"Is that all you've got? The tournament's in three days, and you still punch like a 'girl.' Are you a girl?"
Marcus' taunt rang out across the arena. Rivera knew he was trying to rile her up, pushing her buttons like always does. Well, she would show him exactly how a girl punches.
Ignoring the blood trickling down her arm from an earlier hit, Rivera charged forward. She feinted right, deliberately sending a false signal. She had spent countless hours training with Marcus — she knew how fast he could strike, how slippery he could be when dodging an attack. But he knew her just as well.
Predictably, Marcus saw through her feint. Instead of dodging, he rammed his shoulder into her midsection with brutal force, knocking the breath out of her and sending her sprawling across the dusty ground.
"I thought this was a no-cast duel?" Rivera called out between gasps, shooting a glare at their trainer.
Professor Scarlet stood at the edge of the arena, arms folded, her expression unreadable. Unlike the other students who watched eagerly, Scarlet seemed almost... bored. She already knew the outcome — just like everything else. It was her gift.
"Don't tell me you're giving up already," Marcus said dramatically, waggling his eyebrows and flexing his fingers in an exaggerated challenge.
Spitting out a mouthful of sand, Rivera pushed herself to her feet and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. Her jaw throbbed and her ribs ached, but she wasn't about to back down now.
It was time to use the skill she had been secretly practicing. Marcus was getting way too comfortable.
This time, she stayed back, waiting for him to make the first move. Marcus obliged — fast as lightning, he threw three jabs at her. She blocked the first two, but the third slipped past her guard and cracked against her jaw. Pain flared instantly. That was going to leave a bruise.
Marcus didn't pause. He launched a powerful kick aimed at her abdomen. Rivera braced herself, taking the hit with a grunt. She staggered but didn't fall.
She knew Marcus' rhythm. She predicted his finishing move — an aerial spin followed by a slapping kick, one that would leave her flat on her face if she let it land. But today, she had a counter.
As Marcus gave himself a few steps of distance and leapt into the air for his signature spin, Rivera moved. Fast.
She surged forward, locking her arms around his waist mid-air. Then she twisted — a clockwise spin to counter his anticlockwise move. As they hurtled toward the ground, she maneuvered herself so that when they hit, she would be on top.
The ground slammed into them with brutal force. Rivera heard Marcus grunt underneath her as the air was knocked from his lungs. She rolled off him and onto her feet just as the arena erupted in cheers.
She caught a rare, fleeting smirk on Professor Scarlet's lips.
Victory tasted even sweeter.
"You just had to ruin my fun, didn't you?" Marcus groaned, cradling what was probably a broken arm as he tried to sit up. "I was sure I'd attract a few new admirers after humiliating you. But nope, you had to kick my ass."
Freya, Rivera's best friend, chuckled from the sidelines at the sight of Marcus pouting like a wounded puppy.
"And here I was thinking I'd finally gotten rid of you," Rivera teased, dusting herself off.
"Not that easy, cold-hearted killer. We're stuck together like glue." Marcus winced as he rose to his feet. "But first, I better find the healer before you actually finish me off. Imagine how many girls I'd leave heartbroken."
Rivera shook her head with a laugh, face-palming as she exited the arena, making space for the next combatants.
But as she stepped down from the platform, a sharp pulse cracked through her mind — a searing pain that wasn't hers.
Earthtipper.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Without hesitation, Rivera sprinted across the training grounds toward where the dragons were being drilled. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
She found him easily — her dragon, Earthtipper, was coiled on the ground, his massive body trembling.
"I'm glad you're here," a deep, gruff voice echoed inside her head. It was Void, Professor Scarlet's ancient dragon. His mind-voice was rough, foreign, and tinged with worry. "While dueling another, Earthtipper collapsed and began convulsing. None of us seem to be able to hold him down for long. As you can see, Tide was a casualty."
Following Void's gaze, Rivera spotted Tide lying nearby, one wing of the blue scaled dragon was bent at an unnatural angle. Her stomach twisted. A broken wing for a dragon was excruciating.
Carefully, Rivera approached Earthtipper. She raised her hands slowly, keeping her posture unthreatening.
It wasn't the first time Earthtipper had suffered a magical surge. His powers raged within him, wild and untempered. Most dragons had casts — magical channels to safely siphon off their power. But Earthtipper was his own cast. His magic lived inside him without an escape route. Too much build-up could tear him apart... or unleash devastation on everything around him.
The closer she got, the more she felt it — the oppressive heat, the way the air around Earthtipper crackled and burned against her skin. His magic was volatile, desperate.
Reaching out with her mind was like diving into a stormy ocean — his mind kept slipping away, pulled under by the tide of raw magic. So instead, Rivera spoke aloud, forcing calm into her voice.
"Hey, buddy. It's okay. I'm here now."
Her dragon lifted his massive head. His pupils were wide with fear. The magic thickened around them, warping the air like a mirage. She could feel him spiraling — terrified, lashing out unintentionally.
"I know you're scared. I am too," she said gently. "But you're strong, Tipper. So strong. When this is over, I swear I'll take you to the highest mountain top — somewhere you can unleash as much magic as you want. I promise you."
Tipper's head lowered slightly, a low, uncertain rumble vibrating through his chest. Doubt flickered in his golden eyes.
"I swear it, on a rider's oath," she whispered. "Just trust me, okay?"
Bit by bit, the pressure in the air eased. Her dragon's magic began to subside. Rivera let out a shaky breath.
And then —
"This is why a dragon like him needs a real rider, not some weak little whelp," a voice sneered.
Bhajar.
Tipper's magic flared back up instantly, hotter and deadlier than before. Rage, pure and blinding, rolled off the dragon like a tidal wave.
"No!" Rivera screamed.
Everything happened in a flash.
Tipper opened his mouth, a brilliant surge of draconic magic building. Rivera threw herself between him and Bhajar, expecting the full force of the blast.
Instead, at the last second, he lunged forward with his paw, shoving her out of the way — but his claws raked across her throat in the process.
Pain exploded through Rivera's senses. Warm blood gushed from the wound. She collapsed, vision blurring.
The last thing she heard was Tipper's anguished, heart-shattering screech as darkness swallowed her.
Memories written in the years before the reaving.
"So tell me, Gafar, how's your daughter? Remind me of her name again," Michael said, his tone light, almost too casual for the grim journey ahead.
Gafar rolled his eyes at the poor attempt at small talk. It wasn't that he disliked Michael — he simply had little patience for idle chatter, especially when their thoughts rarely aligned.
"Shindara. That's her name," Gafar replied curtly.
"Ah, yes. You Africans do have beautiful — if not unusual — names," Michael mused, a chuckle slipping out. "I bet she's all grown now. Probably doesn't need her father scaring away boys anymore, huh?"
Gafar ignored him, focusing instead on the dwarf marching ahead of them.
Balto, though small in stature, was a towering presence. Unlike most of his kind — known for their lively spirits and booming laughter — Balto was a man of few words, a warrior through and through.
"Balto," Gafar called, cutting Michael off mid-ramble. "How fares your newborn and wife?"
The dwarf glanced back over his shoulder, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his scarred lips.
"Aye, they're well, thanks. The lass hated the idea of me leaving her side… but if this mission makes the world safer for her, it's a sacrifice I'll gladly make."
Gafar nodded solemnly, understanding too well the heavy price of duty.
Leaving family behind was an unspoken agony for warriors. Yet when the Beast Master summoned you, no one said no. It was aye.
The blood swamp lived up to its grim name.
The very ground oozed with stagnant, dark-red ponds, the air thick with the stench of decay. Jagged skulls — human, beast, and unidentifiable horrors — littered the barren earth, while vultures circled overhead, their black wings casting fleeting shadows.
The warriors behind them faltered, some covering their noses, others tightening their grips on weapons. Only a handful maintained stoic faces.
"We've been marching for hours," Michael grumbled, his boots squelching in the wet mire. "When exactly do we reach her den?"
Gafar might have ignored him again, but Balto turned expectantly toward him, waiting for an answer.
"We're here," Gafar said simply.
The group halted.
There was no visible cave, no ominous structure — just a sudden stillness in the air, a breath held by the world itself. Gafar's instincts screamed. Something was wrong.
Before he could voice a warning, the ground shifted. Figures materialized as if from thin air — orcs, armed and snarling, had concealed themselves perfectly in the swamp's rot and shadows.
The warriors hesitated, stunned by the ambush — but hesitation was death.
With a battle cry, Balto swung the massive warhammer strapped to his back, caving in the skull of the nearest orc with a sickening crunch. Blood and brains splattered the swamp floor.
The clash erupted violently.
Steel against steel. Magic against brute force. Warriors fell, one by one, dragged under the onslaught.
Through the chaos, the largest orc — a towering brute with bone armor fused into his flesh — lumbered toward Balto.
Gafar's heart pounded. Lightning rumbled overhead as he called upon his magic, gathering power in his palms. But before he could unleash it —
A sharp, searing pain tore through his neck.
He gasped, stumbling forward as a paralyzing coldness spread through his veins. His body betrayed him, muscles locking as he hit the ground hard.
Through blurry vision, Gafar saw his attacker — Michael, his mouth bloodied, fangs bared, a satisfied gleam in his eye.
"You bloody traitor," Gafar hissed, struggling to summon even a spark of magic. Whatever venom Michael used had severed his connection to the currents of power.
A heavy thud drew his attention. Balto collapsed nearby, bloodied and barely conscious, while three orcs closed in on him like scavengers on fresh meat.
The rest of the warriors — gone. Slain or captured. They had failed.
It had ended before they even began.
The massive orc approached Michael with a predator's grin.
"It's good to see you again, human," he rumbled, nodding stiffly.
"Likewise, Bloodtooth," Michael replied, wiping blood from his chin. "The time has come. We release our Queen tonight."
Bloodtooth grunted in agreement.
"No! You don't understand what you're doing!" Gafar cried hoarsely. He struggled to rise, but his body wouldn't obey. "You cannot free her!"
Michael paid him no mind. He withdrew a black-glinting dagger and a vial, slicing open his palm. Dark blood dripped into the container. Bloodtooth did the same, followed by Michael forcing Gafar's own blood to join theirs.
The moment the three bloods mingled, the vial glowed — a dangerous, shimmering amethyst.
Grinning with manic triumph, Michael strode to a series of ancient runes etched deep into the swampy earth. He poured the vial's contents carefully onto the carvings.
The ground shuddered.
The runes flared to life, pulsing an angry red as the earth cracked open with a deafening roar.
From the chasm rose a cage wrought of dragon bone, stained from ancient battles.
Inside it, curled like a forgotten nightmare, was Devorah — the Grim Reaper's bride.
Slowly, her eyes opened, glowing a deep, unnatural violet. She slid her gaze down to the bone bars of her prison. At the mere glance, the bars melted into mist.
The scar across her throat — a savage, clawed gash — lent her an even more feral air.
"My Queen," Michael whispered reverently, dropping to his knees. The orcs — even hulking Bloodtooth — followed suit.
Devorah ignored their devotion. Her gaze swept across the gathered souls until it landed on Gafar, broken and helpless on the ground.
With silent, predatory grace, she approached him, every movement smooth and deadly.
"Devorah—" Gafar choked out, but she lifted a slender hand.
The moment her fingers hovered over him, his very essence began to tear from his body, ripped away by an unseen force.
Gafar was strong. Very strong.
But Devorah's hunger, after centuries of imprisonment, was stronger.
"No!" Balto roared, his magic flaring in a desperate, final act. His form twisted, bones cracking and reshaping into a massive gray owl — his spirit form. With a beat of his mighty wings, he soared into the blood-drenched sky.
Devorah watched him fly without concern. Let him run. He would carry her unspoken message to the world: She had returned.
With the last of Gafar's spirit siphoned, his body crumbled to dust, scattered by the fetid wind.
Devorah turned to the kneeling figures, her voice hoarse from long silence but heavy with ancient power.
"Let's see how long you hold this time, Oziri," she rasped, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
The era of nightmares had begun anew.