Aurelion went dark in sections, like a dying constellation.
The first district to lose power was the Lower Ring. Streetlights guttered and failed, plunging alleys into sudden night. Elevation lifts froze mid-ascent, their rune-lines sputtering as frightened passengers shouted from glass cages suspended between towers. In the foundries, forges screamed as containment glyphs collapsed, spilling raw heat into the air.
Above it all, the sky-lanes flickered, airships drifting as their stabilizers faltered, crews scrambling to cut ballast and pray.
And beneath the city, in the reactor chamber, Master Kelth fell to one knee.
Kael still clutching the ruined railing as his ears were ringing, felt the surge pass through him like a tide reversing. It did not burn. It did not tear. It settled, heavy and vast, as though something ancient had leaned close and placed a hand at the center of his chest.
Breathe, the presence said.
He did.
The alarms cut off mid-wail.
Runes steadied, their frantic pulse slowing to a measured glow. The chains stopped screaming. The dragon's eye still half-open did not close, but it no longer strained against its bindings.
Kelth stared at the panels, disbelief breaking through his composure. "Impossible," he whispered. "The cascade should have—"
He looked up.
And saw Kael standing where no apprentice should be standing, bathed in a dim, ember-gold light that had nothing to do with the reactor's glow.
"What did you do?" Kelth demanded.
Kael opened his mouth to speak.
But Before he could answer, the dragon spoke again, this time not only to him.
The chamber was filled with weight. Not sound. Not vibration. Meaning pressed itself into every surface, every rune, every living mind.
Enough.
Kelth screamed.
He clutched his head, staff clattering across the gantry as he staggered backward. The word had struck him like a hammer, too large, too old, too alive to fit inside a human skull.
Kael swayed but remained standing.
He is not meant to hear you, the dragon said to him alone. But the bindings are thinning. Pain loosens knots time cannot.
"Stop," the Kael whispered. He did not know who he was speaking to. "You're hurting them."
A pause.
Then astonishment.
You care.
The light around him dimmed further, settling into his skin like warmth after cold. The pressure eased. Kelth collapsed fully now, gasping, alive but shaken.
Far above, the city's lights flickered back to life, uneven, unstable, but burning.
Emergency power. Backup enchantments. The Iron Concord had planned for everything except this.
The boy's knees finally gave way. He sank to the gantry, breath ragged, heart hammering.
"What… am I?" he asked no one.
The dragon's eye focused on him fully now.
You are a voice, it said. And voices are dangerous.
Footsteps thundered on the upper platforms.
Armed wardens poured into the chamber, armor etched with suppressive sigils, weapons already humming with restrained dragon-fire. At their head strode a woman in black and crimson Inquisitorial colors, her presence sharp as a blade.
She took in the scene in a single glance: the fallen artificer, the damaged panel, the boy kneeling at the edge of the abyss.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Containment breach confirmed," she said calmly. "Seal the chamber. Kill anyone not essential."
The Wardens advanced.
Kelth tried to rise. "Wait...he's just an apprentice..."
The Inquisitor raised a hand. Kelth froze mid-word, caught in a lattice of binding light.
The boy looked up at the approaching weapons and felt something coil inside him not fear, but refusal.
Say the word, the dragon murmured. I will answer.
"No," he whispered. "Not like this."
He stood.
Every sigil trained on him flared brighter.
The Inquisitor smiled faintly. "You can hear it, can't you?"
The question hit harder than any weapon.
"You felt the city blink," she continued, stepping closer. "That only happens when a dragon's will moves unchecked. We've been watching for this for decades."
She tilted her head. "You're the anomaly."
Behind her, chains groaned as the dragon shifted—just slightly.
Kael met her gaze and understood, with chilling clarity, that this moment had already been judged.
Not guilty or innocent.
Useful or dead.
"I won't let you hurt it," he said. The words surprised her with their steadiness.
The Inquisitor's smile widened. "You don't get to choose."
The dragon's presence surged not outward, but inward again, coiling around the boy's spine like a crown of fire.
Then let me, the dragon spoke. Let me share the weight.
The first true pact in centuries tightened—silent, unseen, irrevocable.
And for the first time since dragons were chained, a human stood between the world and its stolen power…not as a thief,not as a master,but as a bridge.