The night burned with dragonfire.

Kelthor's maw gaped, releasing a torrent of flame so hot the air warped in ribbons of heat.

The scorched plain glowed orange, black rock melting in rivulets of molten glass as the blaze roared forward.

But the fire never touched Aric.

The inferno bent away from him, veering at impossible angles. One moment it screamed toward his body, the next it hissed harmlessly into the air, spiraling back across the stone in wild arcs, scorching empty ground.

Kelthor's own flame curled back against his claws, forcing the dragon to rear back in confusion.

Ozborn staggered, blinking against the heat.

"What—what is this trickery?"

Aric stepped forward through the rippling haze, untouched, his eyes calm as a man walking through morning mist. The black cloth masked his mouth, but the faint curl of a smile was unmistakable.

"No trick," he said softly. His voice cut through the fire's roar, steady as a blade. "Only fate, realigned."

Ozborn's jaw clenched. "You—" He turned to his dragon. "Kelthor, crush him!"

The beast obeyed.

Its colossal claw, each talon longer than a man's arm, slammed down with a force that cracked stone. The ground shook beneath the impact, the air shuddering with the weight of the strike. Dust and shards of rock exploded outward.

And yet—

Aric was not there.

Kelthor blinked, staring at the empty crater its claws had struck. The dragon lifted its talon, growling in frustration.

A voice whispered from its blind side.

"Too slow."

Aric stood just beyond the dragon's reach, untouched, as though he had been there all along. The shimmer of possibility still clung to him, a cloak of ghostly threads, curling faintly around his form before vanishing into the night.

Ozborn's teeth ground together.

He lunged with his dagger again, slashing low, then high, his movements desperate, feral. The blade cut swift arcs, each thrust carrying the strength of a man trained to fight with dragonfire at his back.

But every strike turned aside—by nothing.

The dagger jarred in his hand as though striking an invisible barrier.

His arms trembled with the shock of it. And worse, twice, thrice, the steel ricocheted back toward him, rebounding into Kelthor's armored hide.

Sparks flew as his own blade cut into the dragon's scales, drawing shallow gouges.

"Stop—damn you, stop!" Ozborn shouted at his beast, as though it were the dragon that had betrayed him.

Kelthor bellowed in pain, flames licking from the corners of its mouth, eyes narrowing in rage.

But Aric was already moving.

Shadow blurred at his feet.

He stepped once, twice, and his form broke into curling wisps. To Ozborn's eyes, there were three, four, five Arics circling, all moving with the same ghostly precision, their daggers glinting with the dark edge of inevitability.

[Shadow Step]

Ozborn spun, slashing wildly. His blade passed through empty air. Another strike—another miss. Every afterimage dissolved the instant his steel touched it, leaving only mist.

"Stand still!" he roared.

His voice was cracking now, ragged. Sweat gleamed on his temple, though whether from fire or fear he could not tell.

Kelthor shrieked, the sound splitting the night as it opened its jaws again. A sphere of light swelled in its throat, flames condensing into a blazing orb.

When it burst forth, it was no ordinary fire. It was dragonbreath concentrated, a white-hot torrent that could reduce stone to ash, armies to cinders.

It struck.

The plains lit like a second sun.

But the light bent.

Threads shimmered faintly in the air, weaving themselves through the blaze. Aric reached forward with one gloved hand and plucked a single strand, like a man adjusting the strings of a harp.

The torrent shifted.

It curved around him in a sweeping arc, spiraling harmlessly into the sky. The heavens themselves burned as the flame vanished into the clouds, leaving the earth beneath untouched.

Aric lowered his hand, his expression unchanging.

Ozborn staggered back a step, horror creeping into his face.

"This—this isn't possible. Nothing can bend dragonfire!"

Aric's eyes glowed faintly, reflecting threads unseen by any but him. "Everything bends. When you understand where the thread is pulled, everything bends."

Kelthor growled, uncertain now. The dragon's instincts screamed that the man before it was not prey, not enemy, but something it could not fight, could not burn, could not crush.

Aric's daggers whispered into his hands.

Twin blades, dark as midnight, edges glimmering faintly with the runes of Heidgard. They hummed with restrained hunger, as though eager to drink blood.

Ozborn's breath quickened. He tightened his grip on his blade, though doubt trembled in his arm.

"You… you're a demon."

Aric tilted his head. "You're right."

Then he moved.

One step forward.

Shadow blurred, afterimages trailing like ghosts in his wake. His dagger flashed, striking not Ozborn's chest, but the dagger in his hand. Steel clanged, sparks bursting, and Ozborn's weapon spun uselessly from his grip, clattering into the rocks.

Another step. A twist.

Aric's knee drove into Ozborn's gut with the force of Ki Fists. The man's body folded around the blow, air exploding from his lungs in a ragged scream. He stumbled back, retching, barely able to stand.

Kelthor lunged to defend him, but its motion stuttered. The dragon blinked, confused, as its claw veered to the left instead of the right—as though invisible strings pulled its strike awry.

Its talons dug furrows into the stone, missing Aric completely.

Ozborn gasped, trying to form words.

"Kel—Kelthor, kill him—!"

"Enough."

Aric's daggers crossed in an X. They glowed faintly, dark light flickering along their edges. His voice dropped, low and final.

"Heaven Piercing Spear."

He thrust.

The blades struck—not at Ozborn's chest, but at the empty space where possibility converged. The air cracked. For an instant, the threads around Ozborn and his dragon shimmered, writhing violently as Aric severed one with his strike.

The result was chaos.

Kelthor's roar died in its throat as it stumbled backward, collapsing under a force it could not see. Ozborn screamed as his body convulsed, his balance ripped away, his defenses shattered by something he could not fight.

Aric advanced. His shadow fell across Ozborn like a noose.

With a clean motion, his dagger carved down.

The blade sliced through flesh, through bone, through the ringed hand that bound dragon and man.

Ozborn's left hand fell to the ground, severed cleanly at the wrist.

Blood spattered across the stone, dark and steaming. The dragon bellowed, its connection to its master shattering like glass.

Ozborn collapsed to his knees, clutching the stump, his scream echoing across the blackened plain.

Aric flicked his wrist, scattering the blood from his blade. The severed hand lay at his feet, the ring glinting faintly even as it grew slick with red.

He crouched, lifting it between two fingers as if it were nothing more than a trinket. Then rummaged through the crusaders clothes pulling out a couple parchments.

"Your fate," he said softly, his eyes meeting Ozborn's, "was sealed the moment you chose treason."

Behind him, the dragon thrashed, roaring in agony, its bond broken. Ozborn howled curses, his voice raw with hatred and pain.

But Aric was already turning away, the severed hand clutched calmly in his grasp.

He raised his other hand, signaling into the darkness.

A shimmer answered from afar—Serina's presence, swift and unseen, her work done.

Together, like shadows, they vanished into the night, leaving Ozborn broken and screaming, blood pooling beneath him as the dragon keened in despair.

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