Vespera steadied herself on Sabrel's broad, scaled back, fingers still tangled in the long white hair that ran down the serpentine spine. Together they stared up at the ruined giant floating amid the churning red waves.
The Abyssal Matriarch's two remaining eyes opened. They were dull, clouded, barely holding light.
Sabrel's jaws tightened, sharp teeth flashing.
"It's fully weakened now," she said, voice low and cold. "I'll finish it."
They both paused.
In the distance, a smaller silver shape cut through the rough water. The young calf was racing toward its mother, six dim eyes wide with panic. Its cries echoed across the ruined sea—high, desperate, and painfully clear even over the roar of the waves.
The Matriarch slowly turned its massive head. When it saw the calf closing the distance, a low, broken groan rolled out of its chest. The sound was thick with pain and warning, as if pleading for the child to stay back. Dark blood streaked from between its jaws and dripped into the water below. It glanced down at its three remaining tentacles with something close to disbelief. Its vision was narrow now, blurred at the edges. When it finally looked back at the two figures in the sky, the surviving eyes sharpened with a final, flickering will.
Sabrel rose higher into the air, white scales gleaming under the red sky.
"The timing is perfect," she said. "I'll use my divinity now."
Vespera did not answer.
Her golden eyes remained fixed on the silver calf struggling through the waves. Something tight and unfamiliar twisted in her chest.
Is this… right? This feels wrong.
Sabrel reached the peak of her ascent and hovered there, gathering pale light around her horns and open maw. Below them, the Matriarch watched in silence. Then it let out another deep, agonized groan. With visible effort, it lifted its three remaining tentacles. Each movement was slow, heavy, and laced with pain. Fresh blood welled from the ruined stumps as the limbs rose, trembling, into the air. Even the simple act of raising them forced another ragged sound from the ancient beast's throat.
It still tried to stand between its child and the threat above.
The silver calf closed the distance in a final desperate surge and planted itself directly in front of its mother.
The Matriarch let out a rough, pained growl and swept one of her three remaining tentacles forward, trying to push the smaller body away. The calf refused to budge. Instead, it turned its head toward the white dragon high above and released a raw, furious roar that cracked across the water.
Sabrel's eyes narrowed.
"The child is in the way."
Vespera said nothing.
She watched the calf stand its ground, small only in comparison to the giant behind it, roaring defiance at a creature far beyond its strength. She watched the Matriarch, broken and bleeding, still trying to shove her child out of danger even as every movement clearly cost her. Mother and child, locked in the same instinct from opposite directions.
Something cold and sharp moved through Vespera's chest.
For a moment, the roar of the sea, the wind, even Sabrel's presence fell away into complete silence. The world narrowed to the silver calf's open jaws and the desperate light in its eyes.
When Vespera blinked, she was no longer above the Red Sea.
She stood in a long hall lit by soft crimson lanterns. The air smelled of old blood and night-blooming flowers. To her side stood a girl of about sixteen. Short black hair fell in perfect, glossy waves around a pale face. Her eyes were the deep violet of amethysts, clear and searching. Seraphine Noctrune tilted her head slightly, studying her mother's expression with quiet curiosity.
Vespera's eyes widened.
She blinked again—
—and the hall was gone.
The wounded Matriarch and her roaring calf filled her vision once more. Vespera's throat tightened. The words left her in a rough whisper.
"Stop."
Sabrel, white energy already swirling between her open jaws, froze mid-charge.
"What?"
Vespera's voice came firmer this time, cutting through the wind.
"Stop. We have done enough. It is not worth going any further."
Sabrel's eyes widened, genuine confusion flashing across her draconic features.
"What's wrong with you? We're so close—"
"What we are doing," Vespera said, golden eyes still fixed on the calf standing protectively in front of its broken mother, "is wrong."
Vespera met the Matriarch's two remaining eyes.
The gaze held. Long. Heavy. Neither looked away. In that silence, something wordless passed between them—an acknowledgment of pain, of instinct, of the child still pressed protectively against the giant's side. At last Vespera closed her eyes.
The Matriarch released a low, warning growl.
Sabrel's head snapped toward her.
"Snap out of it. We came here for its core."
"I know," Vespera said quietly.
"Then what's the problem?"
Vespera opened her eyes again, golden irises steady.
"We're not going to kill it."
Sabrel stared.
"Why?"
"It has a child."
For a moment the only sound was the restless red water below.
Sabrel's voice came flat, almost disbelieving.
"…So?"
Vespera exhaled slowly. The fight had drained from her shoulders, leaving only a deep, tired clarity.
"Look at them," she said. "That calf stood in front of a creature that could erase it without effort. And the mother—broken, half-blind, barely able to lift her own limbs—still tried to push her child out of danger. We reduced her to this. We cornered a mother defending the only thing she has left… and we called it necessary."
Her voice softened, edged with something raw.
"I should have seen it sooner. I was so focused on the power, on what Indura needs, that I forgot what it costs when the thing bleeding in front of you is not just a monster."
She turned fully to Sabrel.
"We cannot kill it… Sabrel."
Sabrel's expression went blank. The fierce light in her white eyes flickered. Around her body, faint white shimmers began to rise, soft and slow. The long serpentine form collapsed inward. Scales receded, horns shrank, the powerful tail dissolved into light. In seconds, the white dragon was gone, replaced by the familiar humanoid woman in her short dress, white hair settling around her shoulders. She looked smaller somehow. Quieter.
"If we don't take its core," Sabrel said, voice tight, "Indura won't awaken his. He needs them. He needs that power if he's going to face Dark Haven."
Vespera drew a low breath, then let it out.
"I know."
She raised one hand and rested it gently against Sabrel's cheek. A faint thread of red mana flared beneath her palm, warm and subtle. Her voice dropped to something almost tender.
"We'll talk about this later. And whatever Rhelga has to say… I'll handle it."
Sabrel's brows knit.
"What?"
Vespera's lips curved into a small, quiet smile.
The moment the smile formed, heaviness crashed through Sabrel's body like a dam breaking. Every cut, every impact, every ounce of exhaustion she had been holding back flooded in at once. Her eyes grew heavy. Her limbs went numb.
She collapsed.
Vespera caught her easily, one arm sliding around her waist, steadying the sudden dead weight against her side as the red sea continued to churn beneath them.
The Matriarch watched them in heavy confusion, its two remaining eyes tracking the small crimson figure who still held the unconscious white-haired woman.
Vespera's expression softened. She closed her eyes for a moment.
"What in the world am I doing…?"
The words trailed off, unfinished, but the meaning hung clear in the air between them.
The Matriarch studied her in silence. Then, with the last of its strength, it raised its three ruined tentacles toward the sky and released a single, enormous roar. The sound was vast and final—raw pain, defiance, and something older than either. The force of it whipped Vespera's long blood-red hair behind her like a banner. The roar rolled across the shattered coastline and far inland, echoing off distant cliffs before it finally died away.
Silence returned.
Only the low rush of red water and the cold pull of the wind remained.
Vespera opened her eyes. A deep blood-red sphere bloomed around her and Sabrel, pulsing once, twice, with dense spatial energy. Then it collapsed inward and vanished, taking both women with it.
The Matriarch's head turned slowly, searching the empty sky. Its senses stretched outward, hunting for any trace of the crimson presence.
Finding nothing, the last tension left its massive frame. The three tentacles lowered at last.
With a long, shuddering motion, the Abyssal Matriarch fell backward into the Red Sea. The water received its broken body in a heavy surge. Exhaustion, held at bay by sheer will, finally claimed it.
The silver calf scrambled up onto its mother's side, letting out sharp, anxious growls. The Matriarch's two surviving eyes found the smaller shape. For a brief moment they lingered there—dull, but aware. Then the lids grew heavy and closed.
It was hurt. It was tired. But it was alive.
---------------
The waves still heaved across the ruined Red Sea when the sky darkened.
Heavy clouds rolled in without warning, swallowing the red light. Rain began to fall in thick, cold sheets, striking the water hard enough to raise white spray. High above the surface, two figures hovered side by side, their clothes already darkening with moisture.
Ostrid and Astrath watched the massive form of the Abyssal Matriarch sink deeper beneath the waves. Neither spoke at first. Their expressions were quiet, almost distant—the look of beings who had expected a different ending and were still adjusting to the one that had arrived.
Ostrid broke the silence, voice low and even.
"Without the Matriarch's core and hearts… Indura will have a hard time. It may take him far longer to grow his power."
Astrath exhaled, rain sliding down his face.
"It's not too late. I can still finish the beast and deliver what he needs—"
Ostrid raised one palm, cutting him off.
"Don't. Interfering now would only create suspicion."
Astrath's mouth curved.
"We've already interfered with a couple of events."
"None of those touched Indura," Ostrid replied. "Those were only for amusement."
Astrath chuckled, the sound soft under the rain.
"'Amusement is the privilege of those who already know the ending,'" he said, almost as if quoting something old. "Or so I once believed."
Ostrid smiled faintly at that. Then he turned his head toward a distant direction, eyes narrowing as if looking across continents.
"Ah… The messenger of the Dark Disciple has reached the Giants' continent."
Astrath followed his gaze.
"The Hunter will find nothing useful there. Unless the echoes of this battle have already reached the local dragon's ears." He paused. "Either way, two of the Dark Followers witnessed the fight. The outcome was always going to travel."
Ostrid sighed.
"What was the outcome of this battle supposed to be?"
"Sabrel was meant to kill the Matriarch," Astrath answered without hesitation.
"Yes." Ostrid looked down at the rain-pocked sea. "That was what we both expected. That was what was meant to happen." His voice grew quieter, more thoughtful. "But possible futures are fragile things. One decision made a moment too early, one heart that refuses to harden when it should… and an entire branch of fate ceases to exist. The path that was certain becomes only one of many that never were."
Astrath remained silent for a time. Then a book materialized before him—deep crimson, edges glowing with restrained power. The covers opened on their own. Pages blurred past in a rapid cascade of ancient script until he stopped them with a single finger.
His white eyes moved across the dense, unfamiliar writing.
"…I did not expect this."
Ostrid glanced over.
"What is it?"
Astrath rested two fingers against his chin, still studying the page.
"The enchantment I placed on the Matriarch… was broken. The Blood Queen's spell cancelled it completely."
Ostrid raised an eyebrow, then let out a short chuckle.
"Then you must not have fully enchanted it. There is no way her spell was powerful enough to do it."
Astrath scratched the back of his head, looking almost embarrassed.
"True. I needed to give the two of them a fighting chance."
Ostrid smoothed his rain-soaked silver hair back from his face.
"So you only suppressed it. Not bad. But in the—"
The crimson book suddenly exploded into motion.
Pages whipped forward in a violent blur, each flip releasing sharp pulses of energy that rippled through the falling rain. Astrath's eyes narrowed at the sudden change—then widened.
"Oh... what's this?!"
---------------
Far from the Red Sea, the Elven continent lay under a thick canopy of living green.
Ancient trees rose like pillars of a drowned cathedral, their trunks wider than towers, their leaves filtering the crimson sky into shifting patterns of emerald light. High above the forest floor, two cloaked figures stood upon a massive horizontal limb that could have served as a road.
Both were covered from crown to heel in heavy, travel-worn cloaks of deep charcoal. The fabric was layered and treated against the elements, hoods drawn low, sleeves long enough to hide the hands completely. Only the faint glint of metal at their wrists and the occasional shift of weight betrayed that living beings stood there at all.
The taller of the two reached up and pulled back his hood.
Long black hair fell loosely around a sharp-jawed face, settling at the nape of his neck. Amber eyes, vertically slit like a predator's, scanned the endless green below. Fang released a quiet breath.
"Any news from the other side… Neriel?"
The second figure uncovered her own head. Her skin held the dull, wet sheen of polished iron. Long brown hair spilled free as she pushed it back from her face. Dark brown eyes narrowed against the filtered light.
"Nothing," Neriel answered. "We've been searching for hours. No trace. No rumor. No body."
Fang's fist slammed into the trunk beside him. The impact traveled through the living wood in a deep, resonant vibration that sent a flock of unseen birds exploding from the canopy far below.
"Amon never spoke to any of us after he was given his second chance," Fang said through gritted teeth. "No one knows what killed him. Or who."
Neriel's mouth curved.
"Maybe he deserved it. I was never fond of his presence. Not even before the Dragon King vanished."
Fang's jaw tightened.
"The Dragon King." The name left him like a curse. "It's his fault we now bow to a creature that looks at us as less than ants."
Neriel chuckled, low and dry.
"The Dragon King thought of us the same way."
In a single motion, Fang's hand closed around her throat. He forced her back against the broad trunk, amber eyes burning.
"This is not the time for jokes. If the messenger finds nothing, the Disciple will end us herself."
Even with his fingers digging into her neck, Neriel grinned.
"We're all dead anyway. What does one day more or less matter?"
Fang leaned closer, voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"We sided with Dark Haven to keep breathing. That is enough reason to reach the next sunrise. Focus, Neriel."
He released her. She coughed once, then twice, before a short, rasping laugh escaped her.
"I see why General Kouldron was fond of you."
Fang said nothing.
A voice suddenly bloomed inside both their minds—distant, strained, as though spoken across half a world.
Fang. Neriel. We found something important. Meet us on the Giants' continent. The messenger will be there.
Fang's eyes narrowed.
"What did you find?"
Just come. Unless you prefer to waste more time digging through roots that lead nowhere.
Neriel exhaled.
"We haven't finished searching the Elven lands. There are still two followers I need to question."
The Bloodborn?
"Obviously."
Too risky. They are occupied holding the elves. There is no value in disturbing them.
Fang's expression hardened.
"I'll stay and keep searching."
Neriel turned her head toward him.
"Don't be stubborn. What do you expect to find that the rest of us missed?"
Fang remained silent for a long moment. Then he stepped to the edge of the limb and dropped. His cloak flared once before he vanished into the green depths without a sound.
Neriel watched the place where he had disappeared. A quiet sigh left her.
"I'll be there soon," she told the distant voice.
Make it quick.
She glanced once more into the forest, then turned in the opposite direction. In a burst of displaced air, she was gone, the only remaining sound the soft clink of the chains at her wrists.
--------------
Fang dropped through canopies in controlled blurs, the wind of his passage stripping leaves from the branches and scattering them in swirling trails behind him. He hit the next limb, kicked off, and kept falling in long, silent arcs until the forest floor rose to meet him. His boots struck the mossy ground hard; he skidded several meters before coming to a complete stop beneath the towering trunks.
Who would kill Amon… and why?
The thought burned through him as he straightened.
Amon had carried a blessing. Only a Calamity should have been able to erase someone like that. And there are only three Calamities left in the world. Not even a Destroyer would stand a chance against one of them—unless…
Fang's amber eyes narrowed.
Is this the South's doing? Are they still trying to stand against the dragons? His lip curled. Then they are fools.
He tilted his head back, staring up through the dense lattice of branches at the thin slivers of red sky.
Why stay in the East at all? The killer could have fled anywhere. Why linger here?
The questions circled without answers. For a long moment he simply stood there, alone among the ancient trees, wondering if every step he had taken since leaving Neriel had been a waste.
Then the silence changed.
It was not the ordinary quiet of a deep forest. It was heavier. Complete. The faint rustle of leaves, the distant calls of birds, even the soft movement of air between the trunks—everything had stopped. The stillness pressed against his skin like a held breath.
Fang's instincts screamed.
He tore the heavy cloak from his shoulders and let it fall. In the same motion, he reached back and drew the weapon strapped across his spine. The axe came free with a low metallic whisper—an enormous double-headed weapon of blackened steel and pale silver, the blades wide enough to split a man in half with a single stroke. The weight of it settled into his hands like an old promise.
His amber eyes began to glow.
I'm not alone.
He turned slowly, scanning the pillars of living wood around him. The air itself felt wrong—too still, too watchful.
Behind one of the thicker trunks, a shape waited.
It was only a silhouette at first, darker than the shadows that clung to the bark. The figure leaned against the tree with casual ease, one shoulder resting against the wood as though it had been standing there for hours. No breath stirred the air around it. No scent. No mana signature. Nothing.
Then the silver eyes opened.
They cut through the gloom like twin shards of cold metal, fixed directly on Fang. Unblinking. Unhurried. The rest of the figure remained almost formless in the darkness, yet those eyes alone carried a weight that made the axe in Fang's hands feel suddenly inadequate.
The silence deepened.
And in that silence, Fang understood with absolute certainty that whatever stood behind the tree had not come to talk.