Chapter 1 - Ashes to Ash
The Wingull's scream tore through the morning haze, sharp as a blade against Ash's thoughts. He watched the bird twist in mid-air, white wings catching the amber light as it plunged toward the sea's glittering surface.
Predator, not prey.
Sand clung between Ash's toes, warm and powdery.
The bird emerged from the crystalline depths, a thrashing Magikarp struggling in its hooked beak. Life and death on a sun-drenched morning. The fish's scales caught the light, flashing copper red, not unlike the hair seared into his memory.
Ash kicked at the retreating edge of a wave, sending a spray of saltwater arcing through the air. The droplets caught the light, suspended for a heartbeat before gravity reclaimed them.
Memory pulled at him, dragging his thoughts northward to Blackthorn City, with its winding alleys carved from living stone and its tiers stacked like the vertebrae of some vast beast against the mountains that separated Kanto from Johto. The city that had raised him, if not loved him.
Blackthorn hadn't been cruel, exactly. Cruelty required personal attention. They'd simply... overlooked him. As one overlooks a stain that cannot be removed, but might eventually fade.
Unforgiving- that's what Blackthorn had been. The weight of a thousand years of tradition heavy as a millstone around his neck. Those stern, unyielding gazes. Those cutting whispers when they thought he couldn't hear: not true blood, not Wataru, not one of us. The way laughter seemed to freeze in the thin mountain air before it ever reached him.
Pallet Town had been an escape, a place where the burden of being the clan's dark-haired burden fell away. The soft caress of southern breezes instead of Blackthorn's knife-edged winds. Warmth, not just in the climate but in the easy smiles of strangers who asked nothing of him but his name.
Yet beneath it all, an ache persisted. A hollow space between his ribs that nothing seemed to fill.
"Ash Wataru, caught in the act!"
The voice shattered his reverie like a stone through glass. He turned, muscles tensing before he recognized the figure bounding across the sand toward him. Leaf, her red hair blazing in the morning light, eyes gleaming with an amusement that never seemed to dim.
She skidded to a halt before him, sand spraying from her heels. "Let me guess," she said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Communing with the Magikarp instead of studying like the rest of us?"
"If they had anything worth saying, I might consider it," Ash replied, mouth quirking into a half-smile that felt more genuine than most he'd managed lately. "But as conversation goes, they're about as stimulating as Gary."
Leaf snorted, the sound startlingly unrefined for someone who moved with such grace. "The mighty Gary Oak does favor the 'hit it till it stops moving' school of thought, doesn't he?" She cocked her head, studying him with eyes that saw too much. "You're brooding again."
"I'm thinking," Ash corrected, falling into step beside her as they turned back toward town. "There's a difference."
"Is there? When you think, your brow furrows like you're trying to crack a walnut between your eyebrows." She demonstrated, scrunching her face into an exaggerated scowl. "When you brood, you look like you're plotting the demise of an entire city."
"Perhaps I am," he said.
"Ash..."
"It was a joke," he said quickly. "Bad one."
"Your jokes usually are." The lightness in her voice sounded forced now. "So what wisdom did the Magikarp impart today that's got you looking like that?"
"That," he replied, forcing his own tone to match hers, "is strictly between me and the fish."
She accepted the answer with a small nod, bumping her shoulder against his as they walked. The contact was brief, but steadying, an anchor to the present when the past threatened to drag him under.
The familiar sounds of Pallet greeted them as they crested the rise from the beach- the rhythmic hammering from the smithy, the cheerful calls of shop owners hawking their wares, the distant laughter of children. With each step, the specter of Blackthorn retreated, but never far enough. Never completely.
It would return with the darkness, as it always did.
The tempest didn't howl. It screamed, like a living thing being flayed, its rage echoing through the ancient valleys of Blackthorn. Rain lashed the mountainside not in drops but in horizontal sheets, each gust driving water against stone with the spite of an old grudge.
Blackthorn endured, as it always had. As it always would. The ancestral home of the Wataru stood defiant, its spires thrusting up into the churning clouds like accusatory fingers. Towers of slate-gray stone that had witnessed a thousand such storms and would witness a thousand more, long after the flesh that now occupied them had returned to dust.
Three Dragonites circled above, their scales gleaming wetly even in the storm's gloom. Not pets. Not servants. Partners. Their bloodlines as ancient and proud as the clan they had bound themselves to when the world was young.
Atop the highest tower, a solitary figure stood unmoving against the gale.
Champion Lance, the Drake of Blackthorn, scion of the Wataru's purest bloodline, watched the sky with storm-grey eyes that matched the heavens' fury. His hair-the precise shade of fresh-spilled blood-whipped about a face carved by the same ruthless forces that had shaped the mountains themselves. All harsh angles and unforgiving ridges, illuminated in bursts by lightning that turned his pale skin corpse-white.
His crimson cape snapped behind him like a war banner. The rain hissed as it struck the specially treated fabric and rolled away, seeking entrance to the flesh beneath his armor, finding none.
"Lance."
The name was nearly swallowed by the tempest, little more than a whisper against the storm's rage. Yet Lance's head snapped around with predatory swiftness, eyes narrowed to slits.
"Delia."
His voice cut through the maelstrom, though he did not raise it. Lance, the Drake of Blackthorn, Champion of Indigo, never needed volume to command attention. The wind itself seemed to pause, respectful or fearful or both.
She stood half-shadowed beneath the stone archway, drenched to the bone. Her once-golden traveling cloak now a sodden shroud clinging to a frame thinner than he remembered. Arms wrapped protectively around a bundle pressed to her chest, she stumbled forward, leaving puddles in her wake on the ancient stone.
She looks half-dead, he thought, something stirring in his chest. Pity, perhaps. Or its uglier cousin, satisfaction.
"Believe me," she said, voice steady despite her trembling limbs, "I'd have stayed away if I had any choice left."
Lance's lips twisted into something that was too cruel to be a smile, too knowing to be a sneer. "And yet here you stand, dripping on my ancestral stones." His gaze dropped to the bundle she clutched. "I assume that's not a gift from the tourist shops of Celadon?"
A flash of irritation crossed her face, the first genuine emotion he'd seen, and for a moment, Lance glimpsed the steel beneath the fragile exterior. Good. The woman he'd known was still in there, buried beneath layers of exhaustion and fear.
"You haven't lost your charm, I see."
"Nor you your talent for arriving precisely when most unwelcome." Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the severe planes of his face. "It's Champion Lance now, or Drake of Blackthorn if formality strains you." He turned, cape sweeping behind him as he paced along the tower's edge. "We're long past first names, Yellow."
She flinched at the code name as though he'd struck her, shoulders tightening beneath her sodden cloak. "That person is gone."
"Is she?" Lance arched an eyebrow. "People rarely change, Delia. They just get better at hiding what they've always been."
His eyes drifted to the vast tapestries adorning the inner walls-dragon tamers past, their legacy woven into threads that would outlast them all. His predecessor stared down from the newest addition, stern-faced and uncompromising.
Would you have turned her away?
"You disappeared without a word," he continued, voice carefully controlled, though something raw flickered beneath it. "No warning, no explanation. Only whispers and speculation. And now you return years later, in the dead of night, bearing..." his gaze flicked dismissively to the bundle, "...that."
"I did what I had to do." No apology in her voice. No regret.
"As we all must." Lance's fingers traced the hilt of a ceremonial blade mounted upon the wall, its edge still keen after centuries. "While you've been gone, the regions have nearly torn themselves apart. The Indigo League fractures, the Gym Leaders grow restless, and dangers press against our borders." He turned to face her, his expression hard as the stone beneath their feet. "What burden could possibly be heavy enough to make you seek me out now?"
Thunder rattled the ancient windows. The bundle in Delia's arms squirmed, a soft whimper rising above the storm's fury.
"He needs your protection," Delia said finally, her voice barely audible.
"My protection?" Lance's laugh was a harsh, brutal thing, devoid of mirth. "Or perhaps what you truly seek is legitimacy? A noble name to mask his ignoble origins?" He strode toward her, closing the distance until he loomed over her diminutive form. "You want me to raise another man's child as a Wataru? To pollute a bloodline that has remained pure for a thousand years?"
He jabbed a finger toward the window, toward the sprawling ancient city below, where lights flickered defiantly against the storm's darkness. "I am the Drake of Blackthorn, Delia. The Champion of two regions. My responsibilities extend to every soul in Kanto and Johto, every trainer, every child, every pokemon. The regions teeter on the brink of chaos, and you bring me this... complication?"
"It's more than that." Delia's eyes flashed, a glimpse of the woman who had once fought at his side. "The gift… it's strong in him. Stronger than-"
With hands that trembled not from cold but fear, Delia peeled back the water-darkened blanket. The child within stirred, blinking up with eyes the precise shade of new spring leaves, unnaturally bright, seeming to pierce through Lance's carefully constructed defenses.
"This is a cruel jest, even for you," Lance breathed, recognition dawning cold and heavy in his gut. "Those eyes..."
"His son," Delia confirmed, voice barely audible above the storm. "Red's son."
Lance's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath skin pulled taut over fine-boned features. He stepped back as though struck, a harsh laugh escaping him. "Of course. Our glorious former Champion vanishes, leaving behind chaos and ruin, and I'm to mop up the aftermath. Again." He turned away, shoulders rigid beneath his cape. "I've spent years rebuilding what he destroyed. Stitching together the tattered remains of the League he shattered."
"It wasn't like that," Delia protested, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears.
"Wasn't it?" Lance's voice dropped, the quiet more dangerous than any shout. "And where is the mighty Red now? Chasing legends across the world while you clean up his messes? Again?"
Delia's expression hardened. "I didn't come for your judgment, Lance."
"And yet you shall have it nonetheless." He paced the stone floor, boots echoing like distant thunder. "What exactly is your grand design? Drop his spawn in my lap and vanish again? Am I to play nursemaid while you chase after him?" His lips curled. "Or perhaps you think I'll simply dispose of the problem for you."
The last words came out with a bitterness that surprised even him.
Delia flinched as if struck. "I don't know where he is," she admitted, the words clearly costing her. "But I have to find him, Lance." Her eyes, the color of honey in sunlight, locked with his. "You know what he's capable of. What he might do if left to his own devices."
"Was it worth it, Delia?" Lance asked, his voice suddenly tired. "Following him into the dark? Abandoning everything, everyone, for his vision?"
"I never thought it'd lead to this." Delia choked out, anguish cracking through her composure. "Any of it! But the boy isn't safe with me, not anymore. You're the only one strong enough." Her gaze locked with his, unflinching despite her trembling lips. "The only one Red ever feared."
Lance barked a harsh laugh. "Feared? Red never feared me, Delia. He never feared anyone, except perhaps…" He cut himself off, shaking his head sharply. "If Red feared anyone, it was Samuel Oak. The man saw through him from the start, recognized the rot beneath that shining exterior."
And I didn't, he thought but didn't say.
The baby made a soft sound, tiny fingers grasping at air. Delia's arms tightened around the bundle.
"Why not take him to Oak?" Lance demanded, gesturing sharply. "That old man has made quite the habit of collecting strays and molding them into prodigies. Not to mention his fondness for you and your little colorful band of 'gifted' individuals."
Delia looked away, her profile sharp against the storm-dark sky. "Samuel... he's been through enough already. Blue's disappearance nearly destroyed him."
"Disappearance," Lance snorted. "Is that what we're calling it now?" His eyes narrowed. "Yet you'd lay this burden at my feet without hesitation?"
"Because you're stronger than you know," Delia said quietly, eyes never leaving his. "Oak is a good man, a brilliant man, but he lacks what you possess."
"And what might that be?"
"The will to do what's necessary, no matter the cost."
The words hung between them, weighted and dangerous. Outside, the storm seemed to pause, the world holding its breath.
"You mean I'm ruthless enough to kill the child if needed," Lance said flatly.
Delia's silence was answer enough.
Lance turned away, hands clenched at his sides. "I should have you thrown from this tower for even suggesting it."
"But you won't."
"No," he agreed, voice hollow. "I won't."
He moved to the window, watching lightning fork across the sky, illuminating the city below. Each flash revealed more of Blackthorn- its winding streets, its stepped architecture carved from the living rock, weathered inhabitants slumbering within, generations of who had endured a thousand years of hardship in exchange for the privilege of dragon's blood in their veins.
"He has your coloring," Lance observed, glancing back at the dark-haired child. "It will raise questions."
"Say he's a distant cousin's orphan," Delia suggested. "Or a child from the outer clans. The Wataru line is vast enough that few would question it."
"They will whisper regardless. A dark-haired child, sponsored by the Drake himself? The elders are not fools, Delia."
"Let them whisper. Words break no bones."
Lance turned, studying her with eyes the color of the storm clouds above. "You've hardened since I saw you last."
A flicker of something- pain, perhaps, or regret, crossed Delia's face. "We all do what we must to survive."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the storm's fury and the soft sounds of the child. Finally, Lance sighed, a sound of deep resignation.
"What is his name?" he asked.
"I haven't given him one."
Lance's brow rose. "Three months old at least, and nameless still?"
"I thought it best to let you choose," Delia said softly.
Understanding dawned in Lance's eyes. "You never intended to keep him. Not from the moment he was born."
Delia's composure finally cracked, tears spilling down cheeks already wet with rain. "How could I? Every day his eyes grow brighter. Red's enemies are everywhere, and even he-" She swallowed hard. "Even his father would not welcome the child. The boy would be a tool at best. A threat to be eliminated at worst."
"And he won't be that here?" Lance challenged. "The Wataru have raised weapons for a thousand years, Delia. We call them dragon trainers, but the principle remains."
"Here, he'll at least have walls between him and those who would use him," she said, desperation etched in every line of her face. "You can give him what I cannot: a future that is his own to shape."
Lance stared at her for a long moment, searching her face for... what? Deception? Weakness? Even he couldn't say. Finally, he reached out, taking the child from her arms with hands more accustomed to commanding dragons than cradling infants.
The boy was lighter than expected, yet somehow the weight of him seemed to press down on Lance's chest like stone. The infant peered up at him, those unnatural green eyes curious rather than fearful. A tiny hand reached up, grasping at the gold clasp of Lance's cape with surprising strength.
Something twisted in Lance's chest-not quite tenderness, but perhaps its distant cousin. The recognition of something valuable. Something worth preserving.
"Damn you, Delia," Lance whispered at last, the words barely audible. "Damn you for this."
He looked down at the child again "I'll take the boy," he said, voice heavy with resignation. "Not as my own, but I'll have him raised here, as a Wataru, same as any child of the clan."
His eyes hardened as they met Delia's. "But understand me clearly-this is the last time. Find Red. Ensure he never sets foot in Kanto or Johto again. My mercy has limits, Delia, and you've exhausted nearly all of them."
"And the gift?"
Lance's jaw tightened. "I'll watch for signs. Do what I must if it manifests. The old ways still have merit, whatever Oak and his ilk might believe."
Delia nodded, relief washing over her features. "Thank you, Lance. I know I've no right to ask this of you, but-"
"You don't," he interrupted, voice sharp. "And this is the last time, Delia. Find Red. End whatever madness he's begun. But do not darken my door again."
Pain flashed across her face, but she nodded, accepting the terms. She stepped forward, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead, fingers lingering on dark hair that matched her own. Then, with a last anguished look at Lance, she turned and fled down the winding stairs, footsteps fading into the storm's fury.
Lance stood motionless, holding the child awkwardly against his chest. Beyond the tower, the tempest raged on, dragons' keening cries echoing the turmoil in his heart. The babe stared up at him, unnaturally silent, those green eyes holding him with an intensity no infant should possess.
The storm howled its answer, meaningless and eternal.
Lance turned from the window, the child cradled against his chest, and descended the winding stair. With each step, the weight of his decision settled more firmly upon his shoulders, another burden to bear among many.
A child without a name. A gift without a price.
-Within the northernmost tower of Blackthorn, Elder Yarl's study stood defiant against nature's assault. The only sounds within were the hiss and pop of burning cedar in the hearth and the scratching of quill against parchment-the sound of history being recorded by hands that had performed this ritual for longer than most men lived.
Yarl's fingers were gnarled as old roots, skin stretched thin over knuckles that had swollen with each passing decade. Still, they moved with precision as he completed the final flourish on the scroll, a family history that would outlive its subjects. He blew gently across the ink before rolling the parchment with practiced care.
His joints cracked like kindling as he rose from his chair, a symphony of protest that had become so familiar he barely noticed it anymore. The pain was an old companion, one that reminded him he was still alive when so many others he remembered were not.
The shelves that dominated the eastern wall rose from floor to ceiling, a testament to obsession disguised as duty. Hundreds of scrolls nestled in the alcoves, each one a fragment of Wataru history, each one dutifully recorded by his hand. Dragons carved in relief wound through the framework, their wooden eyes watching, always watching.
As he slotted the newest record into its place, the firelight caught the silver of his beard. Deep lines mapped, some carved by laughter, others by the weight of things better left unsaid.
"Another family line preserved for posterity," he murmured to the room's only other occupant. "Though what posterity will make of our history, I hesitate to guess."
Before the hearth, coiled like a living sapphire, his oldest companion stirred. The Dragonair's scales shimmered as it raised its elegant head, each movement fluid as water over stone. The gem beneath its chin caught the firelight, scattering fragments of crimson and gold across the tapestry-laden walls. Its eyes, ancient and knowing, fixed upon Yarl's face.
A smile softened the old man's weathered features. "Yes, I know. Time for these tired bones to seek their rest." He reached for the iron poker, stirring the embers. "Strange, isn't it? The older I grow, the less sleep I need, yet the more my body craves it."
The Dragonair made a soft sound, somewhere between a purr and a hum. Understanding passed between them, the product of decades spent in each other's company when words had long since become superfluous.
Their communion shattered beneath a fist hammering against oak. Three sharp raps, imperious and demanding- a knock that expected obedience, not invitation.
The Dragonair's body tensed, feathered ears flattening against its skull. A low hiss escaped it, gem pulsing with sudden intensity.
"Peace, old friend," Yarl murmured, though his own spine had straightened, years falling away from his bearing in an instant. "Few would dare disturb us at this hour without cause."
Before he could reach the heavy door, it burst open with enough force to rattle the nearest scrolls in their alcoves. Framed in the doorway stood Lance, the crimson of his cape vibrant against the dark stone corridor beyond. Water dripped from his sodden hair, yet somehow he appeared untouched by the storm's fury, as though mere weather knew better than to truly inconvenience him.
Cradled awkwardly in his arms was a small bundle, held with the care of one unused to such burdens.
Yarl's eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline,a soft chuckle escaping him. "A child, Lance? I'd thought I would dance with death himself before witnessing such a day."
"It's not mine," Lance snapped, striding into the room as though it belonged to him-as he did everything. He paced the length of the study, cape shedding droplets that hissed as they struck the heated stones near the hearth.
"And you may yet see that dance sooner than you think, old man, if you continue to find humor where none exists."
"Mind your tongue, boy. I practically pulled you squalling from your mother's womb and taught you when to bare your fangs and when to sheathe them." His voice had dropped an octave, gaining the weight of command that even Lance could not entirely ignore. "Now, what calamity brings you to my door at this ungodly hour, babe in arms?"
Lance ceased his pacing, turning to face Yarl with an expression carved from winter stone. "This child... it bears the gift."
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet despite the roaring fire.
"You're certain?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"See for yourself," Lance replied, adjusting his grip on the bundle, tilting it toward the firelight.
Yarl moved closer, fingers reaching reflexively for the spectacles that hung from a chain around his neck. The child slumbered peacefully, a thatch of dark hair crowning its head. Unremarkable, a simple child.
As if sensing their scrutiny, the infant's eyes fluttered open. Beneath delicate lids, irises the color of spring leaves pulsed with an internal light- gentle as a heartbeat, visible only to those who knew exactly what to look for.
"Preserve us," Yarl breathed, the words a prayer and a curse combined. He straightened, joints forgotten. "Why does it still draw breath, Lance? You know our laws, our duty-"
"It's the child of... a friend," Lance ground out, something raw in his voice that caught Yarl's attention more than his words.
Understanding dawned like a winter sunrise, cold and revealing. "Ah. I see. The mother..."
"Lives," Lance confirmed, his mouth a thin line. "Though perhaps it would be kinder if she didn't."
Yarl's gaze sharpened, years of reading between Lance's carefully constructed lines serving him well.
"And now you seek to protect it," Yarl continued. "Here, in the heart of Blackthorn. Where the old ways are still remembered, where such... abominations have historically met swift ends."
"Where else?" Lance demanded, an edge of desperation bleeding through composure. "You know as well as I do that nowhere else in Kanto or Johto would be better equipped."
"So now it's a threat to be contained," Yarl observed, reaching for a crystal decanter on a side table. He poured amber liquid into two glasses, offering one to Lance with a steady hand. "Not a child to be protected. Interesting how quickly our perspectives shift when convenient."
Lance accepted the glass but didn't drink. "It can be both."
Yarl took a long swallow of his own drink, savoring the burn. "The gift is a heavy burden, Lance. It has brought nothing but sorrow to those it touches." His eyes grew distant. "You weren't there for the last one. Took several of our finest to subdue, burnt half of Azelea to the ground, the town never did recover. The screams..." He shuddered. "They still find bones, sometimes."
"Not always," Lance insisted, something almost like desperation creeping into his voice. "There are stories, legends of those who mastered the gift-"
"Legends oft-repeated, yet unproven," Yarl countered, his tone gentler than his words deserved. "Comforting lies we tell ourselves to forget the rivers of blood spilled. Tell me, Lance, when did you become so willing to gamble with the lives of your clan? Was it when they placed that cape upon your shoulders? Or when they started calling you Champion instead of Drake?"
Lance's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath skin pulled taut over fine-boned features. The same muscle that had betrayed his father's rage, Yarl noted. Some things bred true, generation after generation.
"What would you have me do?" Lance asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Cast it from the cliffs? Leave it to the mercy of the wilds? Perhaps smother it in its sleep?" He shifted the bundle in his arms, revealing more of the child's face. "I gave my word, Elder. A Wataru's word."
"Ah, and there it is." Yarl drained his glass, setting it down with a sharp click against the wooden table. "Honor. Always a convenient shield when logic fails us."
The room fell silent save for the crackling of the fire and the soft cooing of the infant. Yarl studied Lance's face, seeing beneath the mask of the Champion to the boy he had once taught to commune with the notoriously particular Dratini-line. He recognized the stubborn set of that jaw, the determination in those storm-grey eyes.
Like all Drakes before him, Yarl thought. Brilliant, powerful, and utterly incapable of seeing past his own convictions. Though, no other Drake had loyalty of three Dragonites. Nor had they claimed the helm of Champion over both Kanto and Johto.
"You've already decided, haven't you?" Yarl asked, resignation settling in his bones. "You don't seek my counsel. You seek my compliance."
Lance's gaze didn't waver. "I seek your wisdom, Elder. As I always have."
"Flatterer." Yarl snorted, but the barb had lost its edge. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic, my boy. Very well." He sighed heavily, suddenly feeling every one of his many years. "The Wataru will raise the child as one of our own. Perhaps, surrounded by our ways, guided by our wisdom, the gift can be... tempered."
Relief flashed across Lance's face, quickly suppressed. "Thank you, Elder. I swear, I will-
Yarl held up a gnarled hand. "The child will be my charge, Lance. You have responsibilities enough as Champion. The League fragments more with each passing day. The Gym Leaders grow restless. Whispers of rebellion reach even these old ears." His eyes narrowed. "Your place is in Indigo, maintaining what order remains, not playing nursemaid to a potential catastrophe."
Lance's brow furrowed. "You're sure? Your age-"
"Is precisely why I am suited for this task," Yarl cut in, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I have watched three generations of your line grow from squalling babes to mighty dragon tamers. I have buried two Drakes and might bury you as well, if the League's decay continues unchecked." His voice softened. "Besides, perhaps an old man's patience is what this child needs most."
Lance hesitated, then carefully transferred the bundle to Yarl's waiting arms. The weight of it seemed to settle not just in his muscles, but somewhere deeper, as if he'd taken on a burden far greater than mere flesh and bone.
"She didn't give it a name."
He gazed down at the child, its eyes now closed in peaceful slumber, oblivious to the weight of expectation already settling upon its tiny shoulders. "Well then, little one. Let's find you a proper Wataru name, shall we?"
Lance nodded, draining his untouched glass in a single swallow. "I should return to Indigo. Questions will arise if I'm gone too long."
"Go then," Yarl said, not looking up from the child. "Do your duty, Champion. I shall do mine."
Lance paused at the door, looking back at the old man and the infant cradled in his arms. Something like regret ghosted across his features. "Yarl... if the gift manifests beyond control-"
"I know what must be done," Yarl said quietly. "I was ending threats to our clan while your father was still wetting his bed. Some duties aren't recorded in the scrolls, but they are remembered all the same."
Lance nodded once, sharply, and was gone, the door closing behind him with finality.
Hours later, after the storm had spent its fury and the first pale fingers of dawn stretched across the eastern sky, Yarl sat before the dying embers of the fire. The child nestled safely in Dragonair's protective coils, the great serpent crooning a soft lullaby that resonated in the chamber like distant wind chimes.
"You know," Yarl mused, swirling amber liquid in a fresh tumbler, "I'm half of a mind to end this here and now. Save us all a world of trouble." But there was no real threat in his voice, only weary resignation tinged with something that might have been curiosity.
Dragonair's head snapped up, eyes flashing dangerously. It curled tighter around the babe, a warning hiss escaping its elegant throat.
Yarl chuckled, the sound dry as autumn leaves. "Peace, old friend. I'm not so far gone as that. Not yet." He sighed, gazing into the depths of his glass as if seeking answers in its amber universe. "Though perhaps I should be."
The Dragonair made a soft sound, something between a purr and a question.
"Yes, yes," Yarl conceded. "This one is different. They're always different, until suddenly they're not." He drained his glass, setting it down with a sharp click. "I suppose if you're to be the child's protector, you should have some say in his name."
The dragon's eyes lit up at this. Unwinding part of its sinuous body from around the infant, its tail hovered near the fireplace. Yarl raised an eyebrow.
"Fire?" he guessed, knowing full well what game they played. The Dragonair shook its head, gesturing lower. "Embers, then? Blaze?"
The guessing continued, Yarl growing increasingly exasperated, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Finally, with precision, Dragonair plunged its tail directly into the ashes at the base of the hearth. When it withdrew, the bulbous tip was coated in soft, grey powder.
"Ash?" Yarl breathed, understanding dawning along with memory.
Dragonair nodded, its gem pulsing with soft blue light.
"Of course," Yarl murmured, something between irony and fate settling in his old bones. "How fitting."
He rose, joints protesting, and moved to kneel beside the dragon and its charge. One gnarled finger traced the contour of the child's cheek, feeling warmth and life.
"Well then, little Ash Wataru," he whispered.
In the hearth, a single ember flared to brilliant life, casting dancing shadows across the slumbering child's face.
Yarl shivered, despite the warmth of the room. In his too-long life, he had learned to recognize omens when they presented themselves.
The great hall of the Wataru clan rang with celebratory clamor, though celebration was the veneer over ritual as old and unforgiving as the mountains themselves. Blackthorn's stone-walled feasting chamber swallowed sound greedily, yet still the noise rebounded from the vaulted ceiling where faded murals of dragon riders kept eternal watch. The scenes depicted glory, naturally.
No clan immortalized its failures in paint and gilt. Though Blackthorn had very few failures, admittedly.
Men and women crowded the scarred oak tables, firelight dancing across their copper-bright heads like flame on burnished metal. Blackthorn was a city of redheads, and nowhere was this more evident than at a gathering of the Wataru clan. They laughed too loudly, drank too deeply, and watched one another through eyes that missed nothing.
At the head table, upon a carved chair who's back depicted twined dragons in eternal struggle, sat Clair, Lady of Blackthorn, sister to the rarely-present Champion Lance. Her relaxed posture was as carefully constructed as her severe blue hair-a deliberate rejection of the clan's traditional red. Another way to distinguish herself from her mythic brother, though she would cut out her tongue before admitting it.
Her narrowed eyes surveyed the hall, cataloging loyalties and weakness with each sweep. On either side, clan elders picked at their food with gnarled fingers, their lined faces caught between joy and trepidation. They knew, as Clair did, that this night was about more than mere feasting.
They grow fewer every year, she thought, noting the gaps at the tables where old bloodlines had withered or chosen the easier paths of the southern cities. Like water wearing down stone, the outside world erodes us, bit by bit.
Rising to her feet with fluid grace, Clair raised a hand. Silence fell across the hall with practiced immediacy. Not one Wataru would risk her displeasure, not on this of all nights.
"The time of Selection is upon us," she proclaimed, her voice sharp enough to cut. "Tomorrow, our most promising youth venture beyond our sacred valleys, to prove their worth in the crucible of the wider world."
She swept her gaze across the hall, allowing the weight of history to press down upon all present. Dragons roared in the distance, as if on cue-her own beasts, trained to reinforce her words with their primal power.
"They go to uphold the ancient ways of the Wataru, to demonstrate that the blood of dragons runs as strong in our veins now as it did in the days when our ancestors first tamed the great wyrms of the peaks." She paused, letting the import sink into bones and marrow. "But hear me well."
Her voice dropped, forcing them to lean forward, to strain to catch her words. A trick her brother had taught her, long ago. Make them work to hear the threat, and it burrows deeper.
"Those who pass through the Dragon Gate must remember where their true loyalties lie. The world beyond grows indolent and soft, seduced by empty promises of progress and modernity."
Her gaze cut pointedly to the vacant seat at her side-the Drake's chair, empty yet again. "Some, even within our noble ranks, feel the lure of that siren song."
A restive murmur swept through the crowd, stifled quickly by the steel in Clair's glare. The clan well knew of whom she spoke.
And worse, she thought bitterly, eyes falling on a dark-haired boy seated at the furthest table, visibly separate from his agemates despite physical proximity. Who brought that foreign blood into our midst and expected us to call it Wataru.
"To any who may forget themselves," she pressed on, voice thrumming with conviction that wasn't entirely feigned, "heed this warning. Remember your heritage always. The blood of dragons is both gift and burden. It is carved into the very foundations of these peaks. Hold fast to this, and no trial will overcome you."
Clair thrust her goblet high, silver rim catching firelight like a blade's edge. "And so, in keeping with traditions as old as the stones, let the Selection commence!"
The hall erupted in a thunderous roar of approval. Fists pounded on tables, feet stomped in rhythmic fervor. Yet beneath the cacophony, Clair noted those who merely went through the motions. Those whose hearts strayed to the lands beyond the mountains, whose hearts had already half-departed.
Dawn painted the valley of Blackthorn with grudging light. Dew shimmered on sparse vegetation, plants stunted and pale like prisoners denied proper sunlight. Though few rays pierced the heavy clouds gathering above the jagged peaks, those that did transformed the cascading waterfalls into ribbons of liquid silver.
These ancient pathways, carved by dragons in the First Days, channeled the spring melt from summit to valley. There was harsh beauty in the stark landscape, though beauty that came with bared teeth.
The preternatural silence was what struck outsiders most forcefully. Where one expected the chirps and chatter of wild Pokemon, only the whisper of mountain wind prevailed. The creatures had learned, through blood and fear passed down through countless generations, to keep their distance from the greatest bastion of Dragon types on the continent.
That oppressive quiet made the soft thudding of footfalls and labored breathing all the more conspicuous as it echoed across the vale. Two dozen youths, balanced on the knife-edge between childhood and something harder, ran at a measured pace. Each stride took the redheaded Wataru children closer to the towering Dragon Gate in the distance, the ancient stone arch that marked the boundary between Blackthorn and the wider world.
All but one shared the clan's signature scarlet hair and tall, lanky build-living testaments to bloodlines kept pure through centuries of careful marriage alliances.
The sole outlier, a slight boy with a shock of unruly black hair, trailed behind his age-mates. For every long-legged stride they took, his shorter frame required two. His lungs burned. His legs had turned to lead hours ago. Yet he pushed onward, face fixed in grim determination, eyes never leaving the backs of those ahead.
Around each child's neck coiled a Dratini, the serpentine pre-evolution of Dragonite. These small creatures held the potential for unrivaled power, if only their partners could guide them there. Most gleamed with healthy blue scales, eyes bright with intelligence and trust.
The Dratini around Ash's neck was different-smaller, its blue scales tinged with an unusual silver sheen. Where the others rode with comfortable familiarity, Ash's companion wound itself too tightly, as though afraid of falling. Or perhaps afraid of him.
The children made their way into town, the cool mountain breeze drying the sweat from their skin. Unlike the rest of Kanto, which raced headlong into technological revolution, Blackthorn remained stubbornly anchored to its past. Stone buildings with timber frames lined the streets, their oak beams blackened by centuries of smoke from hearth fires and dragon breath.
Paved avenues twisted like serpents, following the natural contours of the valley rather than imposing human order upon the land. Smoke curled from stone chimneys, carrying the scents of cooking fires and smithies. The clang of metal on metal rang out, Blackthorn needed specialized equipment that no mass-produced goods could provide.
It was a place out of time, preserved like an insect in amber, beautiful in its way but fundamentally unchanged since an age when the rest of the world had been wild and untamed.
The townspeople emerged from their homes and workshops to greet the procession with boisterous enthusiasm. They clapped the young runners on the back, pressed cups of water into grateful hands, ruffled hair in congratulation for completing the pre-dawn circuit of the valley-the first of many trials that awaited them.
Each interaction carried an unspoken expectation- that these children would one day join the ranks of legends, bringing fresh glory to bloodlines stretching back to the First Days.
As Ash finally caught up to the group, chest heaving, legs trembling with exhaustion, he noted how the adults' expressions changed when their eyes fell upon him. Some frowned slightly, puzzled by his presence even after all these years. Others deliberately turned away, as if his dark hair and foreign features were an offense to their very senses.
A few, those who had known Elder Yarl longest and trusted his judgment above all others, offered Ash small nods- not the easy warmth they showed the true-blooded Wataru, but acknowledgment nonetheless.
A burly smith with forearms thick as tree trunks approached, offering a wooden cup. "You'll need your strength, lad," the man said, his voice low so others wouldn't hear the kindness. "The Ice Path shows no mercy, true-blood or no."
Ash accepted the water with a grateful nod, downing it in desperate gulps. "Thank you, Master Horen."
The smith's eyes crinkled slightly. "You remembered my name."
"You're the only one who makes cups with dragon-scale inlay," Ash replied, handing the empty vessel back. "Elder Yarl says the details others overlook are often where true mastery hides."
A smile flashed beneath the smith's fiery beard. "Clever lad." He leaned closer, voice dropping further. "Remember that in the caves."
Before Ash could ask what he meant, Master Horen had moved on, returning to his forge where orange light spilled from the open doors like dragon fire. Ash stood alone in the square, watching his age-mates laugh and boast among themselves, a tightly-knit circle that had never included him.
High above, in a chamber carved from the mountain's stone, Elder Yarl watched the scene below with eyes that had witnessed more Selections than any living soul. His faithful Dragonair lay coiled at his feet, scales glinting like polished sapphires in the chamber's half-light.
Age had bent his once-proud frame, turned his beard from flame to ash, and stolen the strength from limbs. But age had not dulled his mind, nor the deep-set eyes that missed nothing.
"Twenty-four," he murmured to his Dragonair, who lifted her elegant head in response. "Twenty-four this year. When I was a boy, it was sixty at least."
Every year the number of young hopefuls dwindled. Every year, more Wataru chose the comforts of modern cities over the harsh traditions of the clan. How many more generations would these walls stand witness to? How many more bright-eyed youths would set forth from this valley, bound by oaths of blood and honor?
And how many would return? That was the question no one asked aloud, though it haunted every Selection like a ghost at a wedding feast.
Yarl's gaze found one boy in particular, standing slightly apart from the others. Ash, the orphan Lance had brought to Blackthorn all those years ago. A dangerous gambit, that. But the Drake's word was law, and Yarl was nothing if not loyal to clan and tradition.
Even so, doubt gnawed at him. The boy was different, marked by something beyond mere appearance. Those eyes, green as spring leaves, occasionally flickered with an inner light that Yarl pretended not to see.
The whisper of footfalls pulled him from troubled reflection. He turned to see Clair framed in the archway, resplendent in ceremonial garb of deepest blue, her face an inscrutable mask that matched his own. They were both adept at hiding their thoughts- a necessary skill for those who led.
"You fear for the boy," Clair said without preamble, moving to join Yarl at the chamber's edge. Her voice carried the sharpness of a blade unsheathed, despite, or perhaps because of, the softness of her tone.
Yarl huffed a humorless laugh. "Am I so transparent?"
The ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of Clair's mouth. "Only to those who know you well, old friend. The others still believe you're made of stone."
"If only," Yarl replied softly, gaze returning to the square below. "Stone doesn't worry. Doesn't doubt. Doesn't wake in the night wondering if choices made decades ago were the right ones."
"You speak of Lance's foundling." Not a question.
"I speak of us all," Yarl countered. "The old ways are fading, Clair. The world turns on, and still we cling to the past like drowning men to driftwood."
"The past is all we have." Clair's voice hardened, her spine straightening as if preparing for battle. "It makes us who and what we are. Would you see us become like the decadent southlands- just another faction of squabbling trainers scrabbling for hollow accolades? We are Wataru. We must be more."
Yarl sighed, knowing better than to pursue that worn path of debate. They'd trod it many times over the years. In this, she was truly her brother's opposite- Lance embraced the new world perhaps too readily, while Clair rejected it with equal fervor.
He stroked his Dragonair's gleaming scales, feeling the familiar thrum of contentment that vibrated from the creature. "I worry for Ash," he admitted, returning to her original question. "He is...different."
"Different." Clair's voice held a dagger's edge. "A gentle word for a defiling of centuries of history, some might say. Many would argue he has no place among us at all."
Yarl stilled, hand coming to rest on Dragonair's sleek neck. "You disagree with your brother's judgment in bringing the boy to us."
"It is not my place to openly question the Drake." Bitterness tinged Clair's tone. "Lance's word is law, as you so often remind me. No matter how rarely he deigns to grace us with his presence to enforce it."
Another taut silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic clank of the smithy's hammer in the distance. Clair's eyes never left the dark-haired figure below.
"Do you believe he has any hope of succeeding?" she asked finally, her voice oddly strained. "Truly?"
Yarl considered the question with the weight it deserved. The Selection's Ice Path had claimed many true-blooded Wataru over the centuries- strong, talented youths whose bones still lay frozen beneath the glacial ice, preserved as monuments to failure. It was not common, but to say it was rare would be a stretch.
The world beyond however, had claimed many more Wataru, though for different reasons entirely.
"I believe," he said slowly, "that the threads of fate often weave in ways we cannot hope to discern. The gods rarely choose as mortals expect."
Clair snorted, the sound both indelicate and oddly endearing coming from one so composed. "Pretty words, Yarl. But pretty words won't help him when he's facing down a Dragonite or traversing the Ice Path. His blood is wrong. His build is wrong. His mind is distinctly average. By all measures we value, he is destined to fail."
"And yet," Yarl murmured, "he persists. Have you noticed? Every dawn, while the others still sleep, he runs the north trail. Every night, when his agemates retire, he studies the scrolls I give him until his eyes grow heavy, then studies them again." The old man's weathered lips curved slightly. "When the true-blooded youth complain of unfairness, it is Ash who accepts the burden without question. When they boast of natural talent, it is Ash who works twice as hard to achieve half the result."
"Determination cannot replace breeding," Clair insisted, though less forcefully than before.
"Perhaps not," Yarl conceded.
They lapsed into pensive silence, watching as below, Ash finally caught up to his peers. Though clearly exhausted, he joined the line forming before the clan's elders, spine straight, head high, refusing to show weakness even to those who expected nothing less.
Clair shifted, her ceremonial armor creaking softly. "I must go. The elders await my blessing before they lead the final preparations."
Yarl nodded, not looking away from the scene below. "A word of advice, if an old man may be so bold?"
She paused, waiting.
"Do not underestimate what fear of failure can drive a person to achieve," he said, "Especially one who has tasted nothing but its bitter fruit. I think you know this feeling well."
Clair studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "I'll consider your words," she said finally. "Though I maintain that some failures are written in blood long before they manifest in deed."
As she turned to leave, Yarl called after her softly. "One more thing, Lady Clair."
She glanced back, one eyebrow arched.
"Your brother may be absent in body, but his shadow looms large over this Selection. Remember that the boy carries Lance's sponsorship…" He let the implication hang in the air between them.
Something dangerous flashed in Clair's eyes. "You think I would sabotage the trials? Dishonor myself and my position for the sake of a grudge?"
"I think," Yarl replied evenly, "that you are a Wataru."
For a moment, it seemed Clair might lash out, her body tensing like a drawn bow. Then, with visible effort, she relaxed.
"The trials need no sabotage, old friend. They will do what they have always done- separate the worthy from the weak." She inclined her head slightly. "I leave the child to his fate, whatever that may be."
As her footsteps faded down the corridor, Yarl turned his attention once more to the square below, where Ash now stood alone, the others having moved on to their final preparations.
And somewhere beyond these mountains, Lance pursued his own path, blissfully ignorant of the forces gathering around his ward.
Or perhaps not so ignorant, Yarl thought grimly. One never knows with Lance.
The unmistakable stench of burning flesh suffused the air, heavy and inescapable. Not the clean char of cooking meat, but something fouler- the stink of hair and bone and dreams rendered to smoke.
Elder Yarl, at his advanced age, had hoped to never experience such a horrific smell again. The last time, decades past, had been before the Indigo League, during the Hoenn wars, when dragon fire had cleansed the air of invaders. But this... this was different. This was home.
He stood atop the ancient Wataru fortress, carved into the mountainside high above Blackthorn, and knew with grim certainty that today would be his last. His old bones felt it, the same way they felt coming storms or the change of seasons. Some knowledge ran deeper than thought.
A warm trickle ran down his temple, blood or sweat, he couldn't tell anymore. Below him, Blackthorn City, unconquered for a thousand years, lay broken. The sturdy wooden buildings, symbols of tradition and permanence, blackened and twisted, consumed by flames that shouldn't exist in nature. Not red or orange, but blue, an unholy sapphire that leapt from structure to structure with unnatural hunger.
Most disturbing of all was the silence. No screams, no clash of battle, no sounds of the Dragonair or their trainers tasked with protecting the city. Just the soft, almost delicate crackle of flames devouring centuries of history. The silence of the aftermath, of the fight already lost. The silence of a graveyard.
"Spare me your contemplative mourning, Elder." The voice behind him was clinical. Almost bored. "It doesn't suit either of us."
Yarl didn't turn immediately. Let the bastard wait. These might be his final moments, but he'd be damned if he'd scurry to attention like some Academy novice.
"A thousand years," Yarl murmured, his voice like stones grinding together. "Thirty generations of Wataru have held these walls against armies, against Champions, against the fury of entire regions. Yet here we stand."
"Progress is rarely comfortable for those who cling to tradition."
Now Yarl turned, joints creaking in protest. At his feet lay the twisted corpse of his Dragonair, her elegant body broken in ways that defied the natural order. The jewel at her throat- once vibrant as a summer sky- lay dull as a spent coal. She had been with him since before Lance was born. Before Clair took her first steps. Before the world outside their valley began its inexorable crawl toward what they called modernization.
The attacker paced the battlement like a caged predator, his features obscured. All save his eyes, which met Yarl's with a disturbing indifference- not the hot rage of hatred, nor the cold calculation of strategic violence, but something worse. As if the razing of an entire city was a trivial inconvenience, a task to be completed before moving on to matters of actual importance.
"I will ask you once more, Elder," the man said, his tone almost conversational. "Where is the child?"
Yarl felt a laugh build in his chest, bitter. "Which child? You've likely killed dozens today."
A flicker of annoyance crossed what little was visible of the man's face. "Don't insult us both with obfuscation. I know he was in your care."
"Was he?" Yarl reached up to touch the wound at his temple, fingers coming away crimson. "My memory fails me in my dotage. Perhaps you should have asked before burning my city to ash."
The attacker moved with startling swiftness, closing the distance between them in two smooth strides. He was tall, taller than most men of Kanto or Johto, and moved with a grace that belied his size.
"I have questioned seventeen dragon trainers before you, Elder," the man said softly. "Each one exceptionally loyal. Each one exceptionally dead. Your clan's dedication would be admirable if it weren't so tiresome."
Yarl's gaze drifted to the pendant hanging at the man's throat. It pulsed with an unnatural light, the same sapphire blue as the flames consuming the city. Not a decoration, but something functional. Something dangerous.
"I have lived long enough to recognize futility when it stands before me," Yarl said, voice raw from smoke. "Kill me and be done with it. I will not betray my people."
"Look around you, Elder. Your people are ash and memory. Blackthorn has fallen. The Wataru are broken."
Yarl's face remained impassive, though his heart hammered against his ribs.
"I have no particular desire to kill you," the attacker continued, studying Yarl with something akin to scientific curiosity. "In fact, I rather admire your resilience. The boy, the one Lance brought here years ago. Where has he hidden him?"
So it had come to this, after all. Lance's gambit, his desperate attempt to shield the boy from whatever dark purpose pursued him, had only brought destruction to them all.
"You speak as if Lance controls the tide," Yarl said. "As if he commands the seasons. Even Champions have their limits. Even Drakes can be defied."
"Meaning?"
"The boy left Blackthorn months ago," Yarl answered, meeting the cold gaze without flinching. "He walks his own path now."
Something flashed across the attacker's features- frustration, perhaps, or disbelief.
"You expect me to believe that Lance would allow that boy to wander freely? A boy who carries…" He cut himself short, jaw tightening.
"Carries what?" Yarl pressed, a hint of his old authority surfacing. "What exactly is it that terrifies you so much about a half-grown child?"
The attacker's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Fear has nothing to do with it."
"Doesn't it?" Yarl's laugh was bitter as winter berries. "You've razed an entire city for the sake of one boy. If that's not fear, I've misunderstood the concept for ninety-seven years."
The man stepped back, composure returning like a mask sliding into place. "Where did Lance send him?"
"Lance didn't send him anywhere," Yarl replied, watching the man's reaction carefully. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. The boy left of his own accord."
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the distant crackle of flames. The attacker's eyes never left Yarl's face, searching for deception.
He shook his head slowly. "Why would Lance allow this? The risk- "
"Life is risk," Yarl cut in, "Perhaps Lance finally understood something you clearly don't."
The attacker studied him for a long, considering moment, a trace of something unfathomable in those cold eyes. "I can appreciate your loyalty," he allowed. "But your clan's penchant for noble, futile death serves little purpose. The boy will be found, with or without your cooperation."
"Then let it be without," Yarl rasped. "The Wataru will endure, even if I do not."
He stepped aside, gesturing to the rampart's edge and the fatal drop below. "So be it. I give you the dignity of choosing your own end. Better to die on one's feet than on one's knees, is that not the Wataru way?"
Yarl's thoughts turned unbidden to Ash, the child delivered into his care so long ago. Ash- a name chosen by his Dragonair in what now seemed a cruelly prophetic jest. Had the old dragon sensed even then what would come? That Blackthorn would one day be reduced to ash and cinder, all for the sake of one green-eyed boy with the wrong blood?
He thought of the child's eyes, so unnaturally bright, flickering sometimes with an inner light that Yarl had pretended not to notice. Eyes that saw too much, understood too much. He thought of the boy running the north trail at dawn while others slept, studying scrolls until his eyes grew heavy, accepting every burden without question.
What destiny had they set in motion, he and Lance?
"Before I go," Yarl said, shuffling toward the edge, each step an agony as his ancient body protested even as his end approached, "I would know one thing."
"You're hardly in a position to make demands."
"Not a demand. Call it the curiosity of a dying man." Yarl paused at the very brink, looking down at the burning city. How many lay dead among those flames? How many Dratini, Dragonair, how many children? At least some had been safely hidden- the timing of the Selection had proved a salvation. The Ice Path would keep the younger initiates concealed for days, perhaps long enough for Lance or Clair to return and find survivors, enough for their Dragonites to scour this man from the city, if he still remained.
"What does the boy carry that's worth all this death?"
The attacker was silent for so long that Yarl thought he might not answer.
"The past, Elder Yarl. He carries the past."
Yarl nodded, not understanding, nor pretending to. He was tired, he was old- and everything he had worked for was burning in front of him.
Drawing himself up to his full height- a gesture from younger days, when his spine had been straight and his steps sure- the Elder stepped into empty air. The sensation of falling was almost peaceful after the chaos and horror. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he plummeted, robes billowing in his wake, framed against the shrouded sun and the flurries of falling ash.
One last thought seared across his mind, a mantra, old as the Wataru themselves:
Neither reckless nor timid.
The wet crunch of shattering bone rang through the valley a heartbeat later, one final cry of defiance broken against the unyielding stone.
The attacker lingered a moment longer, staring down at Yarl's broken body far below. The burning city beyond. The fortress that still stood, carved into the mountain itself.
"A pity," he murmured, fingering the pulsing blue pendant at his throat.
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Blackthorn to burn behind him.
The pathway north to Viridian City stretched before Professor Samuel Oak like an unfinished sentence- a pale scar cutting through wild land.
Dozens of Machop and Machoke grunted in the summer heat, blue-gray muscles bunching as they tore through ancient tree roots and shattered stone. Oak watched them with a calculation that belied his genial exterior. Fighting types made for excellent laborers- their endless hunger for physical challenge could be harnessed like water through a mill wheel if you understood their motivations.
Oak understood their motivations better than most.
"Another hour," he muttered to no one in particular, "and they'll need rest or they'll start breaking more than just the trees."
His own Machamp had been released years ago when he'd hung up his trainer's mantle. A necessary sacrifice. The creature would have withered under a scholar's pace, and Oak had seen enough withering for one lifetime. It was likely still out there somewhere, crushing mountains or battling worthy opponents. Some Pokemon, like some men, were built for nothing less than war.
The small folding desk he'd set up at the clearing's edge, a civilized outpost in wilderness, was scattered with research papers that demanded his attention. Work that would reshape the future of training, if the region's blind fools had vision enough to see it. His Pokedex would revolutionize how trainers related to their Pokemon, if only-
"Should've had League clearance for fire types," he grumbled, one thought interrupting the next, running fingers through hair more salt than pepper these days. "Charizard could've burnt this path clear in half a day."
But approval had been denied. Every connection leveraged, every favor called in, all met with the same efficient bureaucratic wall.
"Lance," Oak said, the name tasting of bile. The Drake of Blackthorn, current Champion, trainer of three Dragonites and master of refusing reasonable requests from those he perceived as threats.
It wasn't just politics. The man had never forgiven Oak for owning a Dragonite- one of the precious few not under Wataru control. Petty, perhaps, but Lance had never been one to separate the personal from the political. That kind of single mindedness was how men reached the pinnacle. Oak had once possessed it himself, before he'd learned what such heights truly cost.
A disturbance pricked at his awareness- something on the edge of hearing growing steadily more insistent. He cocked his head, listening past the rhythmic destruction of the fighting types, past the rustling leaves and calling pidgey.
Wing beats. Many of them, moving with purpose.
Professor Oak straightened, old reflexes awakening. His hand twitched toward Pokeballs that hadn't hung at his belt in ten years. The researcher had displaced the fighter, but not erased him. Never that.
"Indigo League," he murmured, watching as the distant specks grew larger against the cloudless sky. No other organization fielded air corps of that size over Kanto. No other would dare, not since Hoenn tried after Lance had first taken up reign. A bloody, awful time that had been.
As the contingent began their descent some distance away, one particular silhouette caught his eye- the unmistakable, massive form of a Dragonite that could only belong to one man. Its scales caught the afternoon sun like copper, a beacon announcing power far more effectively than any banner.
Oak's jaw tightened. The League made house calls for exactly two reasons- when they wanted something, or when someone had displeased them enough to warrant personal attention.
He watched Lance dismount, the Champion's crimson cape rippling in the wind like spilled blood.
"Speak of the devil," Oak said, straightening his lab coat and squaring his shoulders. Fifteen years of peace was a good run, all told. Now it seemed the past had come calling.
A/N: If you read this previously, you will probably realize this has been rewritten, though much of the contents remain similar, some important stuff has been altered, and improved- and split into two chapters rather than a monolithic 30000 words!
Let me know what you think!