Present

The two dragons spiraled through the sky, biting and clawing at each other in a deadly dance as they plummeted toward the earth. The white dragon—presumably Orion—held the advantage, its smaller size granting it greater agility than the four-winged beast. Orion’s sharp talons tore at the decaying flesh, and electricity crackled across his body, burning through the black dragon’s scales. But no matter how much damage he inflicted, it seemed to have little effect on the abomination. The four-winged creature was already dead, its flesh animated only by dark magic. It was impossible for any physical damage to truly harm it, for it was dark magic that gave the hollow tusk life, and not the flesh.

Far below, Valerian continued his rapid descent, hurtling toward the ground at a staggering speed. Only a few precious seconds remained before impact. His wings, scorched by the four-winged dragon’s blue flames, were still little more than charred remnants and would not heal in time. Desperate, he focused on the darkness within him—the Void Veil—gathering it into his palms, desperately attempting to slow his fall or at least soften the landing. But time was slipping away, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to envelop himself in the protective shroud fast enough.

Instinct took over. After years of flying, it was second nature, as effortless as breathing. He twisted his body midair, orienting himself face-down toward the ground. Spreading his arms and legs wide, he tried to create as much drag as possible, every fraction of a second now crucial. Just before he collided with the ground, he gathered enough strength to whip his right arm forward, extending a thin veil of darkness like a lash to absorb some of the impact. The Void Veil slowed his descent just enough to avoid instant death, but he still struck the ground with bone-jarring force.

Valerian’s body went tumbling across the grassy field, his ribs cracking and his arms breaking under the strain. His skin tore against rocks and branches, leaving bruises and bloody gashes. He rolled like a boulder down a hill until he slammed into a tree, and with a sickening crack, his spine fractured. Mercifully, he lost consciousness instantly, his mind spared from the agony of his injuries.

The Void Veil shrouded his body like a dark, healing cocoon. When he wakes up, he will heal, as if none of this had ever happened. But for now, the darkness embraced him, mending his shattered bones and torn flesh in silence.

While Valerian lay unconscious, slowly healing, a battle like no other raged above the clouds—a clash of titans that shook the very fabric of the heavens. The four-winged creature, once known as Seraphis, had been an ancient dragon, long dead and buried on the western shores of Vixengaard after a fierce battle between his kin and the avians. Now, reanimated by dark forces, Seraphis’s presence signified a conflict that could change the course of history itself. This was not merely a fight to determine who would live or die—it was a battle that could upend the world order and plunge it into an era of chaos.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

If Orion fell, and Seraphis was left unchecked in the hands of their enemies, havoc would reign, and a new age—an age of darkness and discord—would begin. Standing as the last barrier against this rising tide of chaos was Orion the White, the one true dragon left to protect the balance. For years, he had kept his true nature hidden from the world, but now he had no choice but to reveal himself in order to save a boy he barely knew—a boy who reminded him of an old friend.

Yet there was a deeper, more personal reason that drove Orion into this battle. Seeing Seraphis, the dragon he once called a brother, reduced to a mindless husk trapped in a decaying body, tormented him more than anything else. Orion fought not just for the boy or the fate of the world, but to free the soul of his brother from the shackles of dark magic so he would no longer suffer in this twisted, undead existence.

This was not merely a duel between two ancient relics of a forgotten age, nor simply a confrontation between life and death. It was a battle between two brothers—one whose death had marked the dawn of the world as we know today, and the other who had endured the passage of time, carrying the weight of their shared history alone.

As Orion tore into Seraphis’s decaying flesh, clawing and biting with a ferocity that belied the sorrow in his heart, he tried to reach the spirit trapped within the husk of the dragon he once called brother. He spoke in High Draconic, the silent language of dragons, heard only in the minds of their kin.

“Are you still in there, brother?” Orion asked, his attacks relentless, his voice a plea as much as a challenge.

A tormented whisper answered him, echoing in his mind like a distant cry for help. “Save... me...”

The moment Orion heard the words, he stopped, pulling back and taking to the sky, still facing Seraphis. His wings spread wide, and his eyes blazed with blue light, bringing forth thunderous echoes from above and below. The sky darkened beneath him, and Orion knew he needed to draw the battle lower, closer to the ground, for his attack to have its full effect. Determined to free his brother from his cursed form, Orion charged at Seraphis with lightning crackling across his wings. He moved with a speed that defied sight, closing the distance in an instant. His talons dug deep into Seraphis’s exposed ribcage, and with a mighty heave, he drove his brother downward with tremendous force.

The momentum granted by the coursing electricity sent them both hurtling through the clouds. Despite his overwhelming size, Seraphis could not resist the sheer power of Orion’s assault, and they plunged down toward the darkening earth below. Now beneath the clouds, Orion was ready to unleash his full strength.

Lightning crackled even more fiercely along his tail, illuminating the sky as thunder roared like the herald of an apocalypse. The winds howled, and a curtain of dark clouds and torrential rain shrouded the once sunny lands of Isilrun, soaking its parched soil. Power surged through Orion, and bolts of lightning formed at the tips of his horns, coalescing into dozens of crackling arrows made of pure electricity, floating above his head and ready to be unleashed.