Cyrus's knees hit black sand, obsidian scales scraping volcanic rock as his body folded into submission.
The position burned through him—ancient, instinctual, and wrong in ways that had nothing to do with pride.
Elias circled slowly, boots leaving deliberate prints in disturbed sand.
"I pity you."
The words landed soft. Almost gentle.
Worse than mockery.
"Truly, Cyrus. Seeing you like this—the mighty Black Dragon, kneeling like some common hound—it's almost heartbreaking."
Elias stopped directly in front of him, amber eyes reflecting moonlight and divine sigil-glow in equal measure.
"You have questions, don't you? How I found this island. How I acquired the Royal Command Seal." He crouched, bringing their faces level. "How I knew you'd come here with your dying fox and the unhatched egg."
His smile sharpened into something colder.
"The answer's simple, old friend. I know you."
