The impact of Seraphis’s attack left nothing but chaos and destruction in its wake, carving a crater vast enough to swallow an entire city. The ground was littered with incinerated bodies—though even those were scarce, as most had been reduced to ashes. Amidst the devastation stood Atlas, his crimson armor and blade gleaming, untouched by the surrounding destruction. Beside him was Lars, his avian shield bearer. Only they survived; It was a stark reminder of the immense power of these ancient beasts, and the peril of attempting to harness such might for personal gain; to control such power, one needed strength beyond measure. Orion had wisely turned that power against his enemies, reducing their numbers to just two—but those two were not to be underestimated. Atlas, alone, with his crimson blade, was enough to threaten an army.
“Th-thank you, sir!” Lars gasped, his breath ragged, his heart still racing from the devastation he’d witnessed. “You saved my life when it was I who should have been your shield...”
“You would have only gotten yourself killed,” Atlas replied, his gaze piercing. “And for what?”
“To save your life, sir!” Lars stammered.
“Do you think my life needs saving? Do you truly think so little of me, Sir Lars?”
“No, of course not, sir!” Lars panicked, fumbling over his words. “But the duty of a shield bearer isn’t just to carry your shield, Sir Atlas! It’s being your shield! My life lost its meaning the moment Lucius appointed me as your shield. A shield must protect its master, even if the master doesn’t need it.”
“A waste of a perfectly good shield, Sir Lars. Your sacrifice would be meaningless,” Atlas said, placing a hand on the young avian’s shoulder. “Leave now and report what has transpired. I will handle the dragon—it’s my duty as the Crimson Blade of Elyria.”
“Of course, Sir Atlas.” Lars bowed, unfurling his brown wings, and took off from the crater, flying toward the White Castle.
The green crystal that the Dragonsworn Conclave had transported lay shattered and half-melted in the crater. It no longer showed the vision from Seraphis’s eyes; the damage inflicted on it caused the dragon to plummet and crash somewhere to the east. This crystal was, in fact, the heart of Seraphis—a source of energy that granted life to his hollow husk. With the crystal broken, so too was the link between the dragon and its source of power. The Conclave had hauled the crystal to the battlefield, rather than keeping it safe within the castle, for a simple reason: the crystal could only animate the dead dragon if it remained within a certain range, and Seraphis had been moving further and further away.
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Above the crater, Orion circled like a vulture eyeing its prey, his form that of a magnificent white dragon. Below, Atlas stood his ground, knowing that a single misstep could spell his end. He had faced countless foes across various realms, but never had he confronted a dragon—let alone one like Orion. Orion was no mere beast; he was a true dragon, perhaps the last of his kind. Who could guess what ancient powers lay within him?
Orion descended, landing with a thunderous impact close to the wary Atlas, who held his crimson blade steady, pointing it at a creature his ancestors had once waged war against. The dragon extended his massive head towards Atlas, sniffing the air around him like a predator sizing up its prey, then let out a deafening roar that shook the earth. Atlas stood firm, though his heart pounded wildly in his chest. For the first time in his life, he felt the cold tendrils of fear creeping through him. Perhaps this opponent would finally make him break a sweat, and the thought sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
Rising onto his hind legs, Orion bellowed one last time toward the heavens. A storm of lightning cracked through the sky, striking the ground in a blinding flash. From within the dragon’s chest, a human hand pierced through the scales, and from that wound, Orion emerged in his humanoid form. He leaped down onto his knees as the flesh of the white dragon disintegrated into sparks of lightning, vanishing into the air.
Though Orion now stood as a man, traces of his draconian nature remained—two prominent horns curled from his head, his eyes glowed an ethereal blue, and delicate scales adorned his neck, blending seamlessly with his skin. Lightning flickered around him, dancing across his form, hinting at the power of the dragon that still coursed through his veins.
“Well, now this is a surprise!” Atlas exclaimed. “Who would have guessed that dragons could shapeshift?”
“And who would have guessed that avians could be so... chatty?” Orion replied with a sly grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be trying to kill me right now? Isn’t that the usual way of your kind—strike first, ask questions later?”
“Normally, yes. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” Atlas said with a smirk. “It’s not every day you meet a living dragon, let alone one with a rogue avian as an ally—and one with wings as dark as night.”
“Ah, avians and their prophecies,” Orion scoffed. “Always more afraid of what might come to pass than concerned with what has already happened or what is happening now. Is that really how you want to spend your immortality? Living in fear until the end of your days?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Atlas replied, nodding as he sheathed his sword and casually sat on a piece of rubble. “But I’m just a simple soldier; I follow orders. And no one ever gave me instructions on what to do if I met a dragon. So perhaps we should talk and find some common ground... even if you did just slaughter my entire platoon.”
“I did no such thing,” Orion countered, his voice firm. “That was your pet dragon’s doing—the one whose soul you’ve chained to a decaying body. Why shouldn’t I just kill you right here and now, even if you are the infamous Atlas, the Crimson Blade?”
“You could certainly try,” Atlas replied, his tone calm. “But we both know that would be a gamble. Neither of us holds the upper hand in such a fight, and battles like that are best avoided.”
“Agreed,” Orion said, nodding. With no sign of fear, he sat down beside Atlas, their uneasy truce hanging in the air.