Prologue
The Forgotten Name
Nestled within a dense thicket of towering mushrooms, the temple rose from the forest floor like a forgotten monument. Fungi the size of trees leaned inward, their broad caps beaded with morning dew that shimmered in the soft light. Vines draped lazily over curved stone archways, and a faint bioluminescence pulsed beneath the canopy — cool, quiet, and alive with secrets.
The temple clung to the edge of a jagged cliff, where the land fell away into a wide, meandering river below. Its waters shimmered gold in the early light, catching the sun's glow and reflecting it like molten amber. From the banks, mist curled upward in slow, spiraling tendrils, drifting lazily around the cliff's base like breath from the earth itself.
It was a place both ancient and alive — where silence didn't rest, but listened. Watched. As if the stones themselves remembered. From the temple's moss-softened edge, the world beyond stretched out vast and endless, veiled in morning mist.
Just beyond the stillness of the temple, on a moss-lined balcony jutting out toward the misty forest, a small figure sat alone. His tail curled tightly around his paws, wings twitching now and then against the morning breeze. Pale scales gleamed softly in the golden light, and bright, curious eyes tracked the slow drift of the river far below, tracing its winding path through the jungle canopy.
Somewhere beyond the trees, frogweeds croaked and insects buzzed, their songs echoing faintly upward. But up here, perched on ancient stone above it all, the world felt quiet. Still. Like the sky was holding its breath.
From a distance, he was just another piece of the landscape — a quiet silhouette among moss and stone. But up close, the restless energy in his small frame betrayed the stillness around him.
There was a hush to the world around him, but not within.
Wings twitched. His claws tapped in rhythm. Stillness didn't come easy.
His claws tapped restlessly against the stone as he glanced over his shoulder. The temple behind him lay in silence, still cloaked in sleep — but he knew his mother was awake. He could feel it, just as he always could. She had entered the Pool of Visions before dawn, accompanied by the Guardians, the heavy stone doors sealing shut behind them with a deep, echoing thud. He wasn't allowed inside. Not yet.
He wasn't allowed in the sacred chamber. Too young, they said. Too wild. Not that he ever meant to cause trouble — he just had more energy than most dragons knew what to do with. His wind magic often sparked to life without warning, sending scrolls fluttering or stirring gusts through the temple halls when his excitement got the better of him. But his mother never scolded him. She always smiled, always brushed the air with her wings and told him he was meant for something more — something special.
He looked down at the forest again, then toward the sky — warm and glowing beyond the canopy's edge.
"I'm gonna see it all someday," he whispered, the words carrying a soft, steady promise.
"Me and my sister—we'll fly past all of it."
Turning away, he padded back inside.
The great stone halls of the temple were quiet, save for the soft drip of water echoing from moss-covered arches and the faint whisper of claws against smooth stone.
The air was cool and earthy, thick with the scent of damp rock and the faint glow of fungi clinging to the walls.
He moved beneath towering columns, small beneath their shadowed grandeur—
—just as the doors to the Pool of Visions slid open with a deep, echoing groan.
Out stepped the four Guardians, their presence rolling into the corridor like distant thunder — vast, unignorable, and heavy with purpose.
Terrador led, his massive green frame making the very stones tremble beneath his feet. His expression was set in granite — eyes narrowed, jaw firm, lost in some deep, silent thought. Cyril followed with regal precision, his head held high and tail flicking with quiet disdain, as though the air itself offended him. Volteer came next, a blur of motion and sound, words tumbling from his mouth in a torrent: something about energy signatures, magical interference, and "portents most troubling." Ignitus brought up the rear, his steps slow, deliberate. Though his posture remained tall, there was a weight in his wings — a weariness — as if each step pulled him further from peace.
None of them noticed the small figure standing in the shadows as they passed, their voices hushed but urgent, threading through fragments of prophecy and concern. They moved with purpose, their steps echoing like distant thunder until the sound faded down another corridor, swallowed by the stone.
Then came Aurora.
She stepped out last, her presence like a breeze before a storm — quiet, elegant, impossible to ignore. White scales shimmered faintly in the low light, their luster softened by the pale blue of her underbelly. Her frame was long and slender, built not for strength, but for speed — every line of her body designed to glide effortlessly through sky and wind. Wide, graceful wings folded close against her sides, their edges catching the faintest glimmer of the temple's glow.
Two smooth horns curved gently back from her head, framing a face both serene and strong. Her emerald eyes, usually calm and steady with warmth, held something else now — a flicker of pain, of worry just beneath the surface. And though her smile lingered like a shield, behind it roiled a thousand quiet storms.
At her back, her tail shifted slightly, the fan-like frills at its end twitching with tension, delicate yet ready — a part of her as beautiful and dangerous as the wind she wielded.
A small voice echoed down the hall.
"Mom!" the young dragon called, his chest lifting with hope as he stood straighter at the sight of her.
Aurora turned at the sound. For a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered in her gaze — distant, stormy — but it vanished the moment she saw him. Her smile bloomed like sunlight through cloud cover, soft and radiant.
"You're up early again," she said gently, stepping toward him with the grace of wind over water. Her white scales caught the lantern glow like fresh snow under starlight, and the pale blue of her underbelly shifted like silk. The soft fronds trailing from her horns fluttered slightly, stirred by the faint breeze that always seemed to follow him.
"I wanted to see the river before the sun got too high," he said, puffing up with pride. Then, after a pause, his voice softened. "And… maybe I was hoping you'd come out."
Aurora chuckled gently, the sound like wind rustling soft leaves. She dipped her head to nuzzle his cheek, her touch warm and grounding.
"Always so curious," she said with affection. "But remember what we talked about, little wind."
Deimos's ears drooped as he recited the familiar lesson. "Don't get too excited. Be mindful of my magic."
"Exactly," Aurora said with a soft smile, giving his frills a playful tug with her wing. "The temple doesn't need another hallway redecorated by one of your surprise breezes."
He gave her a sheepish grin, wings twitching just slightly.
After a pause, Aurora tilted her head. "Why don't you go visit your sister's egg?" she said gently. "She's been quiet today… Maybe she's listening. Maybe she's waiting to hear your voice."
Deimos's eyes lit up. "Do you think she can hear me?"
Aurora hesitated—just for a breath—but in that pause, something unspoken passed between them. Then she smiled and nodded.
"I think she always could."
Aurora's smile lingered only as long as her son's eyes were on her. The moment he turned away, padding off down the temple's winding halls, her expression shifted—quiet pride giving way to a flicker of worry, the kind that lived deep and silent in a mother's heart.
The young dragon moved through the stillness with care, the chill of early morning still clinging to the stone beneath his paws. His wings stayed tucked in, his steps light—partly out of reverence for the ancient temple, partly so he wouldn't disturb the dragons still lost in sleep.
The path to the egg chamber was familiar, but it still felt sacred—like stepping through the breath of the world itself. When he reached the circular doorway, it parted with a faint hiss, revealing the room beyond.
The hatchery formed a perfect circle, its high ceiling shaped into an open dome that welcomed beams of morning light through panes of stained crystal. The air inside was warm and still, thick with the scent of moss, damp stone, and something older—something sacred. Crystal lanterns lined the walls, their glow soft and ever-changing, casting gentle hues of blue and green across the room like the breath of the forest. The light pooled quietly in the hollows where the nests lay, wrapping each one in a calm, ethereal hush.
Nestled in shallow alcoves around the room lay several eggs, each carefully cradled in moss and wrapped in woven silks. But two stood apart from the rest.
Directly across from the entrance rose a pedestal of white marble, its surface etched with the ancient runes of the ancestors—weathered, but still glowing faintly with old magic. Atop it rested a single egg, larger than the others, its shell a deep royal purple threaded with faint veins of gold that shimmered like starlight beneath the surface. It pulsed softly, like the rhythm of a sleeping heartbeat.
Even one so young could feel the quiet power radiating from it. It wasn't just important—this egg was sacred. Everyone in the temple knew it.
But his eyes didn't linger long.
Instead, he padded past the pedestal, drawn not to the egg crowned by reverence, but to a smaller nest tucked along the chamber's left wall—lit by a shaft of morning light that seemed to fall just for it. Nestled in a cradle of soft moss lay a dark egg, its surface streaked with pale silver markings that curled like wind over midnight water.
His sister's egg.
He settled beside it without hesitation, his tail curling protectively around the nest. For all the power that pulsed across the room, this was the egg that held his heart.
"Hey. It's me again."
He glanced once toward the pedestal—the purple egg still a silent presence behind him—then leaned forward, voice dropping to a soft murmur, quiet and eager, full of hope.
"I've been thinking," he murmured, resting his chin gently against the edge of the nest, "about all the things we're gonna do when you hatch."
The egg didn't move—still and silent—but to him, it always felt like she was listening.
"I want to show you everything. The mushroom forest past the cliffs… the way the caps sway in the wind and make that soft whooshing sound." He smiled to himself. "And the glade near the falls, where the glowbugs come out at night. I bet you'd like that."
He smiled, fidgeting a little, his wings giving a small flutter of excitement.
"Sometimes I dream about us flying together. You and me, riding the wind way above the trees. I'll teach you how to dive and twirl and glide so quiet even the birds won't hear us coming." He leaned a little closer to the egg, lowering his voice like it was a shared secret. "By the time you hatch, I'll know how to fly for real—not just gliding down the stairs when no one's looking."
His grin widened. "And if you're scared the first time, that's okay. I'll be right there."
His voice softened, touched with something tender—almost fragile.
"Mom says it's my job to make you laugh. To keep you safe. She says being a big brother is a promise… and I think that means I'm supposed to give you everything good I've got. All my stories. Every adventure. Every little bit of joy I find—it's yours too."
He leaned in closer, his breath fogging gently against the shell.
"I can't wait for you to see the sky."
His voice faded into a hush, carried off on the still morning air.
With a soft exhale, he pressed a paw to the egg's cool surface, eyes shining with quiet affection—
—until the silence broke.
A soft clack of claws on stone echoed behind him.
He turned toward the sound, ears flicking as a tall figure stepped into the chamber.
Ignitus.
The Fire Guardian moved with the weight of someone carrying more than age. His crimson scales shimmered like embers in the filtered sunlight, casting faint glows along the floor as he entered. But his attention wasn't on the young dragon.
His eyes were locked on the pedestal.
The purple egg.
He crossed the room in silence, every step slow and deliberate, as though even the air around the sacred object demanded stillness. When he reached it, he paused—and just stared.
For a moment, the lines etched deep into his face by time and burden seemed to ease, softened by something quiet. Hope, perhaps. Or fear.
"So much rides on your future…" Ignitus murmured, his voice barely louder than a breath. "Peace. Balance. Hope."
The words had barely settled when the world trembled.
A deep, shuddering rumble cracked through the temple like a growl from the earth itself. The floor jolted beneath their paws. Dust rained down from the high dome, and the stained crystal lanterns swung violently on their hooks, scattering shards of color like broken stars.
The young dragon flinched.
Then he moved—instinctively, desperately—throwing himself over his sister's egg, his small body curling around it as best he could. His ears pinned flat. His heart pounded so loud it drowned out the rising chaos beyond the chamber walls.
Something was coming. And it was close.
The chamber doors burst open with a thunderous crash.
"Ignitus!" Volteer's voice cracked through the air like a bolt of lightning. "They're here — the Dark Armies! They've breached the outer cliffs!"
Ignitus spun around, all trace of calm vanishing from his face. "How many?"
Volteer's reply came fast, breathless. "Too many. We have to evacuate — now."
Without hesitation, Ignitus turned and gently — but urgently — lifted the purple egg from its pedestal. His powerful claws cradled it with reverence, but even he staggered slightly under its weight — not just the physical burden, but the crushing significance it carried.
In his arms lay the hopes of a dying age. The future of the Realms.
"Get the younglings to the underground tunnels," he said, voice low and grave. "I'll take the egg. I'll keep it safe."
Without hesitation, Ignitus stepped forward and lifted the purple egg from its pedestal. His claws curled around it with reverent care, but his muscles tensed beneath the burden. The egg was heavy — not just with size and strength, but with meaning. In his arms, he carried the hopes of a world on the brink.
"Get the younglings to the underground tunnels," he said, voice rough with urgency. "I'll take the egg. I'll keep it safe."
He watched as Ignitus disappeared through the chamber doors, the purple egg cradled against his chest like a fading star carried into darkness. The slam of stone as the doors sealed behind him echoed through the room like the closing of fate itself.
A knot twisted in the young dragon's chest. That egg… everyone said it was important — the key to balance, the future of the realms. But right now, all he could feel was the cold silence left in its wake.
He turned back to the smaller nest at his side. His sister's egg. Unmoved. Unchosen.
The world was ending around them, and no one was coming for her.
His jaw tightened.
"I'll protect you," he whispered, pressing his forehead gently to the shell. "Even if it's just me… I'll protect you."
As the great doors of the chamber slammed shut behind Ignitus, carrying the purple egg — and the last fragile thread of calm — with him, the young dragon turned back to his sister's nest.
His breath trembled as he crouched low, wrapping his forelegs around the egg. "Okay… okay," he whispered, more to himself than anything. "I can do this. I have to do this."
He pushed upward, wings flaring instinctively for balance as he strained against the weight. The egg shifted—just a little—grinding softly against the stone, but it was far too heavy for his small frame. His limbs trembled, claws scrabbling for traction on the smooth floor.
Gritting his teeth, he tried dragging it instead, muscles quaking with effort. The egg barely budged. Every inch felt like dragging a mountain. His heart pounded. His breath hitched. But still he didn't let go.
A distant boom shook the walls, low and guttural like the growl of a waking giant. Somewhere deeper in the temple, stone cracked — sharp and final.
Then came the laughter.
He froze.
That sound—it wasn't joyful or mocking. It was wrong. Sharp and broken, like splintered glass dragged across stone. It echoed through the hallway, distant yet piercing, twisting the silence into something cruel.
His heart pounded in his chest.
He didn't understand why, but the moment he heard it… something in him recoiled. As if every bone in his body recognized it before his mind could.
It wasn't just laughter.
It was a promise.
A warning.
He threw himself over the egg, holding it close, wings curled tightly around it.
But that sound… it kept coming. Closer. Bouncing off the walls like it was searching for something.
He would remember it for the rest of his life.
Not just with his ears.
He froze, clutching the egg tight against his chest.
The laughter came again—louder now, closer.
Then came the clash of weapons, the crack of unleashed magic, and the guttural roars of apes as battle erupted through the temple.
Flashes of colored light painted the sky through the broken windows. The floor shuddered as something massive crashed down nearby. A screeching cry—high-pitched and horrible—ripped through the air as dreadwings took flight, their shadows sweeping over the temple.
He crouched low, curling around the egg, trying to make himself bigger—trying to be the protector he had promised to be.
But he was so small. And everything around him was falling apart.
Another burst of ape laughter echoed down the corridor—closer this time.
He whimpered, clutching the egg tighter. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm not strong enough… not yet."
Outside the chamber, the sounds of battle faltered—falling into a hush, thick with the weight of something coming.
Only the low thrum of tension remained, like the whole temple was holding its breath.
Then the door burst open.
Aurora swept in, flanked by the remaining Guardians — Volteer crackling with electric tension, Cyril emanating a frozen calm, and Terrador grim and ready, his heavy steps shaking the floor. Their eyes scanned the chamber, locking onto the still-standing eggs.
Relief crashed over the small dragon like a wave, stealing the breath from his lungs. His mother was here. She had come for him.
"We need to move quickly," Cyril said, already striding toward a clutch near the far wall.
Aurora darted to her son's side, her eyes flicking from his trembling form to the egg he shielded with his body. Despite the chaos around them, her voice was low and warm, a shelter in the storm.
"You stayed with her…"
"I tried to carry it," he whispered, his voice small, eyes wide with guilt. "I couldn't—"
She pressed her forehead gently to his, wings folding around them like a shield.
"You did enough," she murmured. "More than enough, my brave boy."
"Then it came again—that laughter. Cruel, jagged, and far too close. The sound that would haunt him for years to come."
The walls trembled as a second wave of apes stormed into the chamber — weapons raised, armor clanking, war cries echoing like thunder. The guardians moved instantly. Terrador met the charge head-on, shattering the floor as he slammed into a mace-wielding brute. Cyril conjured a wall of frost mid-swing, freezing a club in midair. Volteer spun, lightning bursting from his claws in a wild arc of energy.
Aurora stepped forward, wings snapping wide, her body a barrier of wind and fury between the enemy and her children.
Aurora was the first to move. Her wings unfurled with a sharp snap, and with a single beat, a powerful gust tore through the front ranks. Apes stumbled, some knocked clean off their feet, weapons clattering as they crashed into one another.
Her wind bought the guardians precious seconds. Terrador surged forward like a living rockslide, flattening two with a single stomp, the floor cracking beneath his weight. Cyril's frost coiled like a serpent through the chaos, seizing limbs and dulling blades. Volteer, crackling with lightning, twisted through the melee with wild, arcing bursts of raw energy.
But it was Aurora's barrier of air that held the tide — a constant gale that kept the enemy from overwhelming them all at once.
That was when he arrived.
The air changed.
Not like wind. Not like weather. Like instinct — ancient and primal — suddenly screamed that something had gone terribly wrong.
From the smoke and ruin at the far end of the chamber, a massive figure emerged. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one a deep thud that rattled loose dust from the stonework above. The other apes fell back without being told, making way like prey before a predator.
His name passed between them in fearful whispers.
Gaul.
Where the purple egg had filled the room with quiet reverence, this… thing brought only dread. The young dragon's breath caught in his throat, every scale on his body seeming to pull tight. His legs wanted to run, but his body locked in place — rooted by a fear so deep it bypassed thought. His heart pounded like a trapped bird in his chest.
Gaul's armor was forged from jagged iron, blackened and brutal. His hulking form radiated power, but it was twisted — corrupted — like magic bent into something that should not exist. A single eye gleamed with unnatural light, the other replaced by a glowing green gem embedded in his skull. It pulsed with each step, casting warped shadows across the walls.
Magic clung to him like rot.
He raised a massive, chipped blade and leveled it at Aurora.
Not with rage. Not with urgency.
With purpose.
He raised a massive blade and pointed it at Aurora, his voice gravel and iron.
"Step aside."
Aurora didn't move. Her wings flared wide, cutting the air with purpose as she stepped in front of the egg—and the trembling hatchling behind it. Her eyes locked onto Gaul with fierce, unwavering defiance.
"You'll never touch them."
Gaul's lips curled into a jagged grin, his gaze drifting briefly toward the remaining egg before snapping back to her.
"We only need one."
Gaul lunged.
The stone beneath his feet cracked as he surged forward, blade raised high. Aurora met him head-on, wind exploding from her wings with a roar that sent lesser apes tumbling back. Their weapons clashed in a blinding burst of light and force—his brute strength colliding with her swift, controlled grace.
All at once, the chamber erupted into chaos.
The apes, emboldened by Gaul's charge, surged forward with renewed fury. Clubs, spears, and jagged blades filled the air. The guardians sprang into action—again.
Terrador's roar shook the walls as he slammed his forelimbs down, triggering a shockwave that crumpled the stone beneath a wave of apes, sending them flying like ragdolls. Cyril danced through the chaos, lashing out with blasts of frost, freezing weapons mid-swing and limbs mid-step, slowing the tide. Volteer's lightning crackled wildly, jumping from foe to foe in rapid succession, each strike accompanied by a sharp cry of pain and the scent of scorched fur.
But Aurora was the storm's eye.
Wind howled from her wings as she spun and twisted through Gaul's brutal swings, knocking back groups of apes each time she shifted her stance. Gusts battered their ranks, upturning armor and sending enemies sprawling.
Yet it wasn't enough.
The apes kept coming—more than before. From cracks in the temple walls, from shattered doorways, from hidden alcoves. Every time one was thrown aside, two more rushed in to take their place.
And now… Aurora couldn't help the others. She was locked in a deadly rhythm with Gaul, trading blow for blow, unable to divert even a fraction of her power elsewhere.
Deimos huddled beside the egg, eyes wide with fear as the chamber descended into a swirling vortex of violence. He could barely track the movements of the guardians now—their brilliant flashes of elemental magic slowly beginning to fade under the sheer pressure of numbers. The sounds of clashing steel and guttural roars swallowed everything else.
They were losing.
Bit by bit, ground was ceded. Cyril's blasts came slower. Terrador bled from one shoulder. Volteer's lightning faltered, his voice no longer booming but tight with strain.
And still, Aurora fought.
But even she was being pushed back now—her breath coming fast, her motions growing tighter, more desperate.
The tide was turning.
And the shadows were closing in.
Terrador fell first.
A massive ape, wielding a spiked club, blindsided him. The blow struck his shoulder, shattering armor and bone. He collapsed with a thunderous crash, his roar of pain echoing through the chamber.
Cyril turned, eyes wide. He rushed to Terrador's side, ice forming at his claws. But the apes swarmed him, their numbers overwhelming. He fought valiantly, freezing limbs and weapons, but a blow to the head sent him sprawling.
Volteer, now alone, stood his ground. Lightning arced from his body, striking down foes. But exhaustion took its toll. An ape's spear pierced his side, and he fell, electricity fading from his form.
The apes roared in triumph. They descended upon the fallen guardians, beating and brutalizing them. The chamber echoed with the sickening sounds of violence.
Aurora turned, eyes wide with horror. Her momentary distraction was all Gaul needed. He lunged, his scimitar—a curved blade designed for slashing—piercing her side. The blade tore through her, the curved edge slicing flesh and bone. She gasped, blood spilling from the wound.
The sound of the blade tearing through her rang louder than the chaos.
He saw it all.
From where he crouched, wrapped around the egg like a second shell, the young dragon watched his mother stumble, her wings flaring wide—then crumpling. She fell hard, her body skidding across the stone in a trail of blood. Her breath left her in a ragged gasp as the scimitar slid free, curved and cruel, its edge still dripping red.
"M-Mom…?"
He didn't move.
He couldn't.
His claws gripped the nest like a lifeline, body trembling violently, but he didn't budge from his spot. The egg—his sister's egg—was beneath him. Exposed. Vulnerable. If he left it, even for a second, something might happen. Someone might take it. And then she'd be gone too.
So he stayed.
Frozen.
Heart cracking.
Tears blurred his vision, but he couldn't look away. Aurora lay still, her eyes fluttering open just enough to find him. To see him.
She smiled.
Even then, even with blood pouring from her side and her wings limp at her sides—she smiled. For him.
He whimpered softly, pressing his head against the egg. "Please… don't go…"
One of her wings stirred weakly, as if trying to reach him—but it barely lifted before collapsing again, her breath fading to a whisper of wind.
Then she was gone.
Truly gone.
His whole body curled tighter around the egg, as if he could shield it from the world, from this moment, from everything.
He didn't hear the apes cheering.
He didn't hear the battle dying behind him.
The young dragon didn't move.
Couldn't move.
He clutched the egg tighter against his chest, his heart hammering so hard it hurt. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, but still he stayed where he was—shielding what little he had left.
Gaul loomed over him, casting a long shadow across the nest, the sickly glow of the gem in his socket pulsing with dark intent.
Then he turned, his voice cutting through the chamber like a blade.
"Find the purple egg," he barked. "That's the only one the Master needs."
He raised his scimitar and pointed it toward the nests.
"Smash the rest."
For a moment, the air froze.
Then chaos erupted.
The apes surged forward with glee, howling like beasts as they stormed the remaining nests. Heavy clubs and twisted blades came crashing down. Shells cracked, shattered—life ended in an instant.
The sound was unbearable.
The young dragon flinched with every strike, his small body trembling as he crouched tighter over his sister's egg. The force of destruction echoed through the floor beneath him, each vibration a blow to his soul.
He dared a glance toward the center of the room—just in time to see a pale, speckled shell explode underfoot. Yolk splattered across stone. An ape roared with laughter.
All around him, the massacre continued.
Gaul stood at the heart of it, watching without emotion, his gaze sweeping the carnage like a king surveying the battlefield.
"They're looking for the wrong egg," the young dragon thought, his breath catching in his throat. "They don't know it's already gone…"
But he said nothing.
If they realized the truth, they might look harder. Might come for this egg next.
So he stayed quiet.
Still.
A statue carved from fear and instinct.
The only movement was the rise and fall of his chest, pressed tightly against the one thing he refused to let go.
The last egg.
The only one he could protect.
Gaul turned.
His heavy gaze swept across the rubble-strewn chamber until it settled back on the small dragon, still hunched protectively over the last surviving egg. For a long moment, he just stared. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward.
The sound of his boots crunching eggshell was like bone underfoot.
He stopped just short of the nest, the flickering green of his corrupted eye reflecting off the egg's surface. One massive, clawed hand reached down.
"No," the young dragon whispered.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He moved.
With a snarl of desperation, he lunged up and sank his teeth into Gaul's wrist—hard. Blood flooded his mouth, hot and bitter. Gaul roared in surprise, stumbling back from the nest.
But the dragon didn't let go.
He wouldn't.
Gaul's arm jerked, flinging the small dragon violently into the air. He struck the stone wall with a sickening crack and crumpled to the ground, his vision swimming in a haze of white and red.
The world twisted. Tilted.
A low ringing filled his ears as the chamber swam in and out of focus. He saw flickers of motion—shadows darting, apes howling, blades rising. And through it all, the faint steady glow of his sister's egg, still cradled where he'd left it.
Then came heavy footsteps.
Gaul again.
The ape king approached the nest, raising his sword. The twisted scimitar gleamed as it caught the shifting light.
"No…" the young dragon's voice rasped, barely more than a breath. He tried to rise, but his limbs refused to listen.
Gaul raised the blade higher.
Then—
"My lord!" an ape skidded into view, panting, face streaked with ash. "The purple egg—it's gone!"
Gaul stopped.
Slowly, his head turned toward the ape. The blade held mid-swing.
"What?"
"We searched every nest!" the ape wheezed. "It's not here. It must've been taken!"
Gaul's eye burned brighter, the gem in his skull pulsing with violent green light. His grip on the sword tightened, muscles coiling with fury.
But he didn't bring it down.
He stood there, looming over the last egg, his rage seething into the silence.
And from the shadows, the small dragon fought to stay conscious—his battered body crumpled, vision darkening—but he saw it.
He saw the hesitation.
And he clung to it like a lifeline.
For a heartbeat, silence gripped the room.
Then Gaul's snarl ripped through it like a blade.
In one brutal motion, he turned on the messenger ape—his massive arm swinging down. The jagged scimitar carved through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the broken stone as the ape dropped, dead before he hit the floor.
The chamber froze.
Even the howling apes fell silent.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Gaul's chest heaved, rage pulsing from him in waves. His eye flared like a furnace, the gem embedded in his skull pulsing with every heartbeat. For a long, terrible moment, he just stood there—blood dripping from his blade, his breath rasping through clenched teeth.
Then, slowly, his fury cooled.
He turned.
The last egg remained—untouched, pulsing softly in the gloom. The wind around it had stilled. The chamber held its breath.
Gaul stepped forward.
The young dragon watched—barely conscious now, the world hazy and flickering around the edges. His vision swam. He tried to rise. Tried to stop him.
But the darkness was already closing in.
Just as Gaul knelt before the egg, everything went black.
When the commander stepped cautiously to his king's side, Gaul was cradling the dark egg in one massive hand. His expression was grim, the light in his corrupted eye dimmed to a slow, hateful pulse.
"I will not return to the Master empty-handed," he muttered, voice low and edged with something deeper than rage—shame.
The ape bowed his head. "What about the others?"
Gaul didn't hesitate. "Kill them. Every last one. Leave nothing."
The commander nodded and turned to relay the order.
But Gaul lingered a moment longer.
He glanced at the blood smeared across his wrist, still fresh from where the young dragon had bitten him. He flexed his fingers slowly, then turned to where the small body lay limp against the wall, barely breathing.
A flicker of something passed through his eye. Not pity.
Calculating.
"Take that one," he ordered. "The little beast has spirit. He may still be useful."
Then he stood and strode into the smoke with the egg in hand—leaving behind a ruined sanctuary, shattered futures, and a boy who would grow up in chains.