The pressure never truly left her.
Even when Lemma Heartfilia slept, it lingered—resting on her chest like an unseen weight, neither crushing nor gentle. It reminded her that something had changed. That the world no longer treated her as a passive thing.
She was noticed now.
The cavern felt different after she learned to give her will weight.
The crystals embedded in the stone walls glowed dimmer when she entered, as if conserving themselves. Loose dust no longer drifted freely in the air; it settled faster, pulled subtly toward her presence. Even the magma far below the platforms churned more violently when she trained, responding to something it did not understand.
Lemma noticed all of it.
The dragon did not comment.
It simply watched.
"You will not call the flame today," the dragon said, its voice echoing through the cavern. "You will listen."
Lemma frowned, rolling her stiff shoulders. Her body still ached constantly—old pain layered over new scars, healing imperfectly.
"To what?" she asked.
The dragon's golden eyes narrowed.
"To what has been calling you."
The air tightened.
Lemma's heartbeat slowed, each thud heavy and deliberate. The familiar sensation crawled up her spine—the grinding heat, the presence behind her thoughts.
She clenched her fists.
"I didn't invite it."
"No," the dragon agreed. "But you answered it once. That is enough."
The cavern darkened.
Not physically—no light dimmed—but something conceptual pressed inward, as if the idea of shadow itself had thickened. Lemma felt it before she heard it.
Little ember.
The voice was clearer now.
Closer.
It did not whisper. It spoke as one might speak across a table.
You carry yourself differently, it said.
Heavier. That weight suits you.
Lemma swallowed.
Her instincts screamed at her to run, to block it out, to beg the dragon to intervene. But she remembered the pressure. The standing. The moment the world had yielded.
She forced herself to breathe.
"What are you?" she asked.
A pause.
Then laughter—deep, slow, amused.
You know what I am.
Images flooded her mind unbidden—burning cities, screaming armies, thrones built from fused bone and molten crowns. A presence vast enough to crush continents if it leaned too close.
A Demon King.
Not a projection.
Not a fragment.
An attention.
"I didn't agree to anything," Lemma said, her voice shaking despite her effort.
You don't need to, the Demon King replied.
You are already walking toward me.
The dragon shifted, its claws digging into stone.
"Enough," it growled—not aloud, but into the fabric of the cavern itself. "You will not claim her."
A pressure met another pressure.
The cavern groaned.
Ah, the Demon King said, amused. The relic still breathes.
"I am not a relic," the dragon snarled. "And she is not yours."
Lemma's knees buckled under the clash of presences. Blood trickled from her nose. Her vision blurred—but she did not fall.
She forced herself upright.
"I'm talking to you," Lemma said, directing her words at the Demon King. "Not him."
Silence fell.
The weight shifted—focused.
How curious, the Demon King murmured.
You speak like a queen.
Lemma laughed harshly. "I was one."
No, it corrected gently.
You were meant to be fuel.
Her chest burned.
Anger surged—hot, sharp, familiar.
"I will kill her," Lemma said. "With or without you."
The Demon King's presence pressed closer, eager now.
Then take my hand, it offered.
I will give you flame that devours fate itself.
The dragon roared.
The cavern shook violently, crystals shattering and raining down. Magma surged upward, waves of heat scorching the air.
"Do not listen," the dragon commanded. "This is how chains are forged."
Lemma trembled.
The offer was real. She could feel it—power so vast it made her own struggles feel pathetic. No more crawling forward inch by inch. No more breaking bones for sparks of fire.
She closed her eyes.
And remembered.
Her family's bodies.
The quiet after the screams.
The way her mother had looked at her—not with hatred, but ownership.
Lemma opened her eyes.
"No," she said.
The word fell heavy.
The Demon King paused.
No?
"I won't trade one leash for another," Lemma said. "If I burn her world, it'll be by my hand."
The presence withdrew—slowly, thoughtfully.
Very well, it said at last.
Grow, then. I will be waiting.
The weight vanished.
Lemma collapsed to her knees, gasping.
The dragon moved instantly, its presence wrapping around her like a barrier, shielding her from whatever remnants lingered.
"You survived a direct address," the dragon said quietly. "Do you understand what that means?"
Lemma wiped blood from her lips.
"It means he'll come back."
"Yes," the dragon agreed. "And next time, you may not be strong enough to refuse."
The Brand
Recovery took days.
Lemma drifted in and out of consciousness, feverish and shaking. Her dreams were fractured—fire without light, pressure without form. Sometimes she felt scales brushing against her skin.
When she woke fully, the dragon stood over her.
"You will be marked," it said.
Lemma pushed herself upright slowly. "Marked how?"
"By me," the dragon replied. "Before something else claims you."
It lowered its massive head, breath hot against her skin. Ancient symbols ignited across its scales—sigils older than human magic, older than the gods' contracts.
"This will hurt," it warned.
"I know," Lemma said.
The dragon's claw touched her chest.
Fire erupted—but not outward.
It burned inward, carving something into her very being. Lemma screamed as the pain tore through her nerves, through bone and soul alike. She felt her identity etched, reinforced, anchored.
When it ended, she collapsed forward.
On her chest, just above her heart, a mark glowed faintly—an abstract sigil resembling a broken crown wreathed in flame.
"The Dragon's Brand," the dragon said. "It will not give you strength."
Lemma laughed weakly. "Of course it won't."
"It will give you resistance," the dragon continued. "Against Demon Kings. Against gods. Against destiny itself."
Lemma looked down at the mark.
"…And the cost?"
The dragon was silent.
"That," it said at last, "depends on how much of yourself you are willing to burn."
The Gods Send Knives
The first assassin arrived three nights later.
Lemma sensed it before she saw it—not magically, but instinctively. The air felt wrong, thin and sharp.
She turned just as the blade descended.
Steel rang.
Lemma stumbled backward, heart pounding, staring at the figure now standing where she had been. Clad in pale armor etched with divine runes, face hidden behind a featureless helm.
A god's hound.
The assassin moved without hesitation, blade flashing again. Lemma barely avoided it, the edge slicing her shoulder open.
Pain flared.
The dragon roared, but did not intervene.
"Run," it commanded.
Lemma ran.
The cavern became a battlefield of shadows and stone. The assassin moved impossibly fast, every strike precise, merciless.
"You are an anomaly," the assassin said calmly. "By order of the higher seats, you will be erased."
Lemma tripped, rolling across rough stone. Blood soaked her sleeve.
"I didn't do anything!" she shouted.
"You existed incorrectly," the assassin replied, blade descending.
Something pushed back.
Not flame.
Not magic.
The air thickened around Lemma's body, the blade slowing just enough for her to twist aside. She slammed her fist forward—not with strength, but with intent.
The assassin flew backward, crashing into a pillar hard enough to crack it.
Both of them froze.
Lemma stared at her trembling hand.
"I did that…?"
The assassin rose slowly.
"…Confirmed," it said. "Threat level increasing."
The dragon moved then.
One strike.
The assassin was gone—erased, body and soul burned away by dragonfire that left no trace.
Silence returned.
Lemma collapsed.
The dragon stood over her.
"The gods have noticed," it said. "They will not stop now."
Lemma laughed weakly, tears streaking her face.
"Good," she said. "Let them watch."