Being in a man's body was… weird. Not just any man either—Xaleth was a walking mountain, standing over 6'4", built like a brickhouse that'd skipped leg day once and never forgave itself. The moment that bizarre hologram blinked out of existence, I felt the reins slip into my hands. Finally, control.

Vesryn lingered a bit longer, probably out of morbid curiosity, before her patience gave out. The usual human nonsense was too much for her dragon standards. She muttered something snide, rolled her eyes in sixteen different ways, and quite literally jumped out the window and vanished. Shame she didn't stick around—I had questions about whatever cryptic nonsense they were discussing. But would asking have tipped her off?

I thought this was some vision or memory dive, but now that I was steering the meat mech? It didn't feel staged. At all. I walked over to the desk and picked up a cold cup of tea—room temperature, left out long enough to have regrets. Gave it a sniff. Took a sip.

My taste buds lit up like someone had flipped the wrong switch. It was awful. But real. I closed my eyes and flopped into the overly plush chair behind the desk, and damn if it wasn't suspiciously comfortable.

It reminded me of when I possessed Brana. Except, back then, I still had access to my core. This time? Nada. Zilch. Core was as out of reach as a snack at the bottom of a mana pit. I couldn't even poke at this body's core, and I knew Xaleth had to be leagues above me power-wise. Which made sense—this was a memory shard, after all.

I glanced around. Everything had that uncanny sheen of authenticity. For just a memory fragment, this was disturbingly… vivid. Exactly how powerful was this system?

My eyes drifted to the window. How much of what was out there was real? The thought stirred something reckless in me—an urge to explore, to test the boundaries. But then I remembered: I couldn't fly in this body. And worse, the trial was nearly upon me.

A glowing timer hovered into my vision: 2 hours, 12 minutes left. My guess? That's how long I got to poke around in here. And I had one mission—get that spellbook. Quantum mana matrices, nested runes—ugh, I was practically drooling just thinking about it. Lotte would never share that kind of arcane candy, not even if I begged on all fours. No way I was letting this chance slip through my claws.

Besides, that hologram had made one thing clear: no time dilation. I was out of the evolution chamber, and the clock was ticking in real-time. Two hours in here meant two more hours of being an airborne popsicle floating above Varkaigrad.

I exhaled sharply. Hah. Nothing ever came cheap, did it? At least I'd be safe until the shield faded—and hopefully still hidden. Hopefully.

Wait… was I actually hidden?! Last time, the soil had me covered—literally. This time? Wind. And wind wasn't exactly known for its protective cuddles.

Oh Thalador… I really hoped I was cloaked. Because if I wasn't? I was one glimmer away from a whole heap of very real, very pointy trouble.

Phew. Deep breaths. Think positive! Manifest something nice, anything nice. Whatever this mess was—it'd be fine. Once I popped back out, even if there was some smug Gold Core elite hovering nearby, I trusted my escape game. I wasn't exactly a newbie at slipping away from death's awkward handshake.

And really, would it be so bad if one of the beastkin caught a glimpse of me? Dragons were supposed to be their sacred ancestors, right? Surely that earned me a pass. Maybe a stunned gasp, a bow or two, not a spear through the ribs.

Still—just in case—I'd already planned it out: the second I saw anyone lurking nearby, it was Clone Time™. Phase straight into the shadow dimension, yeet myself into the nearest bush and run like I was allergic to consequences. Maybe even invoke the mighty Court of Quantum Edicts and loudly declare, "Chasing me is hereby ILLEGAL." Would it work? Who knew. Worth a shot.

AAAAAAAAAA. I really needed time to actually experiment with my powers. Reading vague descriptions on skill sheets was one thing—actually using them when the body was a stranger? Totally different. Felt like trying to dance with a sword for a partner.

But—no. Focus. I had something important on the line. That spellbook was worth every drop of anxiety-flavored sweat in my system.

So. Where to begin?

I finally pulled up the mission screen—the one that had popped up the moment I took control of this glorified muscle-tank, but I'd been too distracted by Vesryn's whole "ethereal disdain" thing to check it properly. Even if this was technically a memory… it felt real. Too real. My instincts told me not to screw around or break character.

Active Mission MISSION: Render Judgment – Quantum Clause OBJECTIVE: You've stumbled (or been shoved) into a Trial. All you have to do is deliver a ruling on a petty legal spat between a black-market botanist and a solar-powered scammer! TASKS: (The more satisfying your ruling, the greater the reward. Think like a judge, feel like a dragon.)

Study the Case – Absorb all the sordid little details. Who's lying? Who's worse? (Progress: 1/1)

Render a Ruling – Pass judgment that satisfies Xaleth. It all hinges on a single order. (Progress: 0/1)

Optional: Identify Hidden Threads – Notice anomalies or hidden truths for a bonus reward. (Progress: ?/?)

REWARD: ~ Mysterious Spellbook ~ – Access to the long-lost spellcraft of a path once considered mythical. Hidden Bonus: Varies based on how satisfying your judgment is. (Pressure? What pressure?)

PENALTY: Failure to render judgment results in trial termination. No spellbook. No bonus. Just you, silence, and the crushing weight of what could've been.

[ACCEPTED]

Was it just me, or was the system getting sassier? Either the System was binge-watching courtroom dramas, or I'd finally cracked under the pressure.

Well, the first task was done. I'd gone through the docs, read all the scandalous little lies, and yep—both of them were trash fires. I knew who was lying and who was worse, which was both.

Now came the fun part: I knew squat about law in this place. Human, dragon, or whatever "UK" stood for (Unhinged Koalas? Untidy Kettles?). My legal expertise began and ended with "don't get caught." Ugh. And the trial was starting in less than an hour.

I racked my brain for anything law-related. All I got was chemistry reactions and one school memory of throwing a sandwich at someone. Great. Genius-tier intelligence and not a single byte of legal theory.

My eyes landed on the bookshelf—a wall of ancient tomes and shiny bindings. I could feel my intelligence stat humming, eager to be tested. I'd never had the chance to just sit and learn something new before, not like this. Maybe that was the secret here. Maybe the trial was a riddle, and they'd handed me the solution wrapped in dusty leather and ink.

There was only one hour left. Not much time.

But hey—if you're gonna solve a mystery, might as well start reading. I leapt to the shelf and snatched the first book.

Let's find out how fast I could read when the fate of my future precious spellbook depended on it.

***

The book exploded open in my hands.

Literally.

Pages blurred into a cyclone of parchment, flapping like panicked birds as my fingers locked onto the spine. My eyes? Useless. My brain was the lens now—pupils blown wide, irises flickering with a violet gleam as they devoured paragraphs, footnotes, even the faintest margin scribbles in a single ravenous gulp.

Page 1: Introduction to Property Law — assimilated. Page 12: Case Study: Nuisance vs. Necessity — cataloged. Page 45: Precedent: Solar Energy Rights (1987) — cross-referenced and mentally bookmarked with an asterisk that screamed, use this later.

My consciousness fractured like an overclocked processor. One thread scanned the text. Another parsed implications. A third hunted loopholes. A fourth was screaming, YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME. Neural circuits blazed white-hot, metabolizing legalese into sharp, actionable insight faster than my hands could flip pages.

This wasn't reading. It was assimilation.

Sentences were stripped to bone before the paper even stilled beneath them. The room itself blurred. Sound muted. Even the rain outside slowed to a syrupy drip as time warped around me—seconds stretching into epochs of pure analysis.

UK Civil Procedure Rules? Memorized. Doctrine of Ancient Lights? Annotated. Tax evasion statutes post-2010? Already cross-indexed with Crane's oily little side hustle.

My brain wasn't normal anymore. It hadn't been for a while. But even this felt absurd. I was actively cataloging every disturbed current of air in the background—timestamps, directions, particulate density. And somehow this still didn't feel as wild as the acceleration tearing through my thoughts right now.

Page after page. Volume after volume. And I was faster. Hungrier. The knowledge wasn't flowing in—it was being yanked, vacuum-packed into memory under pressure.

By the time I slammed the first tome shut, the shelf was three books lighter. Their contents howled in my mind like a freshly summoned storm.

Tick. Tock. The timer laughed in binary: 1h 47m.

I lunged for the next book.

Faster.

And then—click.

Midway through the fourth volume, something snapped into place. A law. A clause. A buried precedent stitched with just enough ambiguity to be dangerous in the hands of someone clever—or deranged.

I froze.

A grin slithered across Xaleth's borrowed face.

Judgment, huh?

Oh, this'd be fun.

***

Ahh, a petty dispute. No jury, no lawyers. Just me and a decision.

How very pleasant.

Still, I side-eyed the courtroom and—well. It certainly didn't match the luxury of the office I'd been in moments ago.

Courtroom 3B tasted like stale biscuits and disappointment. I slumped into the magistrate's chair—leather cracked, armrests sagging under decades of civic apathy. The room felt like a shoebox left out in the rain: peeling sage-green walls, flickering fluorescent tubes, and a threadbare carpet that looked allergic to cleaning.

To my left: a wilting potted fern. Definitely a war crime against horticulture. To my right: the court clerk—Gary, if I remembered correctly—was battling a sausage-roll crumb embedded in his tie. His bloodshot eyes and yawns every third breath told me the man hadn't slept since… last century?

Outside, rain clawed at the grime-streaked window, more drizzle than downpour. The greyness of it all made my nerves itch.

Deep breaths.

Then I noticed them.

Those two dipshits.

Mrs. Agatha Poole perched on the edge of her seat like a fragile antique teacup. She was playing the helpless old lady role beautifully—white gloves, floral handbag clutched like a crucifix, watery eyes darting about with manufactured innocence.

Lucas Crane, on the other hand, had smarm carved into his bones. Chiselled jaw, slicked-back hair, and a designer sweater draped over his shoulders like it granted him diplomatic immunity. He slouched in his chair, scrolling through his 'phone' with a smirk so punchable it practically glowed. His cologne, sharp and medicinal, sliced into the air like a spell of its own.

Speaking of phones—I had one too. Fascinating little rectangles. Too bad I had no idea how it worked. Not really. If I rattled my head hard enough, I might dredge up some knowledge echoes, but honestly? Not worth it. And besides, Xaleth's was locked with a password soooo yeah.

In front of me was a 'laptop.' Another marvel. Mana-less world, my scaly tail—this thing was a hexed grimoire with a screensaver.

Whatever it was, these machines felt dangerously close to magic artifacts.

I glanced at the timer in my vision: 22 minutes left.

I squinted. The performance hadn't even begun. No redo. No rewinds. Whatever I said would be carved in lawstone.

Gary coughed, leaned into the microphone (another bit of sorcery!), and mumbled, "Case 2274: Poole versus Crane. Sunlight deprivation via solar structure."

And just like that, the curtain rose. Welcome to the theatre of the absurd.

Gary cleared his throat again, voice sluggish from what I could only assume was a diet of energy drinks and regret.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Magistrate Jonathan Ellis presiding. We're convening for the matter of Poole versus Crane, case number 2274. Dispute concerning alleged sunlight deprivation due to an installed solar structure."

Right. Of course. Xaleth was using a different name. Jonathan Ellis. Fair, I guess—"Xaleth" did sound less like a magistrate and more like a boss fight.

Gary looked at me like I might explode or declare the courtroom a protected flamingo habitat.

Panic.

I gave him a slow, stately nod.

That seemed to do the trick. Apparently that's what judges do—nod meaningfully and pretend everything isn't on fire.

"Both parties present?" Gary asked, because we were all committed to this farce.

Mrs. Agatha Poole raised a trembling hand, glancing at me like I might transform into a balrog at any moment.

"Yes, dear. I—I'm here."

Lucas Crane didn't even lift his head. Just gave a lazy wave without taking his eyes off his phone.

"Mhm. Present."

I already hated this guy.

Gary sighed. Probably reconsidering every life choice that led him to this fluorescent hell.

"Very well. Each party will have five minutes to make an opening statement. Mrs. Poole, you're the complainant. Please begin."

I nodded again, mostly because doing anything else might reveal I had no idea what I was doing.

Agatha rose with the grace of a fragile heirloom. She adjusted her cardigan, her hands quivering just enough to draw sympathy without seeming calculated. Her eyes swept the room like a wartime widow about to recount the bombing of her childhood home.

"Thank you, Your Honour," she began, her voice soft and tremulous in exactly the right places. "I've lived at 11 Briar Lane for forty-two years—"

Ah. The Backstory Phase.

Cue the five grown children, all raised under that very roof. Five cats, buried with ceremonial reverence in the garden. The roses—her pride. A sniffle, perfectly timed, just before she segued into her suffering. Brava, you diabolical orchid smuggler.

I almost applauded. Almost.

Soon she was jabbing a finger at Lucas, voice wobbling just enough to sell "concerned citizen" rather than "vengeful neighbor."

"He didn't apply for proper planning permission. Didn't consult anyone. Just threw it up like we didn't exist!"

Touché. Poignant, tragic, and mildly accusatory.

I glanced at the timer.

17 minutes left.

WHAT?!?

How was that possible?! I could've sworn I had 22 a second ago. Was it speeding up? Was that allowed?! What if I didn't even get a chance to give a verdict? What kind of cursed legal ritual was this?

Agatha sank back into her seat with a dramatic exhale, like recounting her trauma had shaved a year off her lifespan.

Gary nodded, utterly unbothered. "Thank you, Mrs. Poole. Mr. Crane?"

One look at Lucas's smug, punchable face and I was already mentally searching for a fast-forward button.

"Let's cut the sap," he drawled, oozing entitlement like a ruptured oil tanker. "Granny's mad her roses got benched? Boo-hoo. My solar wall's greener than a leprechaun's tax returns. Fast-Track Green Initiative approved it. Check the files." He jabbed his phone like it was a holy relic. "Thirty-seven percent carbon cut. You like polar bears, right?"

His grin hit me like a dare. Thalador's beard, I wanted to fold him into a paper airplane and launch him into the nearest volcano.

He kept monologuing, and I let it wash over me. Blah blah public good, blah blah climate change. Something about how Mrs. Poole's horticultural hobbies shouldn't "stand in the way of progress."

Gag.

I nodded again, mostly because I couldn't exactly scream OBJECTION! and launch him into a wall.

Then he tapped something on his 'phone' and the laptop in front of me lit up. Oh, right—humans here can send knowledge across these rectangles. Extremely useful. Suspiciously useful.

Crane Energy Solutions Ltd. Subsidy Application – Approved.pdf

I clicked it.

Left eye locked on Lucas. Right eye scanned the screen. A quick flick down, arrow key once—then a blur. My iris raced through the lines, dissecting the document at a speed no one in this courtroom could follow.

Lucas flinched hard. That smug expression cracked into confusion and horror.

Oh. Right. Dual-eye control.

Of course he'd freak out—humans here didn't have cores. No mana, no ranked development, no enhanced control over their own bodies. They couldn't even comprehend something as simple as independent ocular tracking. In my world, anyone above Yellow Core could do that. Hell, kids could train to.

I snapped my gaze straight, coughing into a fist. Totally normal judge noises here.

Lucas blinked like he'd licked a battery. Good. Let him marinate in confusion.

Phew. Close one.

Speaking of close—I glanced at the timer.

11 minutes.

Why was it still melting like butter in the sun!?

Anyway, back to the case. The document was trash. Total fabrication. The "solar panels" were nothing but props. No wiring, no meter, no functional grid tie-in. Just a slick £50,000 tax dodge and some PR fluff about carbon footprints.

And yet… the timer kept ticking down. Meanwhile, the two of them were exchanging jabs like this was some passive-aggressive tennis match instead of a legal proceeding.

"Besides," Lucas continued, still playing the martyr, "she's the one who harassed my installer. Sent two emails full of what I'd generously call... vigorous threats."

Agatha gasped, scandalized. "I said I'd write to the council!"

Lucas gave a faux-pained shrug. "You also said you'd—and I quote—'curse my bloodline.'"

"I was being poetic, dear!" Agatha snapped, her hands fluttering like startled pigeons.

And that was it. With the timer now dipping under five minutes, I'd officially had enough of this nonsense.

Gary still looked like he was trying to decode a foreign language, poor soul. But it didn't matter anymore. Etiquette? Authority? I was the authority. And I was done pretending otherwise.

"Silence." One word, sharp as a sword.

Both of them froze. Glorious.

I raised my hand. "Thank you, both of you. That's quite enough."

The silence that followed felt fragile, brittle, like a thread pulled too tight.

"I've heard all I need to render a verdict," I said calmly. "Mrs. Poole has cited the Rights of Light Act, arguing that Mr. Crane's structure violates her access to 'ancient light.' Mr. Crane, in turn, appeals to the Clean Energy Infrastructure Act, which grants leeway to eco-friendly installations."

I paused.

"So, in essence… you're both right. Legally speaking, the two acts cancel each other out. A stalemate."

Lucas's smug grin widened.

Ah. There it is. Time to obliterate it.

"But," I continued, letting the word hang in the air like a guillotine, "I'm invoking the Party Wall Act of 1996, specifically Section 2(2)(a), which covers disputes where construction interferes with neighboring properties."

I turned to him fully. "Mr. Crane, you are to modify your solar wall to ensure it does not 'interfere with the reasonable enjoyment of adjacent land.' Tilt the panels. Redirect sunlight to Mrs. Poole's garden."

Lucas's face went from smug to scandalized in a heartbeat. Delicious.

That was the final piece I needed—the loophole. The Party Wall Act didn't just cover walls or fences; it could be interpreted to include anything that obstructed a neighbor's use of their property. Sunlight, included. And modifications were allowed—encouraged, even.

His face flushed a furious red. "That's—that's not how solar works!"

No, but it was how the law worked.

"Correct," I said with a slow grin. "But I'm not your engineer. I'm your judge."

His jaw clenched. "You're fucking joking."

His fists clenched too as he stood. Wrong move.

I smiled wider. "Sit. Down."

"This isn't a toy, Your Honour. Solar infrastructure requires engineering, compliance, permits—you can't just—"

"Section 2(2)(a)," I cut in smoothly. "Reasonable enjoyment. You've denied Mrs. Poole her sunshine. Now share it."

This? This was actually fun. Law—especially the absurdist tangle of this UK's legal codes—was a battlefield made of loopholes, and I'd just claimed victory.

Crane knew he couldn't push past me. "I'll appeal. My lawyers will—"

"Appeal what, exactly? Compliance?" I tapped the section of the Act with a single claw. "Tilt the panels, or I'll have the council dismantle the wall. Your choice."

I smiled. Wider than I should've. Wide enough that he flinched like he'd seen something underneath it.

Mrs. Poole broke the silence first. The ruling had clearly rattled her, but she recovered fast—like a trained actress slipping into character. "Oh! Thank you, Your Honour! My roses will thrive now, just like Harold's azaleas in '93—"

I gave a little shrug. "Roses need six hours of sun, Mrs. Poole."

Then I leaned slightly closer and, with a wink, whispered: "Paphiopedilum sanderianum needs only two."

Her face went blank. No gasp, no flinch—just a second of stillness. And then she paled.

Oh, she knew. She absolutely knew. And she hadn't planned on anyone knowing that.

The timer ticked on.

11 seconds. "You'll replant. Roses. By next week."

9 seconds. She sputtered. "But… the soil's too acidic now, it'll take months to—"

5. I laughed—short, sharp, and cruel. A bark of pure spite. "Then borrow a fucking tiller."

0.

And just like that— Everything stopped.

My awareness dropped out of the courtroom like a puppet with its strings cut. Sight, sound, sensation—all fell away.

[Mission Complete.]

Did I do it?

No idea. But maybe it wasn't just about the judgment.

Maybe it had been about the show.

Suspended in the void—just floating thought—I lingered in that second between seconds. And then, laughter. Low, gravelly. Familiar in a way that made the scales on my back rise.

That's how Lotte laughs—when she uses her real dragon mouth.

Then I felt it: A pressure, immense and vast, behind me. Not physical, but inescapable. Weight without weight.

I didn't have a body here—just a shape of energy, a soul rendered in vivid dragon-form. Still, I turned my serpentine neck.

And froze.

Before me sat a dragon. Not like Lotte. Not just big. This one was more ethereal. Scales of violet and gold, like celestial armor. A core of void, a pulsing nothingness that hurt to look at. And eyes—twin galaxies of swirling amethyst, locked on me with amused interest.

Smaller compared to Lotte. But the presence was... Stranger.

"'Borrow a… fucking… tiller,'" he boomed, each word a landslide of gravel and glee. "Exquisite. You've the finesse of a hurricane in a china shop, little dragonling."

At least he looked amused.

I inclined my head, trying not to let the awe show too hard. "Assuming the judgment satisfied you?"

"Oh, it most certainly did," he said. "Entertaining, even. Would you like to see the results of that decision?"

My answer came instantly, thoughtlessly. My eyes lit up before my thoughts even caught up. Yes. Yes I did.

Because deep down, I wasn't just a judge. I was a dragon. And dragons like to watch the world burn just a little.

Immediately, the abyss dissolved.

We stood before a red-roofed house. Neat lawn, gnarled trees, and a gate lined with faded ceramic sunflowers. Two plainclothes officers—I think that's what they call enforcers here—stood at the garden gate. A stern woman in a wax jacket. A lanky man with a clipboard.

Mrs. Poole wore muddy Wellies and a floral apron, clutching a trowel like a crucifix. Her face was a mask of frail indignation.

"But—but I was just tending my roses!"

Behind her, the greenhouse door gaped open. Inside: wilted orchids, black-market potting chemicals, and a suspiciously fat ledger labeled "Harold's Azaleas – 1993." I caught a glimpse of bills stuffed between the pages. Cash. Oh my, she was fast. But not fast enough, it seemed.

Neighbors had gathered too, waving their 'phones' around—fascinating little machines. They could record Earth's memories, like a refined echo spell. Delightfully invasive.

The female officer— face carved from pure "I've seen it all"—plucked the trowel away. "Let's not traumatize the petunias, Agatha."

The clipboard man snapped more 'photos' of the greenhouse. An orchid, already wilted, crumbled beneath his boot.

The scene shifted instantly.

Now: morning light glinting off a glass-and-steel mansion. Crane's home, I guessed. The infamous solar wall was grotesquely tilted—mirrors angled like broken wings. A black van and two patrol cars blocked the circular driveway.

Crane stood barefoot on the steps, silk pajamas rumpled, shouting into a phone.

"Do you know who I am?! I'll sue the whole fucking—"

A man in a sharp suit, wearing the world's most bored expression, held up a scroll. A warrant, I think that thing was called.

"Subsidy fraud, Mr. Crane. Let's discuss your solar panels… or lack thereof."

Then I heard Xaleth's voice behind me again. Deep. Amused. Dangerous.

"A simple decision… and everyone ended up losing. I was wondering about your reasoning, little dragonling."

I froze.

My reasoning? Right. I knew I had to satisfy him—this big dragon-thing who was not quite Lotte—but I didn't know what he'd find pleasing.

So I satisfied myself.

My doppelganger's voice echoed in my skull:

"That little girl never craved justice. She craved a detonator."

And she'd been right.

So I grinned. Straight-faced. And told the truth.

"Because watching pricks squirm is my love language."

A long pause.

Then the dragon howled with laughter.

"Truly spoken like one touched by Chaos' shadow."

"Uh… Chaos' shadow?"

He tilted his massive head toward the image of the tilted wall. Within the reflections, I saw something else: a building—melting tar, panicked workers, and construction crews swarming like ants.

"Well, the wall was tilted. And it just so happened to reflect sunlight directly onto Town Hall. Outdated HVAC system, cheaply built. Couldn't handle the load. First it overheated… then it ignited. That fire spread. Destroyed records. Caused an audit. That audit uncovered… let's say… many things. A massive corruption trail. Decades deep."

I blinked.

There were so many details missing, I almost asked. But then I remembered where I was.

Oh shit.

I needed to get back. Now.

I blurted, "So… did I clear it properly?"

He chuckled darkly.

"Spectacularly, little dragonling."

I pumped my claws in the air, eyes glittering.

"Now my reward, please!"

Xaleth just laughed, a deep, rumbling sound.

"Seems like you're in a hurry."

Oh, you bet your scaly tail I was!

"Alright then… the spellbook is yours."

He snapped his claws—a surprisingly casual gesture for a dragon that big.

I blinked. Opened my claws, half-expecting the tome to just pop into them with a dramatic sparkle or something.

...

Nothing.

I squinted up at him. "Uh…? Little help?"

He grinned, fangs glinting like event horizons. "Patience, hatchling. Knowledge… descends."

Then I felt it.

A presence. A gravitational pressure like a falling star. Something massive was descending. Fast.

I slowly—very slowly—looked up.

And there it was. A spellbook. Correction: a MASSIVE FUCKING BOOK, easily the size of a large cathedral, hurtling through the void straight at me.

"WAIT—HOLD UP—WAITWAITWAIT—"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—!"

CRUNCH.

The last thing I remembered was the blinding impact of ancient knowledge meeting fragile dragon skull, and the gravelly, unhinged laughter of Xaleth echoing behind me.

All dragons, I decided in that brief moment of spellbook-induced obliteration, were a little bit screwed in the head.

***

Doltharion perched atop his faerth, its vast wings beating the air as he stared into the horizon. The creature resembled a massive eagle, yet its torso and limbs bore the twisted, sinewy features of a shade creeper. Its silent, expansive wings and piercing vision made it an exceptional hunter, and a prized mount. For centuries, noble families in Lithrindel had bred such beasts, refining them into perfect instruments of the sky. Normally, they wouldn't fly so high, but this was an exception. They were above the clouds now, and it would be fine.

Behind him, dozens of his brethren flew in formation. It hadn't taken long for them to assemble; a single order from their lord, and the warriors had scrambled into position, their loyalty unquestioned. Not all of them were red core, but there were seven of the highest rank among them. The rest were competent yellow cores, one of them being a diviner, skilled in the craft.

Together, they'd corner that Drakkari cunt and make her scream. The thought gnawed at Doltharion. His concern that she had escaped still lingered. The feeling of an explosion colliding with a barrier, a shield. It had been real. In the distance, he could see it now—an enormous mass of air, swirling and ominous. It didn't resemble the sky; it was more like a storm wrapped around something, vaguely egg-shaped.

He knew it—he'd been right. It had to be an artifact. His hunches were rarely wrong. But even artifacts had their limits. It had been at least two hours since the incident. She couldn't hide much longer. And when she emerged, Doltharion would be there to gouge her fucking eyes out.

His mouth watered at the thought of it.

"Doltharion, should we attack again?" came the voice of one of his subordinates.

Doltharion scowled, his focus still on the storm-like shield ahead. "Save your mana," he ordered. "We've experimented enough. This shield withstood the explosion from an overloaded construct without flinching. Our spells'll tickle it. We wait. She'll crawl out soon enough."

The subordinate nodded, understanding. Doltharion's eyes remained locked on the barrier, but just as the tension was beginning to settle, a ripple passed through his ranks.

"What's happening?" he demanded, annoyance flashing across his face as he tore his gaze from the shield.

"Something massive is approaching us!" came the response, panicked but clear.

Doltharion frowned deeply and tapped into his communication relay. "Has any of the house heads left yet, especially for the skies?" It didn't make sense for any of them to leave the city, not with everything in such a delicate state.

"Uh, no. I haven't received any reports of anyone leaving," came the fragmented reply. "According to the latest intel, they all gathered near Alchemy Tower before entering it, and that was only two minutes ago."

Doltharion exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening. For a moment, there was nothing to fear.

But then—

"It's closing in!" the voice shouted again, urgency creeping into the tone.

Doltharion squinted against the wind, his gaze narrowing as he looked toward the approaching shape. He could make out two large crow-like wings—fast, and closing in on their position with terrifying speed.

"Just some stray beast," he muttered, but his gut twisted. Strays don't fly that hungry. That purposeful.

He gripped his faerth's reins, knuckles white.

Come on, then. Let's see what you've got.

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