraft of a path once considered mythical.
Hidden Bonus: Varies based on how satisfying your judgnt is. (Pressure? What pressure?)
PENALTY:
Failure to render judgnt results in trial termination. No spellbook. No bonus. Just you, silence, and the crushing weight of what could’ve been.
[ACCEPTED]
Was it just , or was the system getting sassier? Either the System was binge-watching courtroom dramas, or I’d finally cracked under the pressure.
Well, the first task was done. I’d gone through the docs, read all the scandalous little lies, and yep—both of them were trash fires. I knew who was lying and who was worse, which was both.
Now ca the fun part: I knew squat about law in this place. Human, dragon, or whatever “UK” stood for (Unhinged Koalas? Untidy Kettles?). My legal expertise began and ended with “don’t get caught.” Ugh. And the trial was starting in less than an hour.
I racked my brain for anything law-related. All I got was chemistry reactions and one school mory of throwing a sandwich at soone. Great. Genius-tier intelligence and not a single byte of legal theory.
My eyes landed on the bookshelf—a wall of ancient tos and shiny bindings. I could feel my intelligence stat humming, eager to be tested. I’d never had the chance to just sit and learn sothing new before, not like this. Maybe that was the secret here. Maybe the trial was a riddle, and they’d handed the solution wrapped in dusty leather and ink.
There was only one hour left. Not much ti.
But hey—if you’re gonna solve a mystery, might as well start reading. I leapt to the shelf and snatched the first book.
Let’s find out how fast I could read when the fate of my future precious spellbook depended on it.
***
The book exploded open in my hands.
Literally.
Pages blurred into a cyclone of parchnt, flapping like panicked birds as my fingers locked onto the spine. My eyes? Useless. My brain was the lens now—pupils blown wide, irises flickering with a violet gleam as they devoured paragraphs, footnotes, even the faintest margin scribbles in a single ravenous gulp.
Page 1:Introduction to Property Law — assimilated.
Page 12:Case Study: Nuisance vs. Necessity — cataloged.
Page 45:Precedent: Solar Energy Rights (1987) — cross-referenced and ntally bookmarked with an asterisk that scread, use this later.
My consciousness fractured like an overclocked processor. One thread scanned the text. Another parsed implications. A third hunted loopholes. A fourth was screaming, YOU’RE RUNNING OUT OF TI. Neural circuits blazed white-hot, tabolizing legalese into sharp, actionable insight faster than my hands could flip pages.
This wasn’t reading. It was assimilation.
Sentences were stripped to bone before the paper even stilled beneath them. The room itself blurred. Sound muted. Even the rain outside slowed to a syrupy drip as ti warped around —seconds stretching into epochs of pure analysis.
UK Civil Procedure Rules? morized.
Doctrine of Ancient Lights? Annotated.
Tax evasion statutes post-2010? Already cross-indexed with Crane’s oily little side hustle.
My brain wasn’t normal anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. But even this felt absurd. I was actively cataloging every disturbed current of air in the background—tistamps, directions, particulate density. And sohow this still didn’t feel as wild as the acceleration tearing through my thoughts right now.
Page after page. Volu after volu. And I was faster. Hungrier. The knowledge wasn’t flowing in—it was being yanked, vacuum-packed into mory under pressure.
By the ti I slamd the first to shut, the shelf was three books lighter. Their contents howled in my mind like a freshly summoned storm.
Tick. Tock.
The tir laughed in binary: 1h 47m.
I lunged for the next book.
Faster.
And then—click.
Midway through the fourth volu, sothing snapped into place. A law. A clause. A buried precedent stitched with just enough ambiguity to be dangerous in the hands of soone clever—or deranged.
I froze.
A grin slithered across Xaleth’s borrowed face.
Judgnt, huh?
Oh, this’d be fun.
***
Ahh, a petty dispute. No jury, no lawyers. Just and a decision.
How very pleasant.
Still, I side-eyed the courtroom and—well. It certainly didn’t match the luxury of the office I’d been in monts ago.
Courtroom 3B tasted like stale biscuits and disappointnt. I slumped into the magistrate’s chair—leather cracked, armrests sagging under decades of civic apathy. The room felt like a shoebox left out in the rain: peeling sage-green walls, flickering fluorescent tubes, and a threadbare carpet that looked allergic to cleaning.
To my left: a wilting potted fern. Definitely a war cri against horticulture.
To my right: the court clerk—Gary, if I rembered correctly—was battling a sausage-roll crumb embedded in his tie. His bloodshot eyes and yawns every third breath told the man hadn’t slept since… last century?
Outside, rain clawed at the gri-streaked window, more drizzle than downpour. The greyness of it all made my nerves itch.
Deep breaths.
Then I noticed them.
Those two dipshits.
Mrs. Agatha Poole perched on the edge of her seat like a fragile antique teacup. She was playing the helpless old lady role beautifully—white gloves, floral handbag clutched like a crucifix, watery eyes darting about with manufactured innocence.
Lucas Crane, on the other hand, had smarm carved into his bones. Chiselled jaw, slicked-back hair, and a designer sweater draped over his shoulders like it granted him diplomatic immunity. He slouched in his chair, scrolling through his ‘phone’ with a smirk so punchable it practically glowed. His cologne, sharp and dicinal, sliced into the air like a spell of its own.
Speaking of phones—I had one too. Fascinating little rectangles. Too bad I had no idea how it worked. Not really. If I rattled my head hard enough, I might dredge up so knowledge echoes, but honestly? Not worth it. And besides, Xaleth’s was locked with a password soooo yeah.
In front of was a ‘laptop.’ Another marvel. Mana-less world, my scaly tail—this thing was a hexed grimoire with a screensaver.
Whatever it was, these machines felt dangerously close to magic artifacts.
I glanced at the tir in my vision: 22 minutes left.
I squinted. The performance hadn’t even begun. No redo. No rewinds. Whatever I said would be carved in lawstone.
Gary coughed, leaned into the microphone (another bit of sorcery!), and mumbled,
“Case 2274: Poole versus Crane. Sunlight deprivation via solar structure.”
And just like that, the curtain rose.
Welco to the theatre of the absurd.
Gary cleared his throat again, voice sluggish from what I could only assu was a diet of energy drinks and regret.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
“Magistrate Jonathan Ellis presiding. We’re convening for the matter of Poole versus Crane, case number 2274. Dispute concerning alleged sunlight deprivation due to an installed solar structure.”
Right. Of course. Xaleth was using a different na. Jonathan Ellis. Fair, I guess—“Xaleth” did sound less like a magistrate and more like a boss fight.
Gary looked at like I might explode or declare the courtroom a protected flamingo habitat.
Panic.
I gave him a slow, stately nod.
That seed to do the trick. Apparently that’s what judges do—nod aningfully and pretend everything isn’t on fire.
“Both parties present?” Gary asked, because we were all committed to this farce.
Mrs. Agatha Poole raised a trembling hand, glancing at like I might transform into a balrog at any mont.
“Yes, dear. I—I’m here.”
Lucas Crane didn’t even lift his head. Just gave a lazy wave without taking his eyes off his phone.
“Mhm. Present.”
I already hated this guy.
Gary sighed. Probably reconsidering every life choice that led him to this fluorescent hell.
“Very well. Each party will have five minutes to make an opening statent. Mrs. Poole, you’re the complainant. Please begin.”
I nodded again, mostly because doing anything else might reveal I had no idea what I was doing.
Agatha rose with the grace of a fragile heirloom. She adjusted her cardigan, her hands quivering just enough to draw sympathy without seeming calculated. Her eyes swept the room like a warti widow about to recount the bombing of her childhood ho.
“Thank you, Your Honour,” she began, her voice soft and tremulous in exactly the right places. “I’ve lived at 11 Briar Lane for forty-two years—”
Ah. The Backstory Phase.
Cue the five grown children, all raised under that very roof. Five cats, buried with ceremonial reverence in the garden. The roses—her pride. A sniffle, perfectly tid, just before she segued into her suffering. Brava, you diabolical orchid smuggler.
I almost applauded. Almost.
Soon she was jabbing a finger at Lucas, voice wobbling just enough to sell “concerned citizen” rather than “vengeful neighbor.”
“He didn’t apply for proper planning permission. Didn’t consult anyone. Just threw it up like we didn’t exist!”
Touché. Poignant, tragic, and mildly accusatory.
I glanced at the tir.
17 minutes left.
WHAT?!?
How was that possible?! I could’ve sworn I had 22 a second ago. Was it speeding up? Was that allowed?! What if I didn’t even get a chance to give a verdict? What kind of cursed legal ritual was this?
Agatha sank back into her seat with a dramatic exhale, like recounting her trauma had shaved a year off her lifespan.
Gary nodded, utterly unbothered. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. Mr. Crane?”
One look at Lucas’s smug, punchable face and I was already ntally searching for a fast-forward button.
“Let’s cut the sap,” he drawled, oozing entitlent like a ruptured oil tanker. “Granny’s mad her roses got benched? Boo-hoo. My solar wall’s greener than a leprechaun’s tax returns. Fast-Track Green Initiative approved it. Check the files.” He jabbed his phone like it was a holy relic. “Thirty-seven percent carbon cut. You like polar bears, right?”
His grin hit like a dare. Thalador’s beard, I wanted to fold him into a paper airplane and launch him into the nearest volcano.
He kept monologuing, and I let it wash over . Blah blah public good, blah blah climate change. Sothing about how Mrs. Poole’s horticultural hobbies shouldn’t “stand in the way of progress.”
Gag.
I nodded again, mostly because I couldn’t exactly scream OBJECTION! and launch him into a wall.
Then he tapped sothing on his ‘phone’ and the laptop in front of lit up. Oh, right—humans here can send knowledge across these rectangles. Extrely useful. Suspiciously useful.
Crane Energy Solutions Ltd. Subsidy Application – Approved.pdf
I clicked it.
Left eye locked on Lucas. Right eye scanned the screen. A quick flick down, arrow key once—then a blur. My iris raced through the lines, dissecting the docunt at a speed no one in this courtroom could follow.
Lucas flinched hard. That smug expression cracked into confusion and horror.
Oh. Right.
Dual-eye control.
Of course he’d freak out—humans here didn’t have cores. No mana, no ranked developnt, no enhanced control over their own bodies. They couldn’t even comprehend sothing as simple as independent ocular tracking.
In my world, anyone above Yellow Core could do that. Hell, kids could train to.
I snapped my gaze straight, coughing into a fist. Totally normal judge noises here.
Lucas blinked like he’d licked a battery. Good. Let him marinate in confusion.
Phew. Close one.
Speaking of close—I glanced at the tir.
11 minutes.
Why was it still lting like butter in the sun!?
Anyway, back to the case. The docunt was trash. Total fabrication. The “solar panels” were nothing but props. No wiring, no ter, no functional grid tie-in. Just a slick £50,000 tax dodge and so PR fluff about carbon footprints.
And yet… the tir kept ticking down.
anwhile, the two of them were exchanging jabs like this was so passive-aggressive tennis match instead of a legal proceeding.
“Besides,” Lucas continued, still playing the martyr, “she’s the one who harassed my installer. Sent two emails full of what I’d generously call... vigorous threats.”
Agatha gasped, scandalized.
“I said I’d write to the council!”
Lucas gave a faux-pained shrug. “You also said you’d—and I quote—‘curse my bloodline.’”
“I was being poetic, dear!” Agatha snapped, her hands fluttering like startled pigeons.
And that was it.
With the tir now dipping under five minutes, I’d officially had enough of this nonsense.
Gary still looked like he was trying to decode a foreign language, poor soul. But it didn’t matter anymore. Etiquette? Authority? I was the authority. And I was done pretending otherwise.
“Silence.”
One word, sharp as a sword.
Both of them froze. Glorious.
I raised my hand. “Thank you, both of you. That’s quite enough.”
The silence that followed felt fragile, brittle, like a thread pulled too tight.
“I’ve heard all I need to render a verdict,” I said calmly. “Mrs. Poole has cited the Rights of Light Act, arguing that Mr. Crane’s structure violates her access to ‘ancient light.’ Mr. Crane, in turn, appeals to the Clean Energy Infrastructure Act, which grants leeway to eco-friendly installations.”
I paused.
“So, in essence… you’re both right. Legally speaking, the two acts cancel each other out. A stalemate.”
Lucas’s smug grin widened.
Ah. There it is.
Ti to obliterate it.
“But,” I continued, letting the word hang in the air like a guillotine, “I’m invoking the Party Wall Act of 1996, specifically Section 2(2)(a), which covers disputes where construction interferes with neighboring properties.”
I turned to him fully.
“Mr. Crane, you are to modify your solar wall to ensure it does not ‘interfere with the reasonable enjoynt of adjacent land.’ Tilt the panels. Redirect sunlight to Mrs. Poole’s garden.”
Lucas’s face went from smug to scandalized in a heartbeat.
Delicious.
That was the final piece I needed—the loophole. The Party Wall Act didn’t just cover walls or fences; it could be interpreted to include anything that obstructed a neighbor’s use of their property. Sunlight, included. And modifications were allowed—encouraged, even.
His face flushed a furious red. “That’s—that’s not how solar works!”
No, but it was how the law worked.
“Correct,” I said with a slow grin. “But I’m not your engineer. I’m your judge.”
His jaw clenched. “You’re fucking joking.”
His fists clenched too as he stood. Wrong move.
I smiled wider. “Sit. Down.”
“This isn’t a toy, Your Honour. Solar infrastructure requires engineering, compliance, permits—you can’t just—”
“Section 2(2)(a),” I cut in smoothly. “Reasonable enjoynt. You’ve denied Mrs. Poole her sunshine. Now share it.”
This?
This was actually fun.
Law—especially the absurdist tangle of this UK’s legal codes—was a battlefield made of loopholes, and I’d just claid victory.
Crane knew he couldn’t push past .
“I’ll appeal. My lawyers will—”
“Appeal what, exactly? Compliance?”
I tapped the section of the Act with a single claw.
“Tilt the panels, or I’ll have the council dismantle the wall. Your choice.”
I smiled. Wider than I should’ve. Wide enough that he flinched like he’d seen sothing underneath it.
Mrs. Poole broke the silence first. The ruling had clearly rattled her, but she recovered fast—like a trained actress slipping into character.
“Oh! Thank you, Your Honour! My roses will thrive now, just like Harold’s azaleas in ’93—”
I gave a little shrug. “Roses need six hours of sun, Mrs. Poole.”
Then I leaned slightly closer and, with a wink, whispered:
“Paphiopedilum sanderianum needs only two.”
Her face went blank. No gasp, no flinch—just a second of stillness. And then she paled.
Oh, she knew.
She absolutely knew.
And she hadn’t planned on anyone knowing that.
The tir ticked on.
11 seconds.
“You’ll replant. Roses. By next week.”
9 seconds.
She sputtered. “But… the soil’s too acidic now, it’ll take months to—”
5.
I laughed—short, sharp, and cruel. A bark of pure spite.
“Then borrow a fucking tiller.”
0.
And just like that—
Everything stopped.
My awareness dropped out of the courtroom like a puppet with its strings cut. Sight, sound, sensation—all fell away.
[Mission Complete.]
Did I do it?
No idea.
But maybe it wasn’t just about the judgnt.
Maybe it had been about the show.
Suspended in the void—just floating thought—I lingered in that second between seconds. And then, laughter. Low, gravelly. Familiar in a way that made the scales on my back rise.
That’s how Lotte laughs—when she uses her real dragon mouth.
Then I felt it:
A pressure, imnse and vast, behind . Not physical, but inescapable. Weight without weight.
I didn’t have a body here—just a shape of energy, a soul rendered in vivid dragon-form. Still, I turned my serpentine neck.
And froze.
Before sat a dragon.
Not like Lotte. Not just big.
This one was more ethereal.
Scales of violet and gold, like celestial armor. A core of void, a pulsing nothingness that hurt to look at. And eyes—twin galaxies of swirling athyst, locked on with amused interest.
Smaller compared to Lotte.
But the presence was... Stranger.
“‘Borrow a… fucking… tiller,’” he bood, each word a landslide of gravel and glee. “Exquisite. You’ve the finesse of a hurricane in a china shop, little dragonling.”
At least he looked amused.
I inclined my head, trying not to let the awe show too hard.
“Assuming the judgnt satisfied you?”
“Oh, it most certainly did,” he said. “Entertaining, even. Would you like to see the results of that decision?”
My answer ca instantly, thoughtlessly. My eyes lit up before my thoughts even caught up.
Yes.
Yes I did.
Because deep down, I wasn’t just a judge.
I was a dragon.
And dragons like to watch the world burn just a little.
Imdiately, the abyss dissolved.
We stood before a red-roofed house. Neat lawn, gnarled trees, and a gate lined with faded ceramic sunflowers. Two plainclothes officers—I think that’s what they call enforcers here—stood at the garden gate. A stern woman in a wax jacket. A lanky man with a clipboard.
Mrs. Poole wore muddy Wellies and a floral apron, clutching a trowel like a crucifix. Her face was a mask of frail indignation.
“But—but I was just tending my roses!”
Behind her, the greenhouse door gaped open. Inside: wilted orchids, black-market potting chemicals, and a suspiciously fat ledger labeled “Harold’s Azaleas – 1993.” I caught a glimpse of bills stuffed between the pages. Cash. Oh my, she was fast.
But not fast enough, it seed.
Neighbors had gathered too, waving their ‘phones’ around—fascinating little machines. They could record Earth’s mories, like a refined echo spell. Delightfully invasive.
The female officer— face carved from pure “I’ve seen it all”—plucked the trowel away. “Let’s not traumatize the petunias, Agatha.”
The clipboard man snapped more ‘photos’ of the greenhouse. An orchid, already wilted, crumbled beneath his boot.
The scene shifted instantly.
Now: morning light glinting off a glass-and-steel mansion. Crane’s ho, I guessed. The infamous solar wall was grotesquely tilted—mirrors angled like broken wings. A black van and two patrol cars blocked the circular driveway.
Crane stood barefoot on the steps, silk pajamas rumpled, shouting into a phone.
“Do you know who I am?! I’ll sue the whole fucking—”
A man in a sharp suit, wearing the world’s most bored expression, held up a scroll.
A warrant, I think that thing was called.
“Subsidy fraud, Mr. Crane. Let’s discuss your solar panels… or lack thereof.”
Then I heard Xaleth’s voice behind again. Deep. Amused. Dangerous.
“A simple decision… and everyone ended up losing.
I was wondering about your reasoning, little dragonling.”
I froze.
My reasoning? Right.
I knew I had to satisfy him—this big dragon-thing who was not quite Lotte—but I didn’t know what he’d find pleasing.
So I satisfied myself.
My doppelganger’s voice echoed in my skull:
“That little girl never craved justice. She craved a detonator.”
And she’d been right.
So I grinned. Straight-faced.
And told the truth.
“Because watching pricks squirm is my love language.”
A long pause.
Then the dragon howled with laughter.
“Truly spoken like one touched by Chaos’ shadow.”
“Uh… Chaos’ shadow?”
He tilted his massive head toward the image of the tilted wall. Within the reflections, I saw sothing else: a building—lting tar, panicked workers, and construction crews swarming like ants.
“Well, the wall was tilted.
And it just so happened to reflect sunlight directly onto Town Hall.
Outdated HVAC system, cheaply built. Couldn’t handle the load.
First it overheated… then it ignited.
That fire spread. Destroyed records. Caused an audit.
That audit uncovered… let’s say… many things.
A massive corruption trail. Decades deep.”
I blinked.
There were so many details missing, I almost asked. But then I rembered where I was.
Oh shit.
I needed to get back. Now.
I blurted, “So… did I clear it properly?”
He chuckled darkly.
“Spectacularly, little dragonling.”
I pumped my claws in the air, eyes glittering.
“Now my reward, please!”
Xaleth just laughed, a deep, rumbling sound.
“Seems like you’re in a hurry.”
Oh, you bet your scaly tail I was!
“Alright then… the spellbook is yours.”
He snapped his claws—a surprisingly casual gesture for a dragon that big.
I blinked. Opened my claws, half-expecting the to to just pop into them with a dramatic sparkle or sothing.
...
Nothing.
I squinted up at him. “Uh…? Little help?”
He grinned, fangs glinting like event horizons. “Patience, hatchling. Knowledge… descends.”
Then I felt it.
A presence. A gravitational pressure like a falling star. Sothing massive was descending. Fast.
I slowly—very slowly—looked up.
And there it was.
A spellbook.
Correction: a MASSIVE FUCKING BOOK, easily the size of a large cathedral, hurtling through the void straight at .
“WAIT—HOLD UP—WAITWAITWAIT—”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—!”
CRUNCH.
The last thing I rembered was the blinding impact of ancient knowledge eting fragile dragon skull, and the gravelly, unhinged laughter of Xaleth echoing behind .
All dragons, I decided in that brief mont of spellbook-induced obliteration, were a little bit screwed in the head.
***
Doltharion perched atop his faerth, its vast wings beating the air as he stared into the horizon. The creature resembled a massive eagle, yet its torso and limbs bore the twisted, sinewy features of a shade creeper. Its silent, expansive wings and piercing vision made it an exceptional hunter, and a prized mount. For centuries, noble families in Lithrindel had bred such beasts, refining them into perfect instrunts of the sky. Normally, they wouldn’t fly so high, but this was an exception. They were above the clouds now, and it would be fine.
Behind him, dozens of his brethren flew in formation. It hadn’t taken long for them to assemble; a single order from their lord, and the warriors had scrambled into position, their loyalty unquestioned. Not all of them were red core, but there were seven of the highest rank among them. The rest were competent yellow cores, one of them being a diviner, skilled in the craft.
Together, they’d corner that Drakkari cunt and make her scream. The thought gnawed at Doltharion. His concern that she had escaped still lingered. The feeling of an explosion colliding with a barrier, a shield. It had been real. In the distance, he could see it now—an enormous mass of air, swirling and ominous. It didn’t resemble the sky; it was more like a storm wrapped around sothing, vaguely egg-shaped.
He knew it—he’d been right. It had to be an artifact. His hunches were rarely wrong. But even artifacts had their limits. It had been at least two hours since the incident. She couldn’t hide much longer. And when she erged, Doltharion would be there to gouge her fucking eyes out.
His mouth watered at the thought of it.
"Doltharion, should we attack again?" ca the voice of one of his subordinates.
Doltharion scowled, his focus still on the storm-like shield ahead. "Save your mana," he ordered. "We've experinted enough. This shield withstood the explosion from an overloaded construct without flinching. Our spells’ll tickle it. We wait. She’ll crawl out soon enough.”
The subordinate nodded, understanding. Doltharion's eyes remained locked on the barrier, but just as the tension was beginning to settle, a ripple passed through his ranks.
"What’s happening?" he demanded, annoyance flashing across his face as he tore his gaze from the shield.
"Sothing massive is approaching us!" ca the response, panicked but clear.
Doltharion frowned deeply and tapped into his communication relay. "Has any of the house heads left yet, especially for the skies?" It didn’t make sense for any of them to leave the city, not with everything in such a delicate state.
"Uh, no. I haven’t received any reports of anyone leaving," ca the fragnted reply. "According to the latest intel, they all gathered near Alchemy Tower before entering it, and that was only two minutes ago."
Doltharion exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening. For a mont, there was nothing to fear.
But then—
"It’s closing in!" the voice shouted again, urgency creeping into the tone.
Doltharion squinted against the wind, his gaze narrowing as he looked toward the approaching shape. He could make out two large crow-like wings—fast, and closing in on their position with terrifying speed.
“Just so stray beast,” he muttered, but his gut twisted. Strays don’t fly that hungry. That purposeful.
He gripped his faerth’s reins, knuckles white.
Co on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.
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