CRACK!
A wooden pendant split in the woman's hands, brittle as old bones. The calm that once lived on her face vanished—now only terror, a mother's horror twisting her features as the world seemed to tilt beneath her.
"Mrs. Thalienne, is everything alright? I heard a crack."
The call came from below, an old voice muffled by branches and the hush of green shadows. It was the same forest where Dravion had first seen the world, though now he was far from here.
The young-looking elf stared down at the shattered pendant she'd once shared with her youngest son. As long as the pendant remained whole, he was safe. If it broke… don't even think it—but her heart seized, knowing.
"Dravion…" Her voice broke, the name spilling out like blood from a wound. "My baby… my boy…"
The sound echoed through the woven branches and winding roots of the elven village. Pointed ears twitched to attention all across the trees and on the forest floor, and people began to move, drawn by the agony in that single call.
"What happened?!"
A voice, sharp with panic and grief, broke the silence as a man darted up the tree—an elf too, one of their own, moving with a speed born of fear. This was their tribe, the same blood that the Dragon God had ripped apart only hours ago.
He reached her, pulling her close with trembling hands. But when his eyes fell on the broken pendant, his breath caught. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two more.
Both cracked.
Just like hers.
"No… No! Dravion... Kaenira... Sarevyn..." His voice tore itself apart, each name a wound. "My children... NO! Who dares?!"
His grief exploded into rage—a wild, reckless heat that no elf should know. To lose control like this, it would take a pain that nothing else could cause.
His face hardened. His voice dropped, cold as winter.
"Gather the strongest fighters." His eyes glowed with that dangerous thirst for blood. "We hunt the beast that took our children. Track every step. Move—now!"
The order was all they needed. Thirty elves—maybe less, but every one a veteran—grabbed weapons and armor, faces set. No one argued. Grief left no room for mercy.
Far away, Dravion was still lost in his own world, devouring the last of his eggshell, unaware of the storm building in his wake.
But now, the present—
Dravion stood awkwardly on two feet, arms dangling at his sides, looking down at his strange, reshaped body. The motion felt wrong—wrong, yet natural, as if some old memory was guiding him, half-remembered, half-forgotten.
The fog in his mind never lifted. Power didn't excite him, awe never touched his heart. If only he remembered who he was, he might have known why none of this felt special.
"Follow my voice..."
The whisper returned, curling through his mind like a breeze through autumn leaves. This time, it came from the west, the sun already fading low behind the horizon.
He took a step, then hesitated.
"Why?" he asked the silent air. "Why should I follow? Who are you? What do you want from me?"
No answer came. Only a shimmering ripple in the space ahead, quivering, inviting.
His feet moved by themselves, slow, uncertain, but forward all the same.
Twenty minutes earlier…
"A bloodbath… what kind of monster could've done this?" The voice trembled, cutting through the dread that pressed in from every angle. One of the elven warriors stood over the corpses—young, all headless, but still theirs. Still kin.
They gathered in the clearing, weapons out, expecting battle—finding only silence and the aftermath of slaughter.
"Look," another said, pointing to the base of a tree. "The earth's fresh. No grass. Something was here before." The spot where Dravion's egg had rested—now just bare dirt, a void where life should have been.
Sylvaran, father to the lost, knelt in the dirt, cradling the smallest of the bodies—his son, his Dravion. Just… headless.
He didn't speak. His eyes were blank, all the light drained away.
"Sylvaran," someone called gently. Nothing. "Sylvaran!" A sharp slap snapped in the stillness.
"Wake up!" the voice barked. "Mourn later. First, we bring back the head of what did this!" Grief and fury warred in his words—he too had lost a child, but his heart wasn't allowed to break.
Sylvaran blinked. Something inside him sparked, then caught fire.
"Thank you, brother…" He laid the small body down and covered it with shaking hands, leaves and dirt for a shroud.
"Spread out. We track it now."
"No need," a warrior grunted, nodding to the ruined trees.A path of destruction carved straight through the undergrowth—branches shattered, brush crushed, the trail unmistakable.
"Follow it. Fast!"
But then—
RUMBLE!
A thunderous explosion split the sky to the north. A wall of wind and power ripped through the woods, flattening grass and shaking every branch. Warriors froze, fear licking up their spines.
That power… it came from where the beast had gone. They ran toward the sound, hearts pounding. Five minutes of sprinting—then they saw it.
The forest was gone.
All of it—sacred northern groves reduced to ash. Ancient spring, dried to bone. Trees, earth, hope—obliterated.
One stumbled forward, voice hoarse. "Impossible… That kind of strength… It's on the level of a Pulseforged warrior..."
Another shook his head, his voice trembling. "None of us can fight that. We're only Veinkindle… If we face it, we're already dead."
Sylvaran stared at the ruin, his breath coming rough, the destruction around him a mirror of the storm in his soul.
He wanted that power. He knew he was not pure enough—not strong enough in core or spirit—but the desire burned anyway.
Still—
"No. Even if we're a stage below, even if we die… we fight. We have to."
"You'll get us all killed!" one of the others snapped, backing away. "We need the chief! Only he—"
"I'll kill you myself if you run," Sylvaran growled, voice cold, eyes shining. "Choose—death here, or death in battle. I'll die, but I'll bring back the monster's head and let my children sleep."
No one argued. He was the strongest here. If he said fight, they would follow.
"Tracks!" a scout called out. "Heading west!"
Footprints—bare, clawed, not quite human—pressed into the soil, trailing off into the trees.
They moved fast, hearts in their throats, knowing every step might be the last.
They ran for twenty minutes, pushing through branches and ruin, until finally, there—through the gaps in the trees—they saw it.
A small, childlike figure. Draconic lines. Pale skin. Walking slow, almost lost, not even noticing the hunters that closed in behind.
Sylvaran's grief burst into rage.
"Filthy dragon-kin! So that's who dared to spill sacred elven blood. DIE!"
He lunged, blade gleaming. The child turned, golden eyes catching his charge — calm, cold, unblinking, carrying a weight that had no place in a body so small.For just a heartbeat, Sylvaran's courage stuttered.
For just a moment, the hunter knew fear.