Selim's arms were folded as he leaned back against a basalt spire, his posture more wearied than proud.

His face, half-shadowed, carried the look of a man who bore grudges heavier than his armor. Ozborn, broader and harsher, sat upon a fragment of ruined stone, sharpening a dagger with methodical strokes.

"They deserve no pity when they sneer at us," Selim said at last, his voice sharp with bitterness. "and think we're beneath them."

Ozborn's eyes narrowed. The sound of steel scraping stone stopped.

"They think they're better because they were born to noble lines, because their dragons are a shade bigger, their flames a shade hotter." His lip curled. "Fools. Nothing more. Give them a real war and see how quickly they burn."

Selim laughed without humor. "They voted to strip us of our rings, remember? A handful of cowards daring to challenge the right the Flame itself bestowed. They forget the years we've bled for this empire. Forget the cities we've turned to rubble at their command."

"They remember," Ozborn said darkly. "They just choose to pretend. Easier to push us down than face the truth that we are their equals."

For a moment, silence lingered between them, broken only by the far-off cry of a dragon cutting through the night sky.

Then, suddenly—

A blur split the darkness. A shimmer of magic, swift and precise.

Selim barely had time to gasp before the force struck him square in the chest.

His body shot back like a hurled ragdoll, crashing into the shadows beyond the ridge. Stone splintered where he landed, and the sound of his groan carried faintly before the night swallowed him.

"Selim!" Ozborn's head snapped around, voice booming across the plain.

His eyes searched desperately through the gloom.

Footsteps approached. Calm.

Aric emerged from the darkness like a phantom, his presence coiled with quiet authority.

His cloak trailed faintly against the ground, his face shadowed by the black cloth that masked him.

He stopped just within the faint circle of moonlight, his hands loose at his sides, the daggers at his hips glinting.

"Calm down," Aric said evenly, as if they were strangers meeting by chance on a quiet street. "My partner only wants to have a civil discussion with him. Much like the one I'm hoping to have with you."

Ozborn's eyes narrowed dangerously. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his weapon. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter who I am." Aric's tone cut through the question. "What matters is what you're doing."

A muscle in Ozborn's jaw twitched.

"And what, exactly, am I doing?"

Aric's gaze sharpened. His words landed like hammer blows. "Something I have quite the disdain for—treason."

The word cracked the air.

For the first time, Ozborn's mask shifted, his expression faltering. His broad shoulders stiffened, though he tried to cover it with a scoff.

"Watch your tongue. That's no small accusation."

"Save the theatrics," Aric said, his voice calm, almost tired. "I've no patience for your posturing. Chop off the hand with the ring, flee with your life. That's the only choice you have."

Ozborn stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a laugh rumbled from his chest. It grew into a harsh bark of mockery, echoing off the charred stones.

"Do you know who you stand before? Do you know where you are?"

As he spoke, Aric felt it.

The ground trembled beneath his boots. A deep, resonant thud reverberated behind him, each step like the drumbeat of doom.

The air grew hotter, thick with the scent of brimstone. Then came the sound of breath—not the shallow exhale of man, but the volcanic gust of something immense.

Hot, searing air washed against Aric's back.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

The dragon stood above him, a behemoth of sinew and scale. Its hide was obsidian, glimmering like cooled volcanic glass streaked with crimson cracks.

Each exhale from its large maw sent sparks drifting like embers. Its eyes, molten and alive, burned with primal fury as its fanged jaws opened wide enough to swallow a man whole.

The ground at its claws smoldered where talons pressed into stone, the sheer weight of it making the earth groan.

Kelthor. Ozborn's dragon.

Any other man would have collapsed beneath the sheer dread of it. Even Crusaders who'd control such beasts often told tales of the crushing weight of their presence.

But Aric… smiled.

"It seems," he said lightly, "we're at an impasse. You're too stupid to understand consequences. And yet, I fully intend to teach them to you."

Ozborn laughed again, though this time it rang with something harsher—an edge of madness. "You must have a death wish."

He raised his hand, palm open toward the beast.

"Kelthor!" he roared. "Bite his head off!"

The dragon's great head dipped, jaws opening wide.

The heat of its breath was suffocating, its saliva hissing as it hit the ground. With terrifying speed, it lunged, snapping its fangs closed around Aric's head.

The sound was like a thunderclap.

But when the jaws shut, there was nothing there.

No blood. No crushed body. No mangled corpse.

Aric hadn't moved an inch. He still stood in the same place, arms loose at his sides, expression unchanged. His smile lingered, calm, unhurried.

Ozborn blinked, confusion flashing across his face.

"Again!" he barked.

The dragon obeyed, lunging once more. The air screamed as its teeth clashed together, sparks flying from the sheer force.

Once more—nothing.

Again, and again, Kelthor's maw snapped shut. Each time the earth quaked, the sound of steel-shattering force filled the night.

Yet every time, it caught nothing but empty air. Aric remained unmoving, as though time itself bent around him, sparing him from the dragon's hunger.

Ozborn's face twisted with disbelief. Sweat gathered at his brow. "What are you doing, Kelthor? Kill him!"

But the dragon's eyes flickered with something else now. Confusion. Its throat rumbled with a growl, its head tilting as if it no longer trusted its own senses.

Aric's smile widened slightly.

Ozborn cursed under his breath, rage overtaking confusion. "Fine. I'll cut you down myself!"

He drew his dagger in a single motion and lunged. His blade swung in a vicious arc aimed squarely for Aric's throat.

But the strike didn't land where it should have.

Instead, the dagger clanged against something hard, sparking uselessly. Ozborn's eyes widened in shock.

His hand recoiled, his weapon bouncing harmlessly off the thick black scales of his own dragon.

The beast reared back, growling in confusion and anger, glaring at its master.

"What—?" Ozborn's voice was strangled with confusion. His mind raced, trying to comprehend. He had aimed for Aric. He knew it. So how had he struck his own dragon instead?

Aric tilted his head, his voice low, steady, carrying like a whisper from the grave.

"Fate is a funny thing, Ozborn."

He took a step forward, and the dragon shifted back unconsciously, uncertain, unsettled.

"And yours…" Aric's eyes gleamed with merciless certainty.

"…has already been sealed."

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