An indescribable thirst gnawed at Dravion's mind, raw and unrelenting, the kind of hunger that nothing but blood and mana could satisfy. He'd barely been reborn, every cell burning for power.
Every breath dragged in the copper tang of blood, the smoky aftertaste of magic burnt in the wind. Even the earth beneath his bare feet trembled, as if it sensed the hunger crawling beneath his skin—a hunger older than flesh. He could feel the eyes on him, a circle of fear and fury pressing in from every side. The scent of sweat, panic, iron and old bark filled the air. He didn't just want to feed—he needed it.
This was what it meant to be a dragon—a creature forged for dominance, craving to devour, to fill itself until nothing but supremacy remained. And now, here he was, surrounded by enemies that reeked of vengeance and desperation—a feast laid out in flesh and spirit.
"He's insane…" The elf with the silver staff gripped it tightly, sweat running down his brow. He wanted to unleash his wind spell, but his own ally was in the way. If he cast now, both would die.
The elves shifted in the undergrowth, knuckles white on blades and bows, eyes darting between the monstrous child and the dying sunlight. Some prayed under their breath. One muttered an old song, voice shaking. Another swallowed hard, refusing to look away, even as his hands trembled on the string of his bow.
"Go to hell!"
A golden light exploded from the tip of a battered spear. The one-armed elf, blood pouring down his side, charged straight at Dravion, eyes cold, already saying farewell to the living. He didn't need words; one nod to the mage said everything. Permission to kill them both if it meant victory.
"Thal'dareth… you fool…" the mage whispered, a tear already running down his cheek.
Pressure built, ancient and choking. The wind howled around them, and the old trees creaked with the weight of the spell. The forest itself seemed to chant in voices lost to time, locking Dravion in a cage of pure force. He could barely breathe, the air thick as mud. His instincts screamed—run, survive. Then a sharp pain tore into his side.
A spear had struck his scales, not deep, but enough to stop him in place. The one-armed elf stood before him, grinning through the blood, defiant. "Curse you…" He spat the words, hate gleaming in his eyes.
Dravion's rage broke its chains. His claw came down, crushing the elf, turning him to nothing but ruined meat and shredded blood.
"Now's the chance! Everyone! Use everything!" the mage shouted, his voice shattering, as the wind spell snapped tighter, pinning Dravion's arms and wings to his body. The pressure locked him still. Every elf surged forward—spears glinting, arrows slicing through the air, swords and magic blazing for a single kill.
He stood in the storm, helpless, eyes wide—not with hate, but with confusion and fear. For the first time, he felt the true intent behind those weapons. They didn't want to chase him away. They wanted to wipe him out. They wanted him dead.
The world pulsed—
Boom… boom… boom…
A heartbeat older than the earth, louder with every breath. It didn't come from outside. It moved deep inside, swelling from the place where the old dragon god still lived. Pressure built in his bones, pushing back at the spell, swelling, refusing to surrender, every ounce of him screaming to survive.
The warriors lunged, every blow meant to finish it. Time slowed, the world frozen in a breath. Arrows hung in the air, swords paused mid-swing, spears shivered against invisible power. In that silence, every elf felt the suffocating terror of something old, something unstoppable, rising.
The sky darkened above them, and the air rippled.
CRACK!
A bolt of lightning fell, thick as a mountain, slow and terrible, its body twisting like a dragon descending from the heavens. The world turned white—divine wrath, pure and final.
In that moment, the battlefield was erased. Warriors vanished in the light, the forest burned to blackened ash. Only Sylvaran remained, knees buckling, blood running in streams down his body, every breath a miracle. He stared at Dravion, still standing in the middle of a crater, golden runes sliding and pulsing over his skin. The runes twisted around his body, living things, ancient and bright.
Even Dravion did not understand what he'd done. The runes did not speak in words. Their intent pulsed into his veins, offering him everything, and he took it without question. The ground trembled beneath him, the surge of power passing as quickly as it had come. Now his limbs felt heavy, his vision blurred, mana all but gone.
That thunder—whatever it was—had saved him. Whether it belonged to the world or the god he once was, he had no answer. He only felt hunger, echoing in the pit of his stomach, deeper than fear or pain.
His gaze locked onto Sylvaran, the only survivor.
"No… Stay away!"
Sylvaran stumbled, but Dravion moved—slow, body shaking, bones popping and stretching as his flesh twisted and his wings unfurled. In moments, the boy was gone. In his place, the full dragon stood, black and gold, monstrous, smoke pouring from his jaws.
The dragon lunged, jaws closing around Sylvaran's head, and the scream ended before it began.
In the end, I failed them all. A smile flickered on Sylvaran's lips.
Forgive me… That was all he managed before the darkness swallowed him.
Blood and bones vanished into Dravion's maw, every bite restoring his mana, his strength, his purpose. When the hunger passed, his form shrank, folding back into a naked, blood-soaked child, golden eyes burning in the gloom.
And then, a voice echoed through the trees, calm and old as stone.
"By the spirits of the forest…"
Dravion turned, every muscle tensed. An elf stood above, silver sword at his side, no armor, no magic, just danger. He was likely the chief of the tribe.
"I was too late…" said the old elf, voice quiet as dusk.