A hand ripped through the writhing shroud of Abyssal ooze—a pale, trembling beacon clawing its way out of a nightmare. Then came the scream. It wasn't human. It wasn't even mortal. It was a wound torn open in the fabric of existence, a scream so raw it could shatter prayers and silence gods.
"UYGGGGAHAGAHHHHHHH!"
The sound bled through the battlefield like molten iron through flesh. Every soul felt it. Every bone quivered. It was agony so pure, so untamed, it became holy.
Felix's eyes went wide, terror blooming like frost over his thoughts. "What's… going on?"
From the black ocean of corruption, the hand fought—straining, shaking, clawing against the pull of eternity. Slowly, like a corpse refusing the grave, it tore free.
"AAAGHHH!"
Orion emerged. A man carved of pallor and tragedy, silver hair flowing like rivers of mercury under a dead moon. His eyes—watery, desperate—held a glint that was beautiful in its horror. In them lay a truth unbearable: a soul screaming inside its own prison.
But the Abyss was a jealous god. Its black tide slithered back, curling around him like a lover unwilling to let go. The ooze rose, swallowing him whole, licking his skin with whispers older than stars.
"Help… me…" His voice cracked like broken glass. Tears streaked down his face as his pale skin darkened, the Abyss reclaiming its stolen son.
"ORION!"
Felix didn't think—he moved, wings exploding open with a gale that ripped through the mist. He shot forward, reckless and raw, talons outstretched. His jaws seized Orion's collar like a beast clinging to hope.
"FELIX! YOU IDIOT!" Noctharn's roar cleaved through the chaos, a sound of fury and despair as he dove, his body a meteor of scales and wrath.
Then Orion smiled.
Not a smile of salvation, but a slow, curving crescent of cruelty. Tears vanished as his voice descended into something glacial. "Got you…"
The Abyss bloomed like spilled milk across Felix's body—white devoured by black, purity drowned in sin.
---
The battlefield froze. Silence fell heavy as judgment.
What stood before them was not a man and a dragon. It was an abomination sculpted by grief, a hymn to ruin. Shadows coiled around them like sinners seeking penance, and even Hell itself would avert its gaze.
Felix—the Frost Dragon, the prince of snow—was now a grotesque elegy. His ivory feathers burned away, leaving behind wings crowned in cruel wreaths of lavender blossoms—a mockery of beauty, a pity gift from damnation.
Orion, too, was hollow now. A marionette dancing on Abyssal strings, his tanned flesh hiding the infinite scream within.
Noctharn's breath hitched. Then, steel. "The dragon before me isn't Felix." His voice cracked thunder as he lunged, jaws clamping like guillotines onto Felix's wing. "If Felix was sane…" His words were fire through blood and storm, "…and if he could ask me anything in this state—it would be his death!"
His teeth tore into corrupted flesh, rending darkness from bone. His legs crashed against Felix's body, shaking mountains, clawing to set his brother free through murder.
Then came Yandelf—swift as winter wind sharpened to a blade. Her spear sang through the storm, cleaving the air toward Orion's throat.
"Orion." Her voice was a requiem soaked in disappointment. "I thought you would be stronger than this."
Steel screamed as her spear met his sword, sparks falling like dying stars. Orion leapt back, eyes hollow as graves.
"Until I hold the Canine of the Leviathan in my hands, Yandelf…" His tone was silk woven in venom. "…you can do nothing to take my life away. I serve the Abyss now."
Yandelf's feet barely kissed the void as she fell into stance. A frown, heavy as prophecy, shadowed her face. "Mother Rosen would mourn your death," she whispered, sorrow spilling like ink.
"Between two realms…" Her voice rippled like frost across shattered water as she vanished into motion, spectral and savage.
Orion's blade howled, cleaving emptiness. "What?" he snarled—then froze as a splash of black blood bloomed across his chest. The essence of the Abyss writhed, stitching life back where death had tried to claim it.
Yandelf's voice was a ghost. "Between two realms. I do not exist in this space right now."
Her spear carved a silver crescent through the void—swift, divine—and his head rolled free.
It hung for a heartbeat, a pale moon against the storm. Yandelf caught it gently, reverent. "May you rest in peace… or so I wished."
But the Abyss does not grant mercy. Black tendrils dragged the head down, knitting flesh like a cruel seamstress. Orion rose again—reborn in blasphemy.
The Three Frost Dragons that were summoned earlier flew forward and stood infront of Yandelf like Wooden Shields that can be discarded after being struck once.
The battlefield did not merely fall silent—it forgot sound. The wind held its breath. The sky sagged under the weight of something unwritten and infinite.
From the remnants of Orion's neck, the Abyss pulsed—thick as midnight blood—and the earth screamed. It cracked like brittle glass under an unseen pressure, shattering into rivers of black that crawled toward the horizon.
A voice slithered through the mist. It was Orion's, yet it wasn't. It had become something deeper, older, patient like rot and cruel like a prayer answered wrong.
"These Frost Dragons… are a nuisance."
The words coiled like serpents in the marrow of their bones. He gripped the Canine of the Leviathan tighter—its surface shimmering with a wet, abyssal glow, like a fang stolen from a god that had drowned in hate.
Yandelf chuckled—a hollow sound, jagged at the edges. "What? You want to fight me? I'm just a commander…" She tilted her head, eyes gleaming like shattered sapphires. "…not a warrior."
Her taunt shattered into violence. The three Frost Dragons roared—a sound so titanic it made the mountains cower. They didn't glide. They collapsed the air itself as they surged forward, a blizzard of talons and hunger.
They didn't fight with grace. They fought with the wrath of extinction—each strike a landslide, each wingbeat a hurricane. Claws ripped daylight apart, teeth tore the bones of winter, and when they breathed, the air became knives of frost that blinded even shadows.
Orion spun—a blur of despair and rage. His blade sang in a tongue older than sin. Each swing cracked the sky, each deflection burned the constellations into cinders. He struck, again and again, cutting deep into scales that bled frostfire.
But the dragons did not scream. They bled, yes—icicles forming from their wounds like crystalline roses—but their laughter was feral and cold. A hymn of beasts unbroken.
Then—it happened.
The mist thickened, so dense it seemed carved from the spine of night. A soundless heartbeat pulsed through the world, and the air grew heavy with an old, impossible truth.
Two eyes opened in the dark.
They did not glow. They did not burn. They simply existed—colder than death, older than betrayal. Cathedrals could have been built in their span. Stars could have drowned in their silence. They stared downward like verdicts carved in bone.
The Frost Dragons froze. All three. Their wings faltered, their spines arched like bows drawn to breaking.
"That… That's Mother Rosen…" one of them rasped, its voice trembling, before it fled behind Yandelf like a child hiding from a storm. The others followed, eyes wide with ancient terror.
From the mist, a voice bloomed, deep as abyssal trenches:
"The Essence of VlastMoroz… inside this fragile shell. How exquisite… how inevitable."
Orion's figure dissolved—no, molted—and from his ruin rose a leviathan.
It did not emerge. It unfolded. Like the sea vomiting a dead god. Its body spanned horizons, a serpent coiled in loops that mocked infinity. Its length devoured mountains; its breath froze centuries mid-scream. The air bent under its weight, and reality sobbed at the seams.
The Leviathan.
Its eyes were not eyes—they were funerals for stars, black mirrors where hope crawled to die.
Yandelf's heart stuttered. Even her voice cracked like ice. "That form…"
And then it spoke again—in a whisper that broke skies:
"VlastMoroz's essence… what a divine cruelty to waste such power on you, Yandelf."
The dragons vanished—folding behind Yandelf like petals closing from a storm. She stood alone, spear trembling not from fear, but from rage so sharp it could bleed gods dry.
She clicked her tongue—a sound lost in the avalanche of silence.
"Rest in the nest," she murmured, each word a knife to the throat of fate. "I'll handle it."
Her sigh was not weakness. It was a storm lowering its crown before it kills kings.
"Although all the Frost Dragons I have could end you in battle…" She lifted her head, eyes glacial suns. "…they cannot withstand the sight of Mother Rosen as I can."
The Leviathan tilted its head, amusement dripping like venom. Then, the mist collapsed—and Orion's shape reformed before her, like a lover stepping out of a nightmare.
"You can't kill me, Yandelf. You're too weak. Why insist on this useless bloodletting?" His voice was silk stretched over steel, romantic and rancid all at once.
Yandelf stepped forward. The earth cracked beneath her heel like a throat under a blade.
"To protect Orion." Her words fell like execution bells. "You think I didn't see? Frieda and Orion are screaming inside that vessel—burning in an eternal hell while you wear their skin. And I…" She raised her spear, its edge humming like a comet about to fall. "…I will not face Mother Rosen—or Arian—knowing their agony goes unanswered."
She moved. The world held its breath.
Yandelf's voice was ice and requiem:
"Between two realms…"
Her form blurred—not speed, but erasure. One heartbeat she was flesh; the next, a ghost written in silver light, slipping between the ribs of reality.
Orion's lips curved in disdain, but his eyes burned like tombs full of serpents.
"Between two realms," he echoed, voice a funeral hymn for galaxies. "A trick of VlastMoroz. But tricks…" He raised his blade—a monolith carved from night. Abyssal essence bled from it like oil, dripping curses into the air. "…are still only tricks."
The space between them screamed.
Steel met steel—or what passed for it—and the sound wasn't sound. It was the sky breaking its teeth. It was the hymn of murdered suns.
Yandelf's lance carved arcs of frostfire, tearing open seams of starlight that rained like glass. Orion's sword countered with hunger so deep the void seemed to bleed. Each swing did not just cut air—it exiled existence from where it fell.
Then it happened—the instant destiny snapped its own neck.
Orion's blade came down like the execution of worlds. Yandelf swung to meet it—her spear an elegy forged by gods. For a heartbeat, they kissed—a fatal embrace—and then…
The spear broke.
Not shattered. Not splintered. Unmade.
The lance screamed as its soul was split, and the sky followed suit. Clouds did not tear—they fled. Stars dimmed like dying candles. The mountains groaned, and rivers turned black in terror.
Yandelf flew. No—she was flung. Her body streaked across the heavens like a fallen aurora, crashing into the jagged heart of Dragonspine.
The world convulsed. Ice split, avalanches cascaded like titans falling to their knees, and the peak itself cracked like a skull.
"AAAH!"
Her scream was raw, beautiful, broken—a song sung through blood. She coughed crimson onto the snow, the white purity blooming with roses of death. Her stomach—opened, carved like an altar to despair.
And then… it happened.
Not blood. Not entrails. Something worse. Something impossible.
Space fractured inside her.
Her belly was a mirror cracking from within, shards of reality spilling outward in glimmers of cruel light. From that wound, a nest began to unfold—a grotesque cradle of frost and bone, blooming like a dead flower under a black sun.
The air whimpered.
Above her, Orion descended slowly—serene as judgment. His blade rested on his shoulder like a lazy god amused by mortal struggles. Behind him, the Abyss pulsed—alive, watching, starving.