The azure eyes of a white-haired man flutter open, blooming like a delicate rose. He finds himself submerged in a field of golden wheat swaying to and fro in the gentle breeze. 200 years of slumber vanishes from his visage as his eyes reflect a massive glowing orb far in the skies above him. He sits up, eyes magnetized to the celestial behemoth. Though, mesmerized by its beauty, he fails to suppress a shiver of foreboding. A pulse of mana radiates from the orb, sending a shockwave rippling through Chao, and a surge of instinct reverberates within him.

“Run”

Without question, he dashes for cover in a nearby forest. Ducking, dodging, bobbing, weaving, the man tears past countless thickets and branches draped in shimmering scales. The Dragonwood Forest engulfs him, serving as a sanctuary from the cosmic body. His pace slows and a sharp chill gnaws at his skin. His exhalations turn white as he takes measured steps deeper into the forest. An absence of the senses assaults him; no echoing birds, no fragrant flowers, only row after row of armor-clad arbor, and a haunting nip in the air. A soft twinkle in the distance catches his eye. Moving closer to investigate, he sees the rusted breastplate of a fallen mercenary, its owner remaining lifeless inside. Without warning, another jolt of instinct echoes through him.

“Defend”

Calm and composed, he outstretches his hand eastward, just in time to conjure a wall of mana and intercept a frigid blast sent to consume him. Stalwart, he remains unwavering as the blizzard rages on around him. Snowflakes pepper the forest floor, creating a landscape in league with the frostlands of Icarus. He catches one, watching its pristine form dissipate in his hand.

“You there, intruder!” A booming voice rings from deep within the forest. “Many have entered this forest in search of treasure. Yet, I have left nary a survivor…”

“I–I mean you no harm!” the man shouts back, trepidation singing his voice. “I seek sanctuary from the horror in the sky. Though if I would encroach on your territory, I would surely leave.”

His answer is met with a brief silence. Then the voice returns with a hint of curiosity.

“Tell me, wingless. You are not rider. How is it that you survived my wintry assault?”

The man offers a slight shrug. His head cocks with the slightest tilt to the right as he brings two fingers to a rest on his chin.

“I’m not sure myself really. It was instinct, I suppose.”

“Instinct. How curious…” the voice muses, trailing off.

“Very well, wingless. Approach! So that I may assess your intent.”

He continues towards the voice, boots crunching through the paper-thin snow. Emerging from the towering trees into an open clearing, the owner of the voice reveals herself. Her reptilian neck cranes skywards, and a cascade of shimmering sky-blue scales drape down the back and wings of the beast. A set of sapphire eyes make their way down to the man, boring into his soul.

“You are quite unlike the others I have killed…”

The man blushes, offering a bashful smile.

“Your name, wingless, sing it for me.” The beast demands.

“My name…”

Befuddlement becomes him before his ancestry enlightens him with an answer.

“Chaos,” he responds with a calm confidence.

“Chaos…born of Chao itself, hmm? A strange one you are indeed.” She scans him over once more before continuing. “My name is Salamandstra, Last of the Dragons, Architect of Blizzards.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Chaos answers with a humble bow.

With Salamandstra now at ease, Chaos takes in her full splendor. From horns to tail, he marveling in silence on her impressive stature complimented further by the regal shine of her scales. Looking deeper, however, reveals the rapid calcification of Salamandstra’s underbelly.

“You’re looking a bit worse for wear there, Salamandstra.”

“Ah, yes,” she starts, following his gaze. “It would appear that I am dying.”

The profundity of the statement leaves him shocked and speechless. He now looks upon her with a dumb, blank stare before snapping back into action.

“I–is there anything I can do to help!?” He panics.

She gives him a light chuckle, blowing back his hair and leaving a thin sheet of frost on his robes.

“I am afraid not. It is my last wish to die here in service to my family.”

“Your family? I thought you were the last of your kind?”

“Come now, look.” She gestures with her serpentine head towards her left wing. Peering over her, Chaos sees an assortment of eggs. Encompassing an array of muted shades, each one sits at chest height, and twice his width.

“Oh wow…It’s–they’re beautiful…”

“These are the remnants of my people: the offspring of my brothers and sisters and the memories of their sacrifice.”

She turns back to face Chaos.

“As I am now, I lack the means to hatch them and remain to protect them as they grow. This sorry state is all I can give to keep them safe; the dregs of my power.”

A rush of resolve and vigor courses through Chaos’s body. Instinct, once again, possesses his very being.

“Heal”

Salamandstra recoils at the sudden outstretching of Chaos’s hand. A warm blue glow emanates from his palm, entrancing the dragon of frost. A peculiar familiarity washes over her as her head approaches his hand with caution.

“Your mana…”

“I– is there something wrong?” He stammers.

“No. It just…reminds me of someone I once knew…”

Closing her eyes, she nuzzles her colossal maw into his hand. Her icy scales send a shiver through Chaos’s body, soon replaced by the kind warmth of his kindred spirit. Entering a meditative fugue, a spiral of glyphs and sigils appear around Chaos’s closed eyes, and a soft voice echoes within his mind.

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“See”

* * *

I see her…

Her radiance cascades through the valley like the light of the Sacred Flame. She towers over us, the blasphemous witch, blinding us with her pale conviction, seeking nothing but complacency and submission. We dragons were few in number, but mighty in stature, and unmatched in power. As long as we stood as one, there was no way we would falter. Or so we thought…

My kin, led by Geltris and his rider, led the advance.

“Amalie, Syndavyr, with me! Alchion, Mendalie, Salamandstra, hold the ward.

A flick of his rider's sword put Geltris’s plan into motion. He takes flight, determined to convince the Bright Devil of his air superiority.

“Protect the brood at all costs! And whatever you do, do not let them touch you!”

Geltris’s final remarks remain an echo in my ears as he speeds towards our illuminated foe. Talons and blades unsheathed, contact is made, and the Dragonscale Valley would never know peace again.

Bursts of monochromatic mana clash in the atmosphere, draining the land of color with every strike that lands between them. Having completed the ward, the Vanguard takes off after the commander. It would be the last time I would see Amalie smile, though a palpable fear seeped its way down from her eyes to the corners of her mouth.

Far below, the achromatic legion swarms us by the tens of thousands. People of all races, species, shapes, and sizes, devoid of color, ambition, and self, attack us in a mindless frenzy. They pounce on our brothers and sisters, overwhelming those outside the ward with sheer numerical force. They plunge their hands into our brothers and sisters, infecting them with their colorless curse, scrubbing the hue of their scales away. They kill our brothers and sisters. Kin after kin falls to the unrelenting assault. Infected riders fall on their swords, unwilling to succumb to the Bright Devil’s will. Infected dragons are beheaded by their riders, whose fate is sealed by the severed connection. The endless wails and howls lash at my senses as the front line breaks.

I see them…

The gray march on, as the Vanguard continues to fight tooth and claw with the Bright One. She fends off their every attack: every stream of fire doused, every bolt of lightning deflected. She toys with them while the earth shakes as the sabatons of her minions tread ever closer to our bastion.

“Amalie, the ward!” Syndavyr yells. Distracting her for a crucial second. The Bright One pounces, hurling a lance that shrieks through her body. Her scales begin to burn away as dragon and rider plummet toward the ground. Her screams tear away at my soul as my tear-filled eyes bear witness to her final moments. Her silence chokes me as I try to call out, but my absent voice is replaced by another’s.

“Amalie!” Syndavyr shouts, diving toward her, fatally turning his back on the enemy.

“Syndavyr, no!” Geltris bellows, unable to save his brother from his fate. A rain of spears descend from the heavens, perforating muscle and bone until Syndavyr crashes into the ground.

Geltris’s mana grows in tandem with his rage. His dark aura engulfs us, hiding the battlefield from the Father’s luminance. His rider sprouts wings, allowing them both to focus their onslaught; their final effort to blot out the perennial light that seeks to end our existence. Blows are exchanged faster than my eye can witness, yet the defeaning booms of their bout confirm the presence of the skirmish. A stalemate locks the trio into place. Geltris’s stygian bite fails to connect with her nape, while his rider’s sword lands nary a scratch on her armor. They disengage, fleeing into The Bright One’s blind spots only to reappear on either side of her, hoping to end the conflict with a final strategy; a daring pincer maneuver that puts both of their bodies in harm's way. But her swordspear can’t defend her from an attack on two fronts. Can it?

A deafening crash sends a shockwave rippling through the valley. A billow of dust obscures my vision. I desperately try to find some indication of our victory through the cloud, but my hopes are murdered once the veil is lifted.

The blade of her swordspear is lodged firmly within Geltris’s throat, while her hand finds itself within his rider’s chest. Our leader has failed; the vanguard has fallen. Everything goes white.

I hear her…

Her voice rings out over the valley, shattering my world with every syllable.

“Dragons. Riders. You are a proud people: few in number, yet strong in stature. Long have I admired the Draconic resilience; the altruistic rider, sending kin after kin to die in service to those far beneath you, even as your brood dwindles away. At every juncture, I’ve been forced to slay at least a handful of you, so unwilling to embrace the peace of indifference. You are a proud people, yes, but you are blind.”

“You have witnessed the fruits of your labor spoil and rot before you. Your fields have been salted, your hounds executed, your nurturing hand slaughtered; yet you ordain to continue this insipid struggle as if I am above razing your crop in order to enlighten what remains the absolution of my dominance before they too, fall victim to the cull of the reaper that stands before you.”

She releases her swordspear, and Geltris plummets to the ground akin to the tears I weep over him. The flesh and bone of his rider burn away at her touch until not a single memory of him remains.

“Aetherians!”

She points the tip of her blade directly at the ward.

Rigid, the horde stands together, hungrily awaiting her command.

“Go now, bring me this year's harvest!”

I hear them…

An endless sea of white, opaque and devout, pours over the valley like an unabating blight.

The cacophony of their armor pricks my ears like needles; the countdown to impending extinction. And without warning, they are upon us.

Thump, thump, thump… Their soulless fists pound against Syndavyr’s mighty ward. The rhythm synchronizes with my heart beat. My pupils dilate. The world begins to spin. I can’t breathe…

“Salamandstra, are you alright?”

Alchion’s voice breaks through my stupor. The warmth of his crimson voice washes over me. He has the Father’s eyes; his passionate heat flows through me, restoring my breath and composure. A meek smile fails to hide the defeat in his eyes.

“We can’t give up just yet, you guys. If even one of us survives, the brood may yet live on. We must not falter.”

His scales shimmer, as if he convinced himself of his own convictions. His fervor burns bright, evaporating my tears and rousing Amalie from her stupor. As I watched as the spear of light pierce through his neck, I couldn’t help but wonder if she took his radiance as a challenge. Time begins to slow his gait, watching Alchion’s head tumble to the ground. I couldn’t hear Amalie’s cries for help over the sound of my own heart breaking. They swarmed her, drowning her body in a colorless accumulation while she panicked and stomped about, desperately trying to fling them off of her body as the cracks of light began to shoot up her scales.

The wellspring of emotions lay siege to my psyche. Rage, despair, abject terror, and pain lay their scaffolding upon my throat and expand like a virus into my mouth. Spoiled and rotten, the cacophony curdles between my sharpened teeth. It consumes me.

I scream…

Mana is purged from every pore, seeping and leaking from my tear-stained scales.

The force of the yell dispels the mob. A deafening crack splits the land beneath my planted feet, and a fortress of ice sprouts, encasing the brood and myself like Syndavyr’s failed ward. Their weapons clang and bounce off my shield. Pale tooth and hueless nail try to force their way to me, yet the ice remains unblemished.

I’m…safe?

The Bright One descends to meet my gaze. Every fiber of my being tremors at her presence. I try to turn away, but my head remains still. My ice has surrounded me wholly and truly. I cannot move.

In her eyes, a look of calm finality. The corners of her lips curl into a faint, twisted smile. She raises her swordspear. I cannot close my eyes.

Her head snaps back, hair standing on end. She turns back to me, eyes now filled with a mixture of anger, disgust, and…fear? A wipe of the hand and a tear opens from my world to hers. She steps through in a hurry, leaving her legion behind.

From nowhere, a new presence emerges. I can feel its existence pressing down on me, like the weight of my failures given form. The singed wheat of the valley parts as it passes through the legion uncontested. The gray give way as It approaches my bastion, only a few feet in height. Hair white as snow, and no eyes adorning it's face.

“It’s just a child…”

It holds its hand up so I can see it. There, right in the center of his palm, a striking blue iris that pierces through my body colder than the ice that surrounds me. It looks crestfallen, as though its whole life was taken from it. A wellspring of melancholy sweeps over the valley as its eye begins to shed tears, and the legion begins weeping alongside it. A chorus of dissonant wails and discordant moans flood the valley with an ocean of tears as I watch the child drips its lamentations over my fallen kin. Blinking away a frozen tear of my own, I am met with silence when my eyes reopen. The child, vanished, along with the Bright One’s army.

I am alone…

* * *

Chaos pulls his mind from Salamandstra’s memories. His palm caresses her maw as he watches her drift into eternal slumber. Eyes full of rain, he gazes over the beautiful mosaic of vibrant eggs, now brimming with life and mana. Tethered to the brood now in body and soul, a deep exhalation escapes his gentle countenance as he tries to stem the tide of tears. With great caution, he hefts a massive emerald egg, and sits down in the grass. A tender smile plays upon his face as Ifrit’s golden rays usher dusk over Dragonwood Forest.

And within his paternal embrace, the egg begins to crack…