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Artorius did not retreat to his command chambers, he stayed. At first, that alone caused a ripple. Soldiers straightened. Conversations hitched. A few dragons froze halfway through tearing meat from bone. Then Artorius took a cup from a passing hand, raised it in a casual salute, and drank.
That was all it took. The tension broke. Laughter surged back twice as loud, rough and unrestrained. Someone slapped Artorius on the shoulder before realizing who they'd touched then froze, eyes wide. Artorius clapped the young dragon back, harder. "Drink," he said simply. And so he did.
He moved through the fires without escort, cloak unfastened, armor plates removed and clothes loosened enough to breathe. He listened to stories he already knew, retold badly, out of order, exaggerated into legend and never once corrected them. He clasped forearms with blood-smeared veterans and green recruits alike.
He even joined in on the songs. They were ugly, loud, off-key and they sang about battles lost and won, about officers who swore too much and enemies who died badly. One song, crudely improvised was about Artorius himself, and got exactly three verses in before he threatened to confiscate the singer's drink.
By the time the moon reached its apex, a messenger came running up to him. "Commander," he saluted. The party has begun in the main hall."
He took one last drink with the men, clasped forearms with a scarred shield-captain who'd followed him since the first days, and then turned toward the elevated terrace carved directly in Zytherion's eye socket. The main celebration waited there.
The fires were different up here. Controlled. Elegant. Braziers of carved obsidian burned with smokeless flame. Tables had been laid, real ones fashioned from polished stone and dragonbone. Goblets gleamed with enchantment, keeping their contents at precisely the temperature desired.
Officers stood in loose clusters, armor partially removed, faces marked with exhaustion barely masked by discipline. Young champion blooded spoke in low tones, laughter measured but genuine. And then there were the noble dragons who stood apart from the others.
Their presence could be felt and their scales gleaming in firelight; sapphire, ivory, molten gold, storm-grey. Their presence warped the air subtly, pressure and heat and mana bleeding outward despite wards layered thick as castle walls. Beside them were the royal dragons who were in attendance.
They watched Artorius as he approached. A steward announced him out of reflex more than necessity. Artorius ignored it. He took his place at the central table, resting a hand briefly against the armrest of the semi throne.
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Quickly everyone's attention turned from him and into the great corpse of the War dragon dragged in. He had done the unthinkable, killed something that was at the top of the food chain in the Nest. For a long time there was an engraved hierarchy within the Nest and he had done a great job in upturning it ever since he had arrived here.
The first toast came from Zoklath, voice rough. "To survival," he said simply. Glasses were raised. Dragon heads inclined.
The second toast came from her royal highness, the Ocean dragoness. "To audacity," she purred. "And to those who forget their place." A ripple of amusement followed.
Artorius lifted his goblet last. "To cooperation," he said. "Because none of this happens without you all giving it your all. So I thank you." The words were simple. Honest. And they landed. That earned him appreciative looks.
Conversations bloomed after that, measured, layered, dangerous in their own way. Campaigns were dissected. Decisions questioned. Successes weighed not just for glory, but consequence.
Raijin rumbled approval at the way siege lines had been baited. Viserion scoffed at the risks taken. Others weighed in with their opinions. Music drifted up from below, muted by distance. Laughter was quieter, sharper. Deals were not struck, but understandings formed. And above it all loomed the corpse of the war dragon. Or rather what remained of it.
The massive body lay partially dismantled at the far end of the terrace, titanic ribs exposed, armor-scaled hide peeled back where harvesting teams worked even now under heavy guard. Blood had been siphoned. Organs preserved. Bone and scale catalogued. Nothing was wasted.
Artorius was near his limit, his soul felt as if it could barely fit one more word of power. As much as he found this word of power for blood interesting he might have to pass on it. For now though he would save it.
Several noble dragons eyed the corpse with unease. "He fell hard," murmured a copper-scaled dragon whose name Artorius had not yet learned. "Harder than I imagined."
"He fell because he couldn't adapt," Artorius said quietly. "Power without thought calcifies."
Artorius stepped back and let the conversations continue. Ouroboros joined him on the terrace where he stood alone. "Great victory today."
"First of many hopefully," he stated with a smile. "Anywasy as you might have heard, I got patronized by the War Dragon."
"Yes, most folks you don't expect them to support you when you kill their child but that's the War Dragon for you. He is known as the Warmaster. In the Dragon Faction, there are many who plan wars. Many who profit from them. Many who feed on their aftermath." Ouroboros' gaze remained fixed on the party. "The War dragon is the one who fights them."
He continued, voice calm but heavy. "The Cipactli Dragon Emperor is the supreme executor of draconic warfare. When the Dragon Faction decides that a conflict is no longer a border skirmish, no longer a proxy engagement, no longer an 'experiment'…" Ouroboros' eyes narrowed. "They send him."
Artorius swallowed. "That is his domain, pure and simple," Ouroboros said, "it is not fire. Not blood. Not conquest. It is War Itself. Not battle. Not violence. War as a system. War as a cycle. War as an engine."
He glanced at Artorius. "He is part of the Dragon Hosts, the land-based forces of the Dragon Eyrie. He leads specifically the Eternal March. It is not an army in the conventional sense."
Artorius looked up. "What is it, then?"
"A moving civilization of war," Ouroboros replied. "Legions of War Dragons. Siege-beasts. Bloodlust Drakes. Feud Hydras. Attrition Wyverns. Entire broods bred for specific theaters; urban eradication, planar suppression, anti-asteroid field sieges. They do not disband. They do not stand down. They rotate, reinforce, and consume."
His voice grew quieter. "He patronizes Dragons who will never know peace," he said. "War-aspect lineages. Berserker breeds. Regenerative monstrosities. Command-savants raised to think in casualties and kilometers."
A pause. "And now," Ouroboros added, "you." That landed harder than expected.
He looked out over both celebrations, the roaring fires below, the measured revelry above and allowed himself one quiet breath. They had won. Tomorrow would demand payment. But for now, the world burned with their victory. They can savour their victory for now—
A sharp, discordant note cut through the night. Not music. A horn. Long. Low. Urgent. Artorius felt it before he heard it, a tightening in the air like blades being drawn. Conversations faltered. Shiun's head snapped up. "That's not great."
Another horn answered it. Then another. From different directions. Artorius was already standing. A runner burst onto the terrace, armor half-fastened, face pale beneath soot and sweat. He skidded to a halt, dropped to one knee. "Lord Artorius," he said, voice tight. "Multiple incursions. Simultaneous."
Silence slammed down in the hall. "Locations," Artorius said.
"Eastern sky…space rupture. Southern marshlands…plague signatures. High thermals from the west. Dream distortion reported across all forward bases up north."
That was when the noble dragons reacted. Raijin's lightning flared. Viserion's frost deepened. Others rose to their full height, mana surging uncontrolled for a heartbeat. They each hurried off to their location. Artorius didn't need to ask anymore. The pattern was too obvious and too coordinated. "They're attacking together," he remarked.
A slow, dangerous smile touched Ouroboros's lips as he landed on his shoulders, not of joy, but of grim understanding. "So," he murmured, almost to himself. "They've decided to unite."
The night sky split open all over the corpse. Far above the eastern horizon, space folded inward and massive silhouettes forced itself through reality sideways. In the west, the clouds ignited, turning gold and crimson as heat rolled like a second sunrise.
To the south, the land itself sickened green turned black, rivers frothed, and a crawling miasma began to spread. Dream bled into the edges of perception. The fortress walls shimmered, half-remembered versions of themselves overlapping reality. Life bloomed in another front as wooden figures darted out of the trees that popped out.
Artorius' voice was icily. "They've never united before."
Ouroboros eyes gleamed. "They fear you."
Artorius looked once more at the fires below at his men who was hurrying to prepare and then back to the skies where their enemies descended in concert. He exhaled.
"Sound the alarm," he said calmly. "Full mobilization. Wake everyone." The celebration was over. The war had just escalated.
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The hollow skull of the Immortal Dragon felt… occupied now by something ominous. The thing wearing the Karma Dragon sat coiled comfortably within the cranial vault, golden scales dulled to a pale, corpse-light sheen where void-black veins threaded beneath them. The lingering karmic arrays that once lined the chamber's interior, circles of consequence, spirals of causality etched into bone hung slack and unresponsive, like abandoned instruments.
Across from him stood Noxiris.
The Void Dragon no longer lay restrained. The lattice of opposing forces had unraveled earlier, dissolving into harmless motes of light that drifted away like forgotten thoughts. He stood awkwardly at first, wings partially unfurled, unsure where to put his weight. His form was lean, obsidian-black scales drinking in the dim light, edges outlined faintly in pale white as if reality itself hesitated to commit to his silhouette.
They had been talking for a while.
At first, it had been simple things. The thing wearing the Karma Dragon had listened with rapt attention, nodding, asking gentle questions, never interrupting. He had told stories in return. Of watching stars burn out before they were born. Of observing patterns repeat across universes with only minor variations. Of waiting. Noxiris did not know how much time had passed. Time behaved strangely here, folding in on itself, stretching thin around moments of significance. But eventually, inevitably, the conversation drifted.
Toward Artorius. The possessed Karma Dragon's smile was what made Noxiris uneasy. It was warm. Proud. Almost… fond. "So you ran into him?" The thing said softly, adjusting his posture so he faced Noxiris more fully. "Artorius Pendrath."
Noxiris nodded. "He had gotten the better of me…He had the help of the dead dragon emperor Zytherion that kidnapped me of course but came out on top."
The smile widened, just a fraction. "I'm glad to see you were already on the right track without my say so. You may not believe it but that boy is much more dangerous than that old scheming dragon."
Noxiris hesitated, claws curling slightly against the stone floor. "Why?" he asked carefully. "Why him?"
The thing tilted its head, studying him as you would an experiment, a curiosity, not something precious as a child. "Because," it said, "we go back a very long way."
That did not answer the question. Noxiris wanted to press on but he did not want to irritate his sire. The thing puppeting the karma dragon sensed what the young dragon was feeling and gave him more information.
The possessed Karma Dragon's eyes softened. For a moment and something old and sharp flickered behind them. "He is a convergence of something greater," it said. "A node where too many old tales meet."
It rose slowly, padding closer, each step sending faint ripples through the air as if consequence itself shifted to accommodate its movement. "Roles exist," it continued. "Whether beings wish them to or not. Some are born into theirs. Some stumble into them. And some…" It reached out, resting a talon lightly against Noxiris's shoulder. "…some carve their own, and force the universe to adapt."
Noxiris swallowed. "And he is what? One of those?"
"He is approaching one he should never reach." The thing leaned in slightly. "It is best to smother a flame before it learns how to burn the sky."
Noxiris was silent for a long time. He did not feel hatred at Artorius. No instinctive revulsion. If anything, there was a faint, distant curiosity. He looked up, meeting those pale, hollow eyes. "I'm happy to finally met you, my sire."
The word tasted strange. Heavy. Right. "I'll help," Noxiris said finally. "In any way you ask me to."
The thing's smile bloomed fully then, radiant and terrible in its affection. It stepped forward and placed a clawed hand on Noxiris's back, a firm, reassuring pat. "You truly are my son," it said warmly.
The words settled into Noxiris's chest like a brand. A silence followed comfortably now, familial. Then Noxiris asked, "How would we even do it? Last time there was a grand army which came for me."
The possessed Karma Dragon turned slowly, gaze drifting upward to the immense interior of the skull that surrounded them. To the curved walls of bone etched with scars older than most nations. To the jagged fracture at the crown where the dragon had been slain.
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It lifted one claw and pointed. "Do you know where you stand?" it asked.
Noxiris glanced around. "Inside… a severed head of an immortal dragon."
"Yes," the thing said softly. "But not just any corpse."
It gestured wider, encompassing the entire chamber. "This is the remains of not just any Immortal dragon but the Karma Dragoness herself who rules the scales of balance and consequences… I personally slew a long time ago."
Noxiris stiffened. "You mean this is the Karma dragon mother."
"Yes," the words echoed strangely in the hollow skull. It made sense now that he learned it. There had to be a reason why the karma dragon chose to be reborn here.
Noxiris turned slowly, really looking now. At the density of the bone. The way reality felt heavier here, as if weighted by unspent consequence. At the faint red threads still embedded deep within the structure karmic pathways severed but not erased. "I take it she is still out there now even after her death?"
"Correct, she is out there trying to bring my downfall with the help of others." It moved closer to the skull's inner wall, placing both hands against it. The bone responded not moving, but remembering its child. The air vibrated faintly with anticipation.
"So how exactly do we take them down? This is just a head, what can we do with it?" Noxiris asked.
"The connection between child and parent goes both ways. Sires can not only take command of their heirs but so can their child," It reached up, tracing a claw along the interior curve of the skull. The head shivered as if waking up from a long slumber.
Noxiris could only stare in awe as he looked around once more, seeing the chamber differently now not as a prison or a tomb, but as a key. "None of them will see this coming," he said quietly.
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Author Note: This are about to change quite unexpectedly.