The four-ard riders moved in quick steps; their long legs gave them easy access, their additional limbs allowing them to wield weapons with deadly efficiency.
Voriack drew two curved blades while his companions brandished spears and scrolls designed for capturing large prey. Their dragons flanked them, eyes glowing with predatory hunger as they prepared to support their riders in battle.
"Take the drake alive," Voriack commanded, his four arms moving in perfect synchronization. "The rider we can afford to damage."
They rushed forward as one, their extra limbs giving them an advantage in reach and striking power that would have overwheld most opponents.
But Jolthar was not like most opponents. The power in his veins responded to the threat with cold fury, and power surged through him like liquid fire.
He didn’t draw a weapon.
He didn’t need to.
He had the most serene expression on his face. He wasn’t even showing a hint of anger or fear. He had this clarity that they weren’t a threat to him. He knew just seeing the aura they emanated.
After reaching tier 9, Jolthar saw his surroundings differently. There was a source of power in every living thing in the midlands. And he had opened up to the possibility of seeing such a vision.
He was aware of these signs and what they were telling him.
He was getting too close to being transcendent. Then again, he wasn’t sure about it. He knows a lot less about the state of transcendence.
Jolthar raised his hand, and the world bent to his will.
The air itself beca a solid, invisible force slamming into the charging riders with the weight of mountains.
Voriack’s confident expression shattered as he was lifted from his feet, his four arms flailing uselessly as telekinetic power gripped him like a giant’s fist.
The other three riders t similar fates.
One was hurled backward into a rock formation with bone-crushing force.
Another found himself suspended in mid-air, his weapons torn from his grasp and scattered across the rocky ground. The third was slamd repeatedly into the ground, his four-ard form ragdolling under the invisible assault.
"Impossible," Voriack gasped, blood streaming from his mouth as the telekinetic grip tightened around his throat.
"Who’re youu!?"
"Right now, your death," Jolthar replied, his voice carrying harmonics that spoke of authority. His eyes blazed with inner light, and the air around him shimred with barely contained energy. "You should have listened to my warning."
With a gesture, he increased the pressure.
KKREEKK!
The sound of breaking bones echoed across the highland as Voriack’s form went limp, his four arms falling slack. The other three riders had already ceased their struggles, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles where telekinetic force had snapped their spines.
The entire battle had lasted less than thirty seconds.
Jolthar’s telekinesis had improved far greater than he could guess. He didn’t strain himself while using such force to crush them.
Considering the human standards, they were all around tier 5 or 6 stages and couldn’t stand up to Jolthar.
While Jolthar dealt with the riders, Maelruth had engaged their dragons with savage efficiency. The smaller creatures were fast and agile, but they lacked her raw power and battle experience. Her massive jaws clamped down on the first dragon’s neck, crushing vertebrae with a wet crack. The second tried to flee, but her powerful legs launched her into the air, talons raking across its back and sending it crashing to the ground.
The third and fourth dragons attempted to coordinate their attack, diving at her from opposite directions.
Maelruth’s response was devastating—she caught one in her jaws while her tail lashed out to snap the other’s spine.
Both creatures hit the ground and moved no more.
By the ti Jolthar released his telekinetic hold on the riders’ broken forms, Maelruth had already begun her feast. She tore chunks of flesh from the fallen dragons with obvious relish, her rumbling purr of satisfaction echoing across the highland.
"Enjoying yourself?" Jolthar asked, walking over to where she fed.
The sight might have disturbed others, but he understood the harsh realities of survival in the wild.
Maelruth paused in her feeding to look at him, her muzzle stained with blood. Her rumbling response carried notes of satisfaction and mild amusent. She had protected her territory and her companion—the feast was simply a bonus.
"How did you encounter them before?" Jolthar continued, settling against a rock formation. "They seed to know this area well."
The drake’s response was a series of growls and huffs that told the story through their bond.
She had been hunting in the southern valleys when the four-ard riders had appeared, tracking sothing. They had tried to capture her then, but she had escaped to the cave where Jolthar had found her. They had been searching for her ever since.
"So they weren’t just random hunters," Jolthar mused. "They were specifically after you."
Maelruth’s confirming grunt was interrupted by her return to feeding. She seed unconcerned by the implications—she had dealt with the threat, and that was enough.
But as Jolthar watched her feed, a strange sensation crept over him.
It started as a tightness in his chest and then spread throughout his body like ice water in his veins.
The feeling was familiar yet unwelco—a gut-deep certainty that sothing was terribly wrong.
The sensation was like a hook in his soul, pulling him toward so distant catastrophe.
"Maelruth," he said, his voice tight with sudden urgency.
"We need to leave. Now."
The drake looked up from her al, sensing his distress through their bond. Her feeding could wait—her companion’s needs took precedence.
She rose to her full height, blood still dripping from her muzzle, and moved to where his saddle lay carefully maintained against the cave wall.
Jolthar had crafted the saddle himself, using techniques learned from both human and draconic traditions. The leather was supple and strong, fitted with straps and buckles that could secure him even during the most violent aerial manoeuvres.
Maelruth had kept it pristine during their separation, understanding its importance to their partnership.
As he secured the saddle and mounted, the sensation of wrongness intensified. His instincts were screaming warnings that sothing catastrophic was unfolding, sothing that threatened people he couldn’t afford to lose. The feeling was strongest when he thought of Tekkora, of Cleora and her children.
"South," he commanded, and Maelruth launched herself into the sky with powerful wingbeats. The highland fell away beneath them as they climbed toward the clouds, leaving behind the scattered remains of the four-ard raiders.
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