The morning after his battle, Aiden dragged himself back toward the village. His body still ached, every movement heavy, but compared to the night before, he felt… alive. Alive in a way he hadn't since he was reborn.
Each step through Blackwood carried a strange clarity. His senses were sharper — the rustle of leaves, the faint shift of wind, even the distant beat of wings overhead. The forest no longer felt as suffocating. For the first time, it felt like his ground.
Yet with each step, unease gnawed at him. He remembered the way his veins had burned black, the whispers that had carried his strikes. He remembered the hunger.
He touched his chest, where his heart pounded steady. Dragon's Heart. Dragon's Mind. Devour. The dormant powers that once seemed unreachable now stirred, restless, as though they had tasted blood and wanted more.
Aiden exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts away. He had to return. Before the village noticed his absence.
---
By the time he reached the familiar fields, smoke was already rising from chimneys. Farmers led oxen into tilled soil, while children ran between houses, laughter spilling into the morning air.
Blackwood Village, so small, so quiet, so fragile.
Aiden stood at the edge for a moment, watching. He had always felt a part of it, yet apart — an orphan boy with too much ambition. But now, after the forest, after the Crimson Lizard, he felt like a wolf returning to a herd of sheep.
"...You're late again."
The gruff voice broke his thoughts. Bran stood near the village gate, leaning on his spear. His eyes swept Aiden up and down, pausing on the broken blade strapped to his back, the bloodstains across his tunic.
Aiden stiffened.
"You went deeper again, didn't you?" Bran's gaze narrowed. "I told you before, the forest isn't a place for a boy with a stick. The hunting team doesn't even tread beyond the ridge."
Aiden's lips parted. He wanted to lie, to say he'd only gone to gather herbs, or to chase rabbits. But something in Bran's expression — suspicion, concern — made him pause.
"…I had to test myself," Aiden admitted quietly.
Bran's brows furrowed, but his eyes sharpened. "And what did you find?"
Aiden hesitated. He thought of the Crimson Lizard's blood, of the fire, of the whispers that had nearly consumed him. He thought of the strength now thrumming in his veins.
"…That I can't stay weak forever."
The answer hung between them. Bran studied him for a long time, then exhaled through his nose.
"Come." He gestured toward the village square. "We'll talk."
---
The villagers noticed him as he walked.
Eyes lingered too long. Whispers spread.
"That's the boy again…"
"He goes out for days, comes back bloodied…"
"Not normal. Not natural."
Mothers pulled their children aside, while the older hunters gave him uneasy nods. Their faces carried the weight of silent questions: What did you face? Why are you still alive?
Aiden kept his head down, though he felt the heat of every stare.
In the square, Bran finally stopped. The hunting team had gathered — men with scarred arms, women carrying bows taller than Aiden, faces weathered by years of survival. Behind them, an older man stepped forward, his robes plain but his staff marking him as someone apart.
Elder Rowan.
The village's guiding voice.
"Aiden." Rowan's tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp, almost too sharp. "You've been straying further into Blackwood. Even the hunters whisper of your recklessness. What compels you?"
Aiden clenched his fists. He wanted to shout it — his ambition, his dream of becoming a knight, of growing strong enough to stand above all. But to them, that would sound like arrogance.
Instead, he bowed his head.
"…Strength. To protect myself. To protect the village."
The words weren't lies, but neither were they the whole truth.
Rowan's staff tapped lightly against the earth. His gaze lingered on Aiden's trembling hands, on the faint, unnatural glow that still clung to his veins when the light struck.
"…I see."
The hunters shifted uneasily. Bran crossed his arms but said nothing.
Rowan finally nodded. "Then know this — strength comes with eyes upon you. And not all eyes are kind. Do not walk a path you cannot endure."
Aiden met his gaze. For a moment, he thought he saw something else in the elder's expression — recognition, as though Rowan knew more than he revealed.
Then it was gone.
"You may go," Rowan said.
---
Later, as dusk fell, Aiden sat by the stream at the village's edge. He washed the dried blood from his arms, watching the red swirl into the current.
Eyes upon me, he thought. Rowan's words echoed like a warning.
Did the elder sense the hunger inside him? Did he know about the whispers, the dragon's blood stirring?
His reflection stared back — tired eyes, messy hair, but beneath it all, something sharper. A predator's gaze.
He clenched his hands. "I can't stop."
The dream of knighthood, of standing at the peak, wasn't just a dream anymore. Each battle pulled him closer to it. Each devoured foe made him stronger.
And deep in the forest, something stirred in answer.
Chains rattled in the dark. A seal cracked a fraction more. A roar, ancient and suffocating, shook the roots of Blackwood — unheard by most, but not by Aiden.
He froze. His veins burned. His chest ached as though his heart responded to that call.
Then the feeling passed. The forest fell silent again.
Aiden's breath shook. His reflection rippled in the stream, warping his face into something not quite human.
"…No matter what," he whispered, "I'll endure it."
But the forest whispered back.
Devour… devour more…
---
Meanwhile, within Rowan's home, the elder sat in silence, staring into the fire. Bran stood nearby, arms crossed.
"You felt it too," Bran said lowly. "The boy's different."
Rowan's eyes narrowed. "Not different. Dangerous."
Bran frowned. "He's still just a child."
Rowan shook his head. "Children do not carry the scent of dragons."
The fire crackled, sparks rising into the night.
---