The chamber burned.

Wine-soaked velvet, shattered glass, overturned trays—what had been a room of indulgence was now a battlefield.

Aric stood before Denari, daggers poised, breath steady, gaze unblinking. The dragon rider across from him, his drunkenness burned away by the violent heat surging through the ring on his hand.

The ring markings blazed like a furnace, scales creeping across his arms and shoulders in patches, hardening flesh into armor.

The air between them rippled with heat, a low vibration that made every breath taste of copper and smoke.

Serina stood near the doorway, veil drawn, hands raised.

The muffled thunder of boots echoed in the corridor outside—the inevitable rush of guards stirred by the noise.

She exhaled, and with a twist of her fingers a wave of force rolled into the hallway, slamming the first pair of armored men back into the walls.

Their cries were cut short by her second spell, a quickbinding weave that wrapped them in threads of constriction until their struggles stilled.

She turned her head just enough to glimpse Aric out of the corner of her eye.

"Don't take too long," she murmured.

Aric didn't respond—he simply vanished.

The [Shadow Step] blurred him into smoke, his form dissipating into curls of darkness that slithered across the brothel's floor.

Denari swung his curved sword down, a gleam of dragonfire sparking along the edge—but he cut only through a dissolving afterimage.

Aric reformed at his flank, daggers singing in twin arcs.

The blades scraped across scaled flesh with a grating hiss. Sparks flew, the edges biting shallow but sure.

Denari snarled, twisting with surprising speed. He lashed out with his free hand, and flame exploded outward.

The room bloomed orange as if a furnace had erupted; cushions, drapes, and carpets ignited instantly. Aric leapt back, he crossed his dagger into an x before him as the fire roared across his position.

The flames rolled over his body—yet when the inferno thinned, he stepped forward unscathed, smoke wreathing his frame.

[Ki Shield]

"Dragonfire won't be enough," Aric said calmly.

Denari bared his teeth, lips curling around a growl. "It always is."

He slammed his hand against the ring, and another wave of fire surged—this time shaped like a dragon's maw, the flame coalescing into snapping jaws that lunged across the chamber.

Aric's feet shifted, weight sinking.

His daggers slid back into his belt. Instead, he curled his fists, ki gathering in a visible glow around his knuckles.

[Ki Fists.]

The aura around his hands flared, dense and blinding.

When the dragonfire jaws lunged, Aric stepped into the inferno. His fist shot forward, a comet of condensed force that struck the flame as if it were flesh.

The room thundered.

The fiery dragon head burst apart, collapsing into embers that sprayed against the walls. His second punch followed, striking the ground between them.

The floor split, splinters and molten shards leaping upward in a shockwave that made Denari stagger.

From the doorway came a crash—more guards, three this time, rushing through smoke and heat with drawn weapons.

Serina's eyes narrowed.

She flicked her wrist, weaving sigils midair.

The wood beneath their boots shifted suddenly, hardened into jagged spikes. They tumbled forward, their balance stolen.

She thrust her hand upward, and chains of light snapped around their torsos. Their weapons clattered uselessly to the ground as they writhed.

She moved among them gracefully, tapping their foreheads with small pulses of magic that sent them into unconscious sleep.

Aric pressed his assault.

He vanished again in a wisp of shadow, reappearing behind Denari. His twin daggers rejoined his hands, curving toward the rider's exposed side.

Denari roared, scales flaring, his blade sweeping wide in an arc of burning steel.

Sparks screamed as sword met dagger, the air so hot it shimmered.

Denari's ring pulsed again.

His eyes burned molten-gold, and smoke poured from his mouth.

He inhaled sharply, chest expanding—and exhaled in a cone of flame. The fire hit the far wall, splitting wood and stone alike. The chamber groaned under the force, beams cracking overhead.

Aric darted to the side, his steps whispering, body a blur.

The flames caught only the edge of his cloak. He circled, daggers flashing in a series of rapid cuts aimed at the joints, searching for weaknesses between the scales.

Each strike rang, shallow sparks flaring off armor, but Aric was not aiming to pierce deep yet—he was testing, measuring.

Denari laughed through the sweat on his brow, through the blood trickling from a shallow cut on his arm.

"Do you see? I am flame's chosen. You cannot pierce dragon's blood!"

Aric's expression did not change. His ki surged.

"Is that a challenge?"

He drew his daggers together, the tips crossing, and focused. His ki condensed, spiraling into a needlepoint of unbearable sharpness.

The aura became so fine, so concentrated, that the air itself seemed to bend around it.

Aric lunged, thrusting forward with both blades aligned in a perfect line—

[Heaven Piercing Spear.]

Denari raised his sword to block. The spearpoint met it. There was no clash, no ringing defiance of metal—only a piercing sound like silk tearing.

The blade shattered as though it were glass. The strike drove through Denari's defenses, cutting straight into the scales on his chest.

The enchanted armor shrieked, cracked, then split. A line of blood welled beneath the fissure.

Denari reeled, shock finally breaking his bravado. He stumbled back, clutching the wound, his flame flickering erratically as if the bond faltered.

"Impossible…" he croaked, voice thick. "No mortal steel—"

Aric pressed forward, relentless.

His movements blurred again with [Shadow Step], appearing behind Denari as he staggered.

One dagger slashed low, the other high—forcing him to block awkwardly, turning his scaled arm into defense.

The blows cascaded, fast and merciless. Denari fell to one knee, teeth bared, sweat pouring down his temple.

"Pointless," Aric echoed coldly.

In the corridor outside, Serina dispatched the last of the reinforcements, her magic leaving them tangled in shimmering ropes, unconscious.

She glanced back into the chamber and saw the decisive moment unfolding.

Aric's blades crossed Denari's arm. With a single clean motion—swift, surgical, merciless—he severed the left hand from the wrist.

The ringed hand spun through the air, still glowing faintly as it hit the floor with a dull thud.

Denari screamed.

It was a sound raw and animal, stripped of pride, filled with pain.

He collapsed sideways, clutching the stump as blood pulsed out in dark sheets, pooling across the velvet floor.

His curses filled the chamber—vile promises, broken oaths, howls that cracked the throat.

Aric bent, scooped up the severed hand, and wrapped it in cloth, storing it in his subspace without hesitation.

He turned to Serina, eyes calm as if the fight had been nothing but routine. He gave the smallest of signals with his chin.

Serina lowered her veil again and stepped into the chamber, her cloak stirring in the smoky heat. Without a word, she joined Aric.

Like shadows, the two of them slipped back into the night, vanishing into alleys and rooftops.

Behind them, Denari's wails echoed, blood soaking into the brothel floor—a dragon rider undone, his ringed hand stolen, his legacy stripped.

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