That single ripple in Sylvaran's heart, that flicker of hesitation, was all Dravion needed. In that heartbeat, something ancient pulled itself awake—a cold, hungry instinct, the predator stirring after too long asleep.
Thirty warriors circled him, their blades and bows drawn, a hunt that was never fair, not with the blood in his veins. They thought themselves hunters, but all they did was set fire to something deep inside him.
His body moved before thought could catch up, spinning past Sylvaran's desperate charge, one clawed hand brushing the elf's side—a gentle touch, almost mocking in its lightness, but the force behind it shattered the illusion.
BOOM!
Sylvaran was thrown like a broken doll, crashing through bark and splinters, his body slumping against the tree as blood spattered the roots. The world spun for him, and panic found its voice
"What the—?!"
But the forest had already changed.
"Attack!" came the desperate cry, arrows darkening the sun, swords catching what little light slipped through the leaves, raw magic flickering in shaking hands as every heart stuttered with fear and rage.
Dravion's eyes narrowed, golden slits sweeping the battlefield, tracking every motion—the flight of every arrow, the glint of every blade, the trembling surge of mana in the air. In that chaos, clarity bloomed.
His body remembered what his mind could not. Arrows meant to shatter stone slammed against his shoulder, bursting in harmless sparks, while the archer's fear crawled up his spine as Dravion's gaze met his and the air filled with the scent of death. Every other attack missed, not because Dravion dodged, but because the world itself bent around him. He simply moved, and violence failed to reach him.
In a blur of speed that left the ground screaming, Dravion appeared before the trembling archer, a single clawed hand wrapping around the elf's head. For a breath, nothing moved.
The rest of the elves hesitated, paralyzed by the scene—Dravion's burning eyes, the archer's terror, the predator's silence. "Let him go!" someone shouted, but it was too late to beg for mercy. Warriors surged forward, Sylvaran among them, blood trailing from his mouth as he raised his blade and slid a finger slowly from hilt to tip.
Hummm…
A bluish aura flared along the weapon, warping the air, an old tribal enchantment, a last-ditch effort, but the dragon child didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't care.
Dravion's grip tightened, slow, deliberate, and the elf's scream cut through the trees, shrill and desperate, but the plea dissolved into wet whimpers as Dravion's wings twitched and an arrow hissed toward his back, only to be swatted aside by a casual flick of his wing. His eyes found the next target, cold and patient.
His grip crushed bone—crack, pop—and the skull caved, blood and fragments splattering the ground. One life snuffed. Fear crawled into the hearts of the others, warred with their need for vengeance, made their steps falter as the fire inside them guttered and flared.
WOOOSH.
A blaze of golden flame tore from Dravion's mouth, catching another warrior and turning him to cinders without even a scream, his body consumed in a single, merciless instant. Silence fell as the ashes drifted down, every elf staring at the spot where their brother had stood, the horror plain on their faces.
Sylvaran's voice snapped the spell. "Pull yourselves together!" He stepped forward, slow but steady, his gaze never leaving Dravion, who rose from his crouch, scales shining, wings flexed.
"He's trying to break us. Using his power to shatter our resolve. But we are not weak. We are the Bronze Leaf. We are warriors of the Forest. Stay close, strike as one. That is how we win!" His words found their mark, lighting something in the eyes of his warriors, the fear burning alongside determination, the tribe's old fire refusing to go out.
"For the Bronze Leaf tribe!" someone called, and another answered, "For the Forest of the Earth Mother!" The voices rose, one by one, until every warrior remembered what they were fighting for—not survival, but honor, for their children, for the peace of their village. If their lives could bring down the monster, that was enough.
Dravion muttered under his breath, "They… look like sister…" A flicker of memory twisted through him, a vision of a young elf girl, her face soft with sadness, her lips shaping words he couldn't hear. It slipped away, blurry and distant, leaving only the certainty that these warriors wanted revenge.
"I ate them…" he said, louder now, though the words were meant for himself, not for their ears. The elves heard it, and rage twisted their faces into something feral.
To them, it was mockery, a taunt from the creature that had destroyed their blood. They never saw the confusion in his eyes, never heard the tremor in his voice, and now it was too late.
Guilt never touched him. Hunger ruled, insistent and gnawing, stoked by the power he'd unleashed, by the emptiness in his belly and his bones.
"Eat them all," came the whisper in his mind, slick and cold, that familiar, ancient voice. "They're in your way. Another offering. Small sacrifices. Nothing more." He didn't resist. He let it in, let it guide him.
WHIP!
His tail slammed the ground, dirt and roots exploding into a storm of debris.
AHHH!
A scream tore from the eastern flank, panic and pain mingling in the swirling dust. Silence fell, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors.
When the haze cleared, one elf stood swaying, blood gushing from the stump of his arm. Dravion stood over him, crimson dripping from his fangs, the severed limb clenched in his jaws. Worse than a beast, worse than a dragon—this was a child, golden-eyed, scaled, feasting on elven flesh as if it were fruit, the living embodiment of divine wrath.
This is what awaited those who dared to challenge the will of a god.
"More…" Dravion muttered, chewing slow, his gaze shining brighter. "I need… more."