Then black.
Then pain.
I'm flying backward, weightless for a heartbeat, before I slam into something solid. The impact drives every molecule of air from my lungs. My ribs crack—I hear them break, feel them splinter. My sword flies from my grip, spinning away into darkness.
The connection severs instantly.
Cold rushes in where fire used to burn.
Empty.
I crash through a wall of shipping crates. Wood explodes around me. Metal screeches. The ceiling groans, and then everything comes down.
Beams. Concrete. Steel.
Tons of it.
I try to move. Can't. My body won't respond. The rubble pins me down, crushing weight pressing into my back, my legs, my chest. Something sharp digs into my ribs with every shallow breath.
Dust fills my lungs. I cough violently, and blood sprays from my mouth—thick, dark, wrong. The metallic taste coats my tongue and throat, refusing to fade. Each swallow reminds me how badly my body is failing.
The cut on my cheek splits open again. Warm blood trails down my jaw, dripping onto the concrete beneath me.
I force my eyes open.
The warehouse ceiling is gone. Smoke rises in lazy spirals toward a dim sky. Clouds hang unnaturally low, pressing down like a lid on a coffin. My vision swims, darkness creeping in at the edges, the world flickering like a dying bulb.
More.
The word slithers through my thoughts.
The red dragon's voice. But different now. Not commanding. Not roaring.
Whispering.
More rage. More fire. Give in completely.
"No," I rasp. "No more—"
You're dying. Let me save you.
"I said—no—"
The dragon's presence coils tighter around my mind, hungry and insistent. It wants blood. It wants the flames to rise again. It wants me to surrender everything I am and become something else entirely.
I try to push it away, but I'm too weak.
My limbs feel distant, like they belong to someone else. My head throbs violently, pressure building behind my eyes until I think my skull might crack. Every nerve screams.
And then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Calm.
Each step echoes across the ruined warehouse like a hammer striking stone. With every one, the air grows heavier, the darkness thickening, pressing closer. It feels like the world itself is shrinking around him.
Step.
Step.
Step.
I can't move. Can't lift my arms. Can't even turn my head. My fire is gone—not dormant, not resting, but extinguished. A dying ember against an endless void.
I know, without doubt, that I didn't hurt him.
I didn't even slow him down.
The footsteps stop.
A shadow falls over me, blocking out what little light remains.
I force myself to look up.
He stands above me, perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back. His coat doesn't have a single tear. No blood. No burns. Not even dust.
Like the explosion never touched him.
"That's all you had?" he asks.
His voice is low, smooth, utterly unbothered.
I try to speak. Blood bubbles up instead, spilling over my lips.
He crouches down, studying me with those empty black eyes. No iris. No pupil. Just void.
"Impressive display," he says conversationally. "The transformation. The power surge. Very dramatic."
He reaches out and grips my throat.
Then lifts.
The rubble shifts as he pulls me free, beams and concrete sliding away like they weigh nothing. My feet dangle uselessly. My vision swims, red and black spots dancing across my sight.
I try to claw at his wrist.
My fingers barely twitch.
"You destroyed the souls," he continues, his tone almost thoughtful. "Released them before they could reach Lord Drakna. That will complicate things."
I manage to gather enough saliva and blood to spit at him.
It splatters across his face.
He doesn't react.
Doesn't blink.
He simply wipes it away with his free hand, studying the blood on his fingers for a moment before flicking it aside.
"Persistent," he says. "I'll give you that."
His grip tightens.
My windpipe collapses. I can't breathe. Can't think. The world narrows to a single point of agony centered in my throat.
"You know," he says, his voice taking on a curious edge, "Lord Drakna will find you… interesting."
My heart stutters.
Through the haze of pain, I see his expression shift. Not anger. Not frustration.
Interest.
"The way you bonded with the dragon," he continues. "The speed of your transformation. The hunger in your eyes when the power took hold." He tilts his head slightly. "You might be the key to something far greater than this."
"What—" I rasp, barely audible. "What are you—talking about—"
He smiles. It's a small thing, faint and knowing, but it makes my blood run cold.
"You don't need to understand yet."
His fingers close tighter around my throat. The world dims rapidly, sound fading to a distant roar. Pressure builds in my skull until I think it might burst. I claw weakly at his wrist, my strength gone, my fire extinguished.
The dragon is silent now.
No whispers. No temptation.
Only fear.
"I'll be seeing you again," he says quietly, almost gently. "You have potential. Raw. Unrefined. Dangerous."
Darkness surges around his free hand, coalescing into a blade of pure void. He raises it slowly, deliberately, positioning it over my heart.
"But first, let's see how much you can endure."
The blade descends.
I close my eyes.
And then—
Nothing.
The pressure vanishes.
I collapse back into the rubble, gasping violently, dragging air into burning lungs. My throat feels crushed, every breath like swallowing glass. I roll onto my side, coughing, retching, blood and bile spilling onto the concrete.
When I look up, he's gone.
No explosion. No sound. No trace.
Just absence.
The sky above is clear again, as if he had never been there at all. No shadow. No presence. Only devastation.
I lay there shaking.
Alive.
Barely.
Time loses meaning.
I don't know how long I lie there. Minutes. Hours. The pain is constant, overwhelming, drowning out everything else. My ribs scream with every breath. My head throbs. Blood pools beneath me, warm and sticky.
Get up.
The thought surfaces slowly, fighting through the fog.
Get up. Move. They need to know.
I force my eyes open.
The warehouse is destroyed. Walls collapsed. Ceiling gone. Fires burning in scattered pockets, casting flickering orange light across the ruins. My sword lies twenty feet away, half-buried in debris, its crimson glow reduced to a faint ember.
I reach for it mentally.
Nothing.
The connection is severed. Not broken—severed. Like a limb that's been cut off, the absence more painful than any wound.
"Have to—have to get back—"
My voice is barely a whisper.
I roll onto my side. Pain explodes through my torso, white-hot and blinding. I bite down on a scream, tasting blood, and force myself to keep moving.
Onto my knees.
The world tilts violently. I vomit blood onto the dock floor, thick and dark, more than should be possible. My hands shake as I wipe my mouth.
"One more," I mutter. "One more step."
I crawl toward my sword.
Every movement is agony. My ribs grind against each other. Something inside me feels wrong—torn, displaced, bleeding where it shouldn't be. But I keep moving.
Inch by inch.
When my fingers finally close around the hilt, warmth floods back. Not fire. Not power. Just… presence. The connection flickers to life, weak and fragile, but there.
You're hurt, the dragon says. Its voice is subdued now, almost concerned. Badly.
"I know."
You need to rest. Heal.
"Can't. Have to—have to get back—"
I use the sword like a crutch, dragging myself upright. My legs nearly give out immediately. I lock my knees, swaying, vision swimming.
The docks stretch out before me. Empty. Silent. The water laps against the piers in slow, rhythmic waves, indifferent to the destruction.
I take one step.
Then another.
Each one is a battle. My body screams at me to stop, to lie down, to give up. But I keep moving.
Maya's scream.
The memory surfaces unbidden. Her voice, raw with pain, as the ice shards tore through her defenses.
Jordan hitting the wall.
The sickening crunch of impact. The way she crumpled, motionless.
Cameron frozen.
His eyes wide with terror, lightning crackling uselessly around him, unable to move, unable to help.
"We got the souls back," I whisper to myself. "The people—they're safe—"
But it feels hollow.
We were supposed to be Dragon Keepers. Chosen. Powerful. Ready.
And we were dismantled in minutes.
Not by an army. Not by some great warlord.
By one man.
Someone who moved through us like we were nothing. Like we were children playing with toys we didn't understand.
My chest tightens.
"I was so weak."
Even with the transformation. Even with the dragon's power flooding through me, turning my hair red, making me faster, stronger, better—
It wasn't enough.
He barely tried.
I reach the edge of the docks and lean against a rusted railing, breathing hard. The city sprawls before me, lights twinkling in the distance. Normal. Peaceful. Unaware that something terrible just happened here.
"How do we fight that?" I whisper.
The dragon doesn't answer.
I push off the railing and keep walking.
The journey back is a blur of pain and determination.
I stick to alleys and side streets, avoiding main roads where people might see me. My appearance must be horrific—blood-soaked, limping, hair still that unnatural crimson red. I can't risk questions. Can't risk being stopped.
Every block feels like a mile.
My vision blurs repeatedly, darkness creeping in at the edges. I stumble, catch myself against a wall, force myself to keep moving.
One more step.
One more.
The sword's glow pulses faintly, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. It's the only thing keeping me upright.
I think about what the man said.
Lord Drakna will find you interesting.
You might be the key to something far greater than this.
What did that mean?
Why did he let me live?
The questions circle endlessly, but I have no answers. Only fear. Deep, primal fear that settles in my bones and refuses to leave.
We weren't ready.
The truth sinks deeper with every step.
We trained. We bonded with our dragons. We thought we were prepared.
But we weren't.
We're children. Playing at being warriors. And tonight, we learned exactly how far we have to go.
If we even can.
By the time I reach the coffee house, my strength is gone.
The familiar storefront appears through the haze of pain like a mirage. Warm light spills from the windows. The sign above the door reads "Shu's Coffee" in elegant script.
Safety.
I stumble toward the entrance, my legs finally giving out. I catch myself on the doorframe, breathing hard, blood dripping onto the welcome mat.
The door opens.
Sensei Shu stands there, his expression unreadable. He takes in my appearance—the blood, the wounds, the crimson hair—and his eyes narrow slightly.
"William."
"They're—they're hurt—" I gasp. "Cameron got them out but—"
"I know. They're inside. Being treated."
Relief floods through me, so intense it's almost painful.
"The man—" I start.
"Later," Shu says firmly. He steps forward, catching me as my legs finally give out completely. "First, we heal."
He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me inside. The warmth of the coffee house washes over me like a wave. The smell of herbs and incense. The soft glow of lanterns.
"You did well," Shu says quietly as he carries me toward the back. "You saved the souls. You protected your team."
"But we lost—"
"You survived. That's what matters."
He lays me down on a soft mat in one of the training rooms. My vision is fading fast now, darkness closing in from all sides.
"Rest," Shu says. "We'll talk when you wake."
I try to respond, but the words won't come.
The last thing I see before everything goes dark is my reflection in a polished mirror on the wall.
Red hair. Hollow eyes. Blood-stained face.
A stranger.
Then nothing.