VOLANTIS
A hundred-foot wingspan tears through the high skies. Astrid beats against the clouds, a thunderous rhythm propelling her over the curve of the earth.
A new continent rushes to meet her.
Razor-keen eyes track eastward. The winged lizard slices through the air, a blink of nictitate membrane shielding its gaze.
White fire flares at its claws, anchoring it to something ancient, something holy.
Stoney shards of divinity that look like immaculate glass, its light extends onto her left leg making it gleam, like freshly oiled black armour.
She roars into the heavens to announce her presence on the continent, she yearns for audience amongst those she would consider her equals.
"Where are the other dragons?", she blurts out, already angling her flight path further northeast.
The wind screams past her ears as she pushes for the jagged peaks ahead, the kind that cradle a solitary, stoney nation.
"Stormscale", she gasps, the word ripped from her lungs as the ground rushes closer.
Wind whips past Astrid's scales as she soars above the jagged teeth of the hills. The land spills out before her, a new canvas unfolding.
No hesitation.
She angles down, powerful wings beating a steady rhythm, until the crest of a lone peak looms.
Landing is a mere shrug of muscle and bone.
Then, head thrown back, the raw power within her erupts. A roar tears through the stillness, a primal declaration echoing across the bare territory.
"What is this? No one comes", she snarls before her ears pick up on a little rubble of stones, "Come out little one. I see you", she says in a hiss.
A woman comes out of the shadows with pointy ears and scaly red skin that stops at her neck.
Her black hair falls straight behind her neck.
"Who are you dragon-kin?", "I am Adrissa.", the woman answers, a voice accompanied by Astrid's growl.
"Adrissa the forgotten is who I am great dragon. Banished from my home to be exiled here in Dragontop", she says and bows her head before Astrid.
"Where are the rest of my kin? Where are the dragons?", "There are no dragons my lady, only Wyverns and me".
"Stormscale has turned to a deserted land.
I shall breathe life into it anew, I shall restore the dragon lineage and Stormscale's glory", she roars.
The dragon looks down at the little humanoid creature before her, with eyes bigger than the mortal's head, "You are the only lucky one now that will have to bear witness to my rebirth and ascension", Astrid snarls.
The shards of divinity, the broken piece of Mani, floats before them.
Smooth lights of white it exudes.
It drifts, a shimmering mate, directly for Astrid's chest.
A glacial seep, and then gone, absorbed.
Her eyes snap wide, pupils blown, a drugged haze settling over her features. The dragon within stirs, a jolt of pure sensation.
White lights flow through the patterns of her scales, not a gentle wash, but a rapid surge, tracing the intricate lines of her anatomy.
Her flesh tightens, going rigid, the moisture leeching out fast. A brittle dryness takes hold.
Then, the cracking starts, sharp, insistent sounds.
Liquid beads and trickles down the newly formed fissures, followed by wisps of acrid smoke that curl and rise. She's frozen, a statue in her own crumbling skin, utterly immobile.
Her scales crack, a sickening sound and a viscous fluid spills forth. It spreads rapidly, a consuming tide, engulfing her entirely.
The liquid drawing her down, swallowing every last vestige of what she was.
She enters a molten form and enters a state of chrysalis, yet to emerge anew.
The heat flares and she becomes it, liquid fire consuming her. Then, stillness descends, a self-imposed tomb of potential.
Not death, not yet.
A chrysalis forms, a silent promise hanging in the air. The new her waits.
MERDONA
Clarion grips the cane's knob, knuckles white. His other hand worries his moustache, the thick curve a familiar anchor.
The scent of coffee, sharp and hot, drifts from the table, a cruel reminder of a sight he'll never see again.
The documents, stacked neatly before him, are just paper. Meaningless. The light has gone, leaving him in this sudden consuming dark.
He wonders why he even bothers showing up, with the gem that he acquired he is able to see but not the same way as a human. Written words remain a blur to his gaze.
Dorathy carries the files and arranges them before dropping a plate with a piece of cake on it, "I brought cake my lord. Do not worry, I shall make sure you remain in power", she says.
"I wish you didn't have to", he grits his teeth.
"Lady Dorathy", a maid calls, "There is a package for the duke" "I will be there in a minute. My lord, I will be right back", she says before leaving.
Her scents of apple and rose remain in her absence as sounds leaves as well. Quiet and a stillness, only choked away by the smell of hot coffee in his nose, remains.
The world bleeds white in his sight, not blinding, but a pure, stark canvas where the mystical plains of worldly architecture rise.
His sightless eyes see, truly see for the first time.
The veil is gone. Buildings shimmer as congregations of energy, the very ground pulses with atomic life.
Everything stripped bare, revealed in its fundamental dance.
He sees the shade and energy surging through a being that stays hidden, "Reveal yourself, I can see you", Clarion snarls.
"Be calm duke, I know you", a deep and familiar voice speaks.
A hooded character with lava red eyes walks out of the shadows, "Anarchy?" "Yes. I'm surprised you can spot me since you've lost sight", Anarchy says.
"I may be blind but my magic is still strong. They act as my eyes".
"I came to see how you fare, I heard the godspark did this to you", "It wasn't the godspark that did this to me, it was a goddess", Clarion says.
He whimpers and slightly turns his head as if to listen for unwelcome guests.
"I saw her, The White Goddess, Shiroi. And I saw someone else. A young man with white hair and eyes like the sea".
Anarchy turns his head sharply, "The goddess seemed to be speaking with him. He is touched by her", Clarion says.
"Where would this boy be now?" "I don't know, somewhere in Rolandia maybe".
"Did you manage to get his name?", Anarchy asks and Clarion throws back his head, a harsh laugh ripping through the tense air.
"When would I have the chance to get his name? When the goddess was plunging light like daggers into my eyes?", he says.
Footsteps echo closer.
"Who are you?", the voice cuts through the tense air.
Dorathy stands framed in the doorway, a cool blue flame dancing above her palm, "You should stop that woman. You can get hurt", Anarchy's eyes narrow, a raw glare fixed on Dorathy.
"It's alright Dorathy, he is a friend of sorts".
Anarchy returns his gaze to the duke.
His eyes flick around the opulent office, decorated with portraits of the duke himself, all self-satisfied smiles.
A meticulously detailed map dominates one wall, the kingdom's crest emblazoned above it.
"I have a mission, I wanted to see you before I leave", Anarchy turns and stretches his hand, putting Dorathy on edge and her eyes on him.
A red vortex spins open, "Anarchy! If you see the boy, please bring him to me", Clarion says, "I cannot, I also have interest in the Skyborn. Goodbye Clarion", and with those words he vanishes into the vortex.
HIGH TOWN
Prince Alaric walks with haste, his boots echoing on the stone. A knot of his council strains to keep pace, their worried voices, a low hum behind him.
He barrels towards the throne room. Steel clashes as guards peel away from the heavy oak doors, swinging them inward.
"All rise!", a voice booms and the assembled court obeys, a wave of rustling fabric and scraping feet. Alaric ignores them, his focus solely on the looming throne at the room's centre.
He drops into his chair and the scraping of wood signals others following suit.
His gaze sweeps the room, rapid inventory. Rolandian faces are easy to spot, clustered together.
And there, unmistakable, is Tanix, their sorcerer. Even from across the room, the man's eyes burn with a focused intensity that prickles the hairs on his neck.
"Rolandians", he mutters under his breath. The time has finally come for him to face Rolandia and the consequences of Freya's actions.
"Let us begin. Please, state your case", he says as he turns to face their Rolandian guests.
A man walks forward, dressed in noble attire and his head, blessed with years of hair gone grey, he stands before the throne and the court.
"My name is Fred Grimshaw, a member of Rolandia's royal court. I believe by now you are aware of the events that happened a few days ago.
When your golden warrior charged at our men and sorcerers. She stole something that rightfully belongs to our kingdom. We simply want justice", the man says.
"We hope to give it", Alaric answers.
"We demand that the golden warrior be punished and what she stole be returned to Rolandia", Fred speaks once more.
"Forgive me but I was made to believe that this incident, in Rolandia was brought upon by a dragon and not our golden warrior", the prince says.
"Lies, your highness", "So there was no dragon?" "There was a dragon", "And this dragon, it was after the same thing our golden warrior allegedly stole. Correct?".
"We cannot say for sure" "Were you yourself there, Lord Grimshaw?" "No, your highness but our Grand Sorcerer was there".
"Then let him speak", the prince cuts in , his tone edged with ice.
Tanix unfolds his considerable height, a slow, deliberate rise that draws every gaze in the room.
He doesn't hurry, but the shift in his posture commands attention. He moves to the centre of the court.
He turns his gaze to the prince, eyes half closed, he draws his beard before he speaks, "Regardless of what any of you think, Freya attacked Rolandian men.
Warriors and sorcerers alike are now wounded, some dead. That is a crime, considering the person in question it can be seen as a military act against our nation.
Your Highness, we talk about justice but I don't want justice, I want the relic she stole. That is it, straight to the point.
I was about to acquire it safely before she attacked, if she didn't we would have gotten the relic before the dragon arrived", he says.
"Are you sure she stole this relic? Did you see it with your own two eyes Grand Sorcerer?", "What she stole is only just a piece of the broken relic.
We want it back or you risk war between nations", "You still haven't answered me".
"I saw it! I was there boy!", he raises his voice but soon hears the stamping of feet and the alert positions taken by the guards as they hold the end of their blades.
"Forgive me, I tend to lose my temper", Tanix says with a light bow.
"Noted. But now I can't ignore the fact that you just threatened my kingdom with war", the prince says, his hand tightened on the arm rest of the throne.
"It is not a threat. We want the relic or justice. And for justice to be served we demand the golden warrior's head.
Failure to do so only means you do not care about the innocents that were killed in her attack and that you agree and support her actions.
And that is an insult to our king and kingdom", he says, eyes glued to the prince's.
Silence prevails for a minute as they stare down at each other. Sweat dripping the side of Alaric's face while Tanix remains cold in his gaze.
Suddenly, the doors burst inward. Every head swivels. A hush falls as a pale woman glides into the throne room.
Her long black dress shimmers, threads of gold snaking across the fabric in elaborate patterns, "All rise for the Queen", a guard barks.
There is a rustle of movement as everyone obeys, scraping chairs against floor.
Except Alaric. He remains sprawled on the throne, an insolent island in a sea of deference.
Tanix's eyes open widely as he sets them on the woman that walks into the court, the atmosphere suddenly changes as he feels a surge of power from her being.
Her beauty, immaculate, and yet it feels strange.
His hairs stand and goosebumps open upon his skin, he turns to her, the environment invincible to him.
"Woman, what are you?", Tanix asks.