The dragon's breath smelled of charred meat and molten gold.
Vhagar the Wrathful loomed above Lysander, her wings blotting out the smog-choked sky. Each of her obsidian claws was longer than his forearm, the heat radiating from her scales enough to blister unprotected skin. The great beast tilted her head, one molten eye studying him like a cat considering a crippled mouse.
"System Alert: Immediate Threat Detected"
"Recommended Action: Do not move"
Lysander obeyed, every muscle locked. His fingers itched for the dagger at his belt—Daekar's stolen Valyrian steel—but drawing it now would be suicide.
A low rumble built in Vhagar's chest, shaking the street beneath them. The crowd had vanished, merchants and slaves alike fleeing at the first shadow of wings. Only the Faceless Merchant remained, watching from the mouth of an alley with that same too-wide smile.
Then—
"Dohaeris, Vhagar."
The command rolled through the street like thunder. The dragon stilled instantly, her massive head swinging toward the Temple steps.
A woman stood there, clad in robes of deepest crimson. Her silver hair—so pale it seemed to glow—was bound in intricate braids that fell to her waist. But it was her eyes that caught Lysander's attention: twin pools of liquid mercury that held no pupil, no iris, just an endless shifting silver.
"High Priestess Maelora," the System supplied.
"Rank: Keeper of the Fourteen Flames"
"Threat Level: Extreme"
The priestess raised one hand, and Vhagar crouched like an overgrown lapdog.
"You smell of deceit, Aerion Blackscale." Maelora's voice was soft, yet it carried like a blade through silk. "And blood magic. And... something older."
Lysander forced his voice steady. "I come only to pay respects to the Fourteen."
A lie so transparent it was almost insulting.
Maelora's mercury eyes swirled. "Respect is given at dawn, with clean hands and empty pockets." Her gaze dropped to his satchel—to the lump of shaped stone wrapped in silk. "What do you carry?"
The System flashed a warning:
"Xara's Illusion Holding: 87% Integrity"
"An offering," Lysander said, reaching slowly into the bag. His fingers brushed the fake egg's surface—still warm from Xara's magic. "For the Flames."
The priestess went very still. Somewhere in the Temple depths, a deep thrum began, like the heartbeat of some great beast.
"Come," Maelora said at last. "Let us see if the Fourteen find your gift... worthy."
I. The Chamber of Whispers
The Temple's interior was a study in controlled terror.
Lysander followed Maelora through corridors carved from single blocks of obsidian, their surfaces so polished they reflected his face back at him in endless repetition. The air grew hotter with each step, thick with the scent of burning incense and something darker—copper and salt, the perfume of old blood.
They passed alcoves where dragon skulls grinned down, some large enough to swallow a horse whole. Between them stood braziers filled not with coal, but with dragonfire—eternal flames that cast no heat, only a strange, cold light.
"The first lesson," Maelora said without turning, "is that all power demands sacrifice. The second? That the sacrifice is never yours to choose."
She stopped before a door of black iron, its surface etched with runes that squirmed when Lysander tried to focus on them.
"Beyond this lies the Chamber of Whispers. Speak no lies there, or the Flames will know."
The door opened without touch, revealing a circular room where fourteen braziers formed a perfect ring. At its center stood a pedestal of fused bone, upon which rested...
A dragon egg.
Not just any egg—this one was larger than a human skull, its shell a swirling pattern of deep crimson and gold that seemed to move when not observed directly. Heat radiated from it in waves, the air above it shimmering like desert mirage.
"System Analysis:"
"Specimen: Bloodwyrm-Class Dragon Egg"
"Status: Active (Heartbeat Detected)"
"Warning: High-Level Blood Magic Signature Detected"
Maelora gestured to the pedestal. "Place your offering beside it."
Lysander's mouth went dry. Xara's illusion wouldn't survive close proximity to the real thing—he was certain of it. But refusal meant death.
He stepped forward, the fake egg heavy in his hands.
Three paces from the pedestal, the replica in his satchel began to vibrate.
II. The Blood Price
The change was instantaneous.
Xara's illusion shattered like glass, revealing the lump of volcanic rock beneath. At the same moment, the true dragon egg pulsed, sending a wave of heat that knocked Lysander to his knees.
Maelora didn't move. "I expected more creativity from a would-be thief."
The chamber doors slammed shut. From the shadows between braziers, figures emerged—acolytes in grey robes, their faces hidden behind masks of beaten silver. Each carried a curved dagger, the blades black as night.
"System Alert: Combat Imminent"
"Opponents: Temple Acolytes (Bloodbound)"
"Environment: Restricted Movement (Ritual Circle Active)"
Lysander rolled as the first dagger came down, feeling the blade graze his shoulder. He came up with Daekar's dagger drawn, the Valyrian steel singing as it met an acolyte's black blade.
The clash sent sparks flying—real sparks, not the metaphorical kind. Where they landed, the stone floor sizzled.
"Interesting," Maelora mused from the sidelines. "That blade should not answer to you."
Lysander had no breath to reply. He fought like a cornered animal—short, brutal strokes honed in back alleys and legion skirmishes. The acolytes were skilled, but they fought as part of a pattern, their movements ritualized. Predictable.
Three fell before their blades found his flesh: a shallow cut along his ribs, a deeper gash across his thigh. Blood slicked the obsidian floor, and where it touched the braziers, the flames turned red.
The egg pulsed again, harder this time.
"Enough." Maelora's voice cut through the chaos. The remaining acolytes froze mid-strike.
The priestess stepped into the circle, her mercury eyes fixed on Lysander's bleeding wounds. "The Flames have chosen their price."
She gestured, and the blood rose from the floor, forming a swirling helix that stretched toward the egg.
"Warning: Blood Ritual Detected"
"Nature: Dragon Bonding (Incomplete)"
The egg's surface cracked.
III. The Hatchling's Choice
What emerged was not a dragon.
Not yet.
The creature that pulled itself from the shattered egg was small enough to cradle in two hands, its wings thin as parchment, its scales dull grey instead of the expected crimson. It moved in jerks and spasms, like a puppet with half its strings cut.
And its eyes—
No.
Not eyes.
Where there should have been orbs of molten gold were instead voids, pits of absolute darkness that drank the light around them.
"System Alert: Anomaly Detected"
"Entity: Unclassified"
"Recommendation: Immediate Withdrawal"
The thing screeched—a sound that bypassed the ears entirely to vibrate directly in the skull. Lysander's nose bled instantly, thick crimson droplets joining the swirling helix of blood.
Maelora took a step back, her silver eyes widening. "This is not—"
The creature moved.
One moment it was on the pedestal. The next, it clung to Lysander's chest, needle-like claws piercing his tunic to prick the skin beneath. Its maw opened, revealing rows of translucent teeth—
—and bit down on his collarbone.
Pain.
White-hot and absolute, radiating outward until it filled the world. Lysander screamed, but no sound emerged. The chamber, the priestess, even the System's warnings—all vanished in that endless moment of agony.
Then—
"Bond Formed."
The voice was not his own. It came from inside, from the place where the creature's teeth still buried deep.
"Designation: Shadowkin-Class Parasite"
"Symbiosis Established: 12%"
The world rushed back in a nauseating wave. Lysander found himself on his knees, the creature now curled around his neck like a grotesque living collar. Maelora stared at him with something between awe and horror.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
The answer came not from Lysander, but from the thing attached to him:
"We have chosen."