The flame should not have existed.
It violated every law the dragon had taught her. There had been no incantation, no mana circulation, no proper structure.
It was crude—almost insulting in its simplicity.
And yet.
It had burned.
Lemma Heartfilia stared at her palm long after the flicker of fire vanished, her fingers curled as if afraid the world might notice and take it back.
Her body shook—not from exhaustion this time, but from something deeper.
A pressure behind her ribs, tight and heavy, as though something unseen had settled there and refused to move.
The dragon watched her in silence.
"Do it again," it said at last.
Lemma swallowed. "I don't know how."
"Good," the dragon replied. "Then you cannot rely on habit."
She closed her eyes.
She did not think of mana.
She did not think of dragons.
She thought of the palace corridors drenched in blood.
Of her family's eyes staring at nothing.
Of her mother's voice—gentle, loving, lying.
Her spine burned.
She screamed.
This time the flame did not flicker.
It tore out of her hand in a violent surge—wild, unshaped, searing the stone at her feet black.
The recoil threw her backward, her body slamming into the cavern floor hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
Pain exploded through her arm.
She smelled scorched flesh.
Lemma lay there gasping, tears spilling freely now, her hand smoking.
The dragon did not rush to her side.
"Again," it said.
The Cruel Shape of Progress
Healing magic sealed the burns—but the pain was never fully removed.
The dragon refused to dull it completely.
"You mus
t remember the cost," it said. "Dragon power without consequence becomes tyranny."
Lemma learned quickly that each use of her will exacted a price.
Her bones ached as if compressed by invisible weight. Her heartbeat slowed unnaturally during training, each thud heavy and deliberate.
Sometimes, after forcing the flame to appear, she would black out for hours.
And yet—
Each time, the flame returned faster.
Stronger.
Still ugly. Still unstable.
But no longer accidental.
"You are shaping something that does not belong to you," the dragon warned. "Be careful what answers."
Lemma wiped blood from her nose, standing despite the dizziness.
"I don't care what it is," she said hoarsely. "As long as it listens."
That was when the dreams began.
The Whisper Beneath Fire
At first, they were only sensations.
Heat without light.
Pressure without form.
A presence watching her from behind her thoughts.
Then came the voice.
Little ember.
Lemma woke screaming, claws of pain tearing through her skull.
The cavern walls pulsed faintly red, as if responding to her distress.
The dragon was already there.
"You heard it," it said.
Lemma clutched her head. "Something spoke to me."
"Yes."
"What was it?"
The dragon's wings flexed uneasily.
"A Demon King," it said.
The name struck her like a physical blow.
"No," Lemma whispered.
"I didn't summon anything."
"You didn't," the dragon agreed. "You were noticed."
The dragon explained what the gods never told humanity.
The Demon Kings were not simply rulers of hellish domains. They were concepts given form—calamities too persistent to be erased, echoes of a broken creation.
They slept.
But they listened.
"When mortals reach beyond their limits without permission," the dragon said, "something always answers."
Lemma's hands trembled.
"…Is it because of my mother?"
"Yes. And because of you."
The whisper returned that night.
You burn strangely, it murmured.
Not like the others.
Lemma pressed her hands to her ears, teeth clenched.
"Go away."
A chuckle slithered through her thoughts.
You don't want me gone, the voice said.
You want strength.
She did not answer
She did not need to.
Gods Stirring
Far above the mortal world, beyond clouds and stars, something ancient shifted.
The gods had long since withdrawn their gaze. They watched the world the way one watched a failed experiment—detached, distant, uninterested.
But now—
A thread trembled.
A goddess of order frowned, fingers pausing over the loom of causality.
"This presence," she murmured. "It is… heavy."
Another god scoffed. "Another demon cult?"
"No," said the god of foresight, eyes narrowing. "It's worse."
They looked down.
They saw a girl kneeling in a dragon's lair, coughing blood into her hands while fire clawed its way out of her spine.
They saw defiance without blessing.
"That one," a god whispered. "She isn't borrowing power."
Silence followed.
Then unease.
"If she continues," said the goddess of fate carefully, "she may reach a place even we cannot predict."
The god of war smiled.
"Then let her," he said. "It's been boring."
The Breaking Point
The dragon increased the severity of Lemma's training.
She was forced to hold her will active for hours—maintaining flame without burning herself alive.
Her muscles tore. Her blood vessels burst beneath her skin, painting her arms purple and red.
She collapsed more often than she stood.
"You are close to dying," the dragon said one evening, studying her trembling form. "Say the word, and I will stop."
Lemma laughed weakly.
"If I stop," she said, "then she wins forever."
The whisper returned stronger that night
I can make it stop hurting.
Lemma curled in on herself, body wracked with spasms.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
Nothing you don't already desire.
A vision filled her mind—her mother on the throne, crowned in demon fire, ruling unchallenged.
I can show you how to burn her world.
Lemma screamed.
"NO!"
The cavern shook.
Flame erupted uncontrolled, smashing into the walls, melting stone. The dragon roared in alarm, throwing up barriers to contain the explosion.
Lemma collapsed unconscious.
When she woke, the dragon loomed over her.
"You stood at the edge," it said quietly. "Another step, and you would have become a vessel."
Lemma's voice was barely audible. "…Am I weak?"
The dragon shook its massive head.
"No," it said. "You are tempting."
Will Given Weight
From that day on, the dragon changed its teaching.
No more flame.
No more outward power.
Instead, Lemma was made to stand beneath invisible pressure—dragon authority condensed into a crushing force that bent the cavern floor.
"Do not resist with strength," the dragon commanded. "Resist with identity."
Her knees buckled.
Her bones screamed.
She thought she would die.
"I am Lemma Heartfilia," she whispered. "I am the last."
The pressure increased.
"I am not a sacrifice."
Blood poured from her mouth.
"I am not her tool."
Her vision darkened.
"I am not finished.".
Something settled into place.
The pressure stopped.
The dragon stared.
Lemma stood—barely—but she stood.
The air around her felt… heavier. As if gravity itself leaned closer when she moved.
"You've done it," the dragon said softly.
"What… did I do?" Lemma asked.
"You gave your will weight," it replied. "From now on, the world will feel you.
Far away, a Demon King stirred in uneasy sleep.
And high above, the gods felt concern that they had not felt in centuries.