The battle for the watchtower had fractured into three desperate, isolated duels, the pre-dawn light casting a grey, unforgiving pall over the chaos.
Garrick was a mountain of Ashworth steel, his greatsword a golden blur of Master-level Aura, locked in a brutal contest with the Iron Mask Leader. It was Master against Master, strength against speed, and the sound of their blades clashing was a sharp, ringing percussion against the wind.
Leo, a phantom of pure motion, was a whirlwind of death among the remaining mercenaries. He had already dispatched two with terrifying, silent efficiency and was now toying with the third, a skilled dual-wielding fighter. But Leo was a High Master. The fight was a blur of silver, a dance so fast my eyes could barely track it.
That left me.
My opponent, the one Leo had dubbed 'Viper', was fast, his movements a disjointed, flickering rhythm that was difficult to predict. He circled me, his twin daggers held in a reverse grip, his Expert-level Aura a cold, sharp presence. He was waiting, testing the limits of my power, assuming my victory over the granary handler was a fluke.
'He is fast, but his intent is clear,' the dragon's will whispered in my mind. It wasn't a roar of rage, but a cold, analytical assessment. 'He seeks the gaps. The eyes. The throat. The joints. Do not let him.'
This time, I was in sync with the thought. My training with Father had prepared me for this. "Scales," I commanded, and the black, shimmering armor flowed not just over my torso and arms, but up my neck, forming a high, protective gorget, leaving only my face exposed. It was a new level of conscious, efficient control.
Viper hissed, his plan thwarted. He lunged, a blur of motion. I met his flurry, my scaled forearms a pair of dark shields, the scra-scra-scrape of his daggers sliding harmlessly off the draconic surface. He was fast, but my Rhythmic Sense, amplified by the dragon's own senses, was faster. I could see the twitch of his muscles before he moved, feel the shift in his Aether as he prepared to strike.
"You're a monster," he spat, leaping back, his eyes wide as he assessed my unnatural defense. "But even monsters have weak points."
He was testing my patience, trying to draw me out, to make me overcommit. I felt the dragon's arrogance surge. 'He insults us. End him.'
This time, I didn't suppress the feeling. I used it. A cold, confident smile touched my lips, a gesture that was half me, half the beast. I dropped my hands slightly, a deliberate, open, and utterly arrogant invitation.
"You're fast, I'll give you that," I said, my voice calm, projecting easily over the wind. "But you're a one-trick pony. You have no real power, only speed. You're just a gnat."
It was a calculated taunt, designed to shatter his professional cool. It worked.
With a snarl of pure rage, he abandoned his careful circling and charged, feinting high with his left dagger, his real attack a low, devastating thrust with his right, aimed at the unscaled gap at my hip, just below my ribs. It was a killing blow, fast and precise.
But I had seen it coming. I had felt it coming.
I didn't dodge. I let him come. As his blade lunged for my hip, I shifted my weight and unleashed a focused, point-blank Dragon's Lance.
THOOM.
The sound was a dull, heavy, concusive blast. It wasn't a beam of energy; it was a shotgun of pure, rhythmic force. The 'Viper' hadn't been expecting an Aetheric attack of this magnitude from a 'Low Expert'. The blast caught his dagger-arm, shattering the bone from wrist to elbow, and slammed into his chest, shattering his Aura like glass. He was thrown backward, a broken puppet, his armor cracked, his body skidding to a halt at the edge of the ruin. He was out of the fight. Permanently.
I stood there, breathing heavily, the adrenaline surging. It was a clean victory. A perfect fusion of control and power. My training had paid off.
It was in that moment of triumph that I made my mistake. I let the scales on my body recede, my concentration broken by the flush of victory. I turned my head, my focus shifting, to call out to Garrick, to see if he needed aid.
The first sign of danger was not a sound, or a sight. It was a searing, icy cold that erupted in my left side.
The other Lancer. The one I had downed with the first blast at the start of the battle. The one I had assumed was disabled, his leg broken. He wasn't. Crippled, yes, but not out. He had dragged himself, crawling, through the dirt and rocks while I was dueling his partner, his face a mask of suicidal determination.
His attack was a desperate, final lunge. A long, thin dagger, coated in the unmistakable dark, oily sheen of Black-Vein Hemlock, was buried to the hilt in my side, just above my hip, in the exact spot his partner had been aiming for.
Pain exploded through my system. But it was not the pain that terrified me. It was the poison. It was the immediate, rushing, cold sensation of my life force being drained, the feeling of my nerves screaming, my heart faltering. It was the echo of the Huntsman's blade.
It was the near-death trigger.
"No," I gasped, staggering back, clutching the wound as the Lancer collapsed, his duty done, a fanatic's grin on his face. "No... no, not... not here..."
The world dissolved. The Two-Heart Cadence shattered into a frantic, panicked staccato. My human consciousness, my carefully constructed mental fortress, my weeks of training—it all vaporized.
The Dragon Heart, sensing mortal annihilation, detonated.
It wasn't a surge. It was an override.
'FOOL! WEAK! YOU LET THEM WOUND US! YOU HAVE FAILED! I WILL NOT DIE AGAIN!'
My human mind wasn't pushed aside; it was submerged, thrown into a lightless abyss, still aware but utterly powerless. I was a prisoner in my own body, watching through eyes that were no longer my own.
A roar, inhuman and guttural, ripped from my throat. The crimson haze wasn't a tint; it was a flood, drowning my vision in a world of pure, predatory instinct. Pain from my side vanished, replaced by a cold, arrogant fury.
Scales erupted violently, not just on my arms and chest, but everywhere, flowing over my face, my legs, my hands, forming a perfect, seamless, midnight-black armor. My fingers spasmed, bones cracking and elongating as the Dragon Claws burst forth, shimmering with raw, uncontrolled power. My senses exploded, the world becoming a tapestry of Aetheric signatures: Garrick's golden blaze, Leo's silver flicker, the three remaining 'insects'.
The Lancer who had stabbed me was trying to crawl away.
'Pest,' the dragon snarled, using my own vocal cords.
My/its arm moved, not with the focused precision of the Lance, but with pure, instinctual malice. A torrent of raw, crimson-black energy, a wave of pure, unadulterated draconic rage, erupted from my clawed hand. It wasn't a beam; it was a wave of annihilation. It struck the crawling man, and he didn't just die. He vaporized. Him, the rock he was hiding behind, and a ten-foot patch of ground were simply erased, leaving a smoking, molten crater.
The sheer, unrestrained power was intoxicating, terrifying. I was a Low Expert, but this… this was the power of a god.
The Viper, the one I had skillfully defeated moments before, was trying to rise, his one good arm pushing him up, his face a mask of terror.
My head snapped towards him. 'Threat. Still breathing. Eliminate.'
I stalked forward, each step a predatory crouch, my power coiling. But I didn't unleash the Lance. The dragon wanted this one close.
"Lancelot! NO!" Garrick's voice roared, a distant, irrelevant sound. He was still locked in his fight with the Leader.
The Viper screamed, a high-pitched, terrified sound, as my shadow fell over him. He raised his one good arm, a pathetic, warding gesture.
I felt my own arm, my clawed hand, raise up, poised to tear him apart.