The forest swallowed them whole.
Branches clawed at the sky, black against a bruise-colored moon. Mist clung to the roots like breath that refused to die. Every step away from the Vale drew the night thicker, until the world behind them felt like a sealed wound.
Balerion walked first, cloak torn, eyes faintly aglow. The child slept in Selene's arms, her small horns hidden beneath a hood. Even sleeping, she trembled—as if the world whispered her name too loudly.
"How far?" Selene asked.
"Not far enough." He paused, tasting the air. "There's mana here—old. Dragon-forged, maybe."
"The Dominion built fortresses in these ranges before the Concord wars," she said. "Most fell when the gods culled the first hybrids."
"Then we find one that refused to kneel."
The path rose toward mountains that caught no light. At their base, the trees thinned, replaced by black stone ridges etched with faint runes. The runes pulsed once as they approached—like an old heart recognizing an heir.
Balerion laid a hand on the nearest mark. It warmed beneath his touch.
"Welcome home," Selene murmured, half-teasing, half-wary.
"Home implies safety," he said. "This feels more like memory."
They entered through a broken archway. The air within was colder, dry, and laced with the scent of long-extinct fires. Walls rose around them in spirals, carved with scales and eyes and teeth—motifs repeating until the mind started seeing movement where there was none.
The child stirred. "It's whispering," she mumbled. "It knows you."
Balerion crouched beside her. "What does it say?"
She pointed toward the inner hall. "That it's lonely."
They crossed a bridge spanning a chasm that fell into shadow. Beyond it, the Fortress of Nythral awaited—its main gate ajar, ancient hinges fused with crystal growths. When Balerion pushed, the crystals cracked, releasing a breath of air so old it carried dust from another age.
Inside lay silence and stone. Rows of dragon statues lined the hall, each shattered at the chest—as if hearts had been ripped out. At the far end stood a throne of fused bone and obsidian.
Selene set the child down gently. "You said the last Draconyric tried to devour the gods. Was this where it happened?"
"Where it began, maybe." He stepped closer. "Look."
Behind the throne, half-buried in shadow, a mural covered the wall. Time had eaten most of it, but the outline remained: a dragon's silhouette bleeding into a man's, then into something winged and crowned by darkness and flame. Below it, smaller figures—kneeling.
In crimson dust, faint script still glimmered.
Selene brushed the surface. "Draconyric Ascendant," she read softly. "Blood and flame, unified through will."
"Through will," Balerion repeated. "Not through birth. That's what they feared."
He felt it then: a pulse underfoot. Not his. Not the mountain's. Something between—a buried memory awakening.
The statues' eyes opened.
The first to move cracked its stone skin like an eggshell. A hollow dragon form stepped free, translucent, ribs glowing with molten veins. Then another. Ten in all. Guardians left behind, fragments of the fortress's will.
Selene drew her blade. "They don't look friendly."
"They're testing."
"For what?"
"If I deserve the throne," he said quietly.
The guardians roared. The sound wasn't air—it was pressure. Dust exploded from the floor as the nearest one lunged.
Balerion met it halfway. His right arm flared, scales igniting from elbow to wrist. When he struck, the impact shook the hall, light cracking across the ceiling. The guardian staggered back, molten ribs flickering.
Selene circled behind another, blade slicing through a joint of energy. The creature shrieked, turning its wrath on her. Balerion reached out—instinct again—and the air bent. The guardian froze mid-charge, as if a massive hand gripped its spine.
"I said they're mine," Balerion growled.
He clenched his fist. The guardian folded into itself, light collapsing, until only ash remained.
Selene stared. "You didn't destroy it—you absorbed it."
"I claimed it."
"Difference?"
"Intent."
Two more lunged together. He exhaled, letting the fused core unfurl. The world tinted crimson and gold. Time slowed—not stopped, but stretched thin enough for him to step between heartbeats.
He moved like thought—catching one creature's jaw, driving it sideways into another, both shattering in a burst of spectral fire. When the light cleared, half the guardians were gone.
Selene finished the rest with precision—silver rapier finding weak spots in their ephemeral armor. When the last fell, the hall sighed, as if relieved.
The child peeked from behind a pillar, eyes wide. "They stopped being angry."
"They were never angry," Balerion said, catching his breath. "They were afraid."
"Of you?" Selene asked.
"Of what I might repeat."
He approached the throne. Its surface shimmered faintly, alive with residual energy. When he touched it, the mural behind brightened fully for the first time in millennia. The crowned figure's eyes glowed—red and gold, twin stars.
Whispers filled the air. Not divine, but draconic—a language of creation. Selene couldn't parse the words, but she felt their gravity.
Balerion understood pieces: Successor. Devour the devourers. Rewrite the law.
His knees buckled. The whispers burrowed into his skull, memories that weren't his flooding through—the final stand of the first Draconyric, the moment of betrayal, the sealing.
Selene grabbed his shoulders. "Balerion! Breathe!"
He gasped, vision clearing. The mural dimmed, leaving only faint embers.
"I saw it," he whispered. "They turned on him because he began rewriting what the gods called truth."
"Can you stop it from happening again?"
He looked up at her, half-smiling, half-terrified. "I don't know. But maybe that's the point."
They found a small chamber adjoining the hall—a barracks, dust-filled but intact. Selene built a fire from what remained of old banners. The child slept nearby, curled beneath a cloak.
For the first time in days, quiet felt almost real.
"You handled those guardians like instinct," Selene said. "It didn't even look like magic."
"It wasn't," he said. "It was memory. The fortress recognized my blood and lent me its will."
She studied him across the firelight. "You're changing faster."
"Every time I fight, it listens better." He flexed his hand, the scales retreating like tide. "But I can feel it wanting more. It likes devouring."
"Then feed it lies instead of lives," she said.
He met her eyes. "That's… poetic."
"It's survival. If your power thrives on contradiction, drown it in falsehoods until it can't tell what's real."
He laughed softly. "You might be more dangerous than I am."
She leaned back against the wall. "I hope so. Someone has to keep you humble."
The wind moaned through the cracks above them, carrying a faint metallic chime. Balerion's expression shifted.
"They found us," he said.
Selene stood, sword ready. "Already?"
"No. Not mortals. Something else."
Outside, the mist thickened, swirling into shapes—white figures with hollow faces, wings torn to bone. The divine hunters. The Zenith had acted faster than expected.
Balerion rose, firelight reflecting in his eyes. "They think I'm still running."
"Are you?"
He glanced toward the child sleeping peacefully. "No."
He stepped past the doorway into the open hall, shadows gathering around him like a cloak. The hunters moved as one, descending through the ruined arch.
Selene followed, blade raised. "Let's see if they can erase a myth twice."
The first spear of light fell—and the fortress awakened.
Every rune on the walls ignited. The statues' ashes coalesced into spectral dragons that screamed defiance. Balerion lifted his hand and the power rose with him, red and gold flaring through the dark.
Selene's voice cut through the chaos. "You're not alone this time!"
"I know," he said—and the shadows answered.