Vale’s grip tightened on the reins as she urged her horse forward, her body pressed low against its neck. Each powerful stride jolted through her, but she trusted the animal to navigate the treacherous forest terrain. The wind tore at her, whipping her hair into a wild tangle, the carefully placed brooches she’d once worn now lost somewhere in the chaos of their flight. The faint scent of ash mixed with the earthy aroma of damp wood, a warning carried on the breeze of what lay in front.
Ahead, the cacophony of destruction grew louder: the unmistakable roars of a dragon, the crackle of flames swallowed by the rolling wall of fog that loomed before her. The fiery glow of the flame painted the haze in flickering shades of orange and crimson, a stark contrast to the gray mist. Her pulse quickened as she broke through the line of her soldiers, her horse snorting and stamping in protest at the heat and chaos.
The soldiers hesitated on the edge of the inferno, some gripping their weapons tightly, others shifting nervously. Their polished armor gleamed faintly in the firelight, dulled by the grime and sweat of the ride. Sir Charles, astride his own steed, stood at the forefront, his face flushed as if caught in the act of indecision. His red cardigan, always an eyesore, seemed almost comical in the dire setting.
Vale seized the moment, her voice cutting through the noise with a sharp command as she reined her horse in front of the group. “Men, we go forward into battle now—not for glory, but to defend our lands and people!” Her words carried an edge of authority, channeling the memory of her grandfather’s speeches. “The dragon must be driven away from the village, not slain for some foolhardy prize! Am I understood?”
Her soldiers turned to her, a mix of expressions flickering across their faces. Some nodded with grim determination, while others remained stoic, their gazes hard and expectant. For a moment, she thought her words had taken root, but then Sir Charles, with his insufferable grin, chimed in.
“Ah, yes, Lady Vale,” he began, his voice dripping with mockery thinly veiled as charm. “But was it not your grandfather, the great General Ludwyn the Wise, who once declared that the best defense is a good offense?”
The smug satisfaction on his face was unbearable, and Vale’s fingers twitched with the urge to slap the arrogance from him. Instead, she held his gaze, her jaw tight.
Before she could counter, Sir Charles turned to the soldiers, raising his voice like a practiced showman addressing an eager crowd. “Worry not, my Lady!” he declared, spreading his arms wide as if already claiming victory. “We shall not only defend your hold and her people but also defeat this devil lizard! And when we do, imagine the king’s gratitude when we present him with the beast’s head in the capital! Think of the prestige, men!”
The soldiers erupted into a roar of approval, the infectious energy spreading like wildfire. Emboldened, Sir Charles spurred his horse forward, leading the charge into the smoke. The line of soldiers followed without hesitation, their cries ringing out as they disappeared into the haze.
Vale’s chest burned with frustration, her fists clenched around the reins. She could do little but watch as they vanished into the inferno, their cheers quickly swallowed by the dragon’s distant roars and the ever-present crackle of burning wood. The acrid scent of smoke filled her lungs as her horse pawed at the ground beneath her.
Her mind raced. Sir Charles’s recklessness could cost them everything—their lives, their homes, and the safety of the village they sought to protect. Anger flared in her chest, but she forced herself to focus. They needed a leader who could think beyond glory.
“Fools,” she muttered under her breath, spurring her horse forward into the smoke. If Sir Charles was determined to play the hero, then she would be there to save what she could from his inevitable mistakes.
Trying to keep up with a group of riled-up, highly trained mounted soldiers proved far more grueling than Vale anticipated. The thunder of hooves against scorched earth filled the air, and their precision was uncanny—each rider seeming to sense hazards hidden within the dense smoke before they could even be seen. Logs were leaped without hesitation, branches ducked with the fluidity of muscle memory.
Vale, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. Her horse snorted and hesitated at unseen obstacles, forcing her to tug at the reins and adjust constantly. She cursed under her breath as the heat intensified, the acrid tang of smoke biting her throat. The chaos and urgency tugged at her nerves, yet she pressed on, determination burning brighter than the forest around her. Still, she was forced to slow her pace, and by the time she broke through the rolling fog wall, the soldiers were already ahead, their forms blurred by the shifting haze.
What greeted her on the other side of the smoke made her heart lurch.
A massive shadow dominated the scene, a beast whose emerald scales shimmered even through the flames licking at its surroundings. The forest dragon roared, its sound a thunderous tremor that shook the very ground. Yet it wasn’t attacking the ground-bound soldiers or the elves racing around it—it was lunging skyward, snapping its enormous jaws at something fleeting in the air.
At first, it was only a blur—a massive shadow moving unnaturally fast, darting just beyond the dragon’s reach. Vale’s eyes struggled to track it, but with every pass, a deep sense of foreboding swelled in her chest. The shadow wasn’t just large; it radiated darkness, an almost tangible aura of dread that seemed to leech the warmth from the inferno around it. Whatever it was, it moved with predatory grace, staying just out of reach, as though taunting the dragon.
The dragon roared again, a guttural cry filled with frustration, its talons raking the ground in fury as it prepared to unleash another burst of flame. Vale’s breath caught, the sheer power of the creature overwhelming even from this distance. But it was distracted—not by her or her men, but by the elusive presence in the sky.
On the ground, the elven delegation had sprung into action with mechanical efficiency. Clad in armor that shimmered faintly with magical wards, the elves dashed in precise, coordinated movements. They weren’t attacking the dragon outright. Instead, they fanned out, carefully placing glowing sigils into the scorched earth. With every sigil, a pulse of pale blue light rippled outward, weaving faint lines of energy between them to form an intricate magical pattern.
At the rear of the scene, the leader of the elven delegation sat motionless upon his steed. His silver hair seemed to glow in the firelight, his expression a mask of calm stoicism. Even as the dragon thrashed and roared, his glacial gaze remained fixed on the beast, unreadable. His hands rested lightly on the reins, his composure untouched by the chaos unfolding before him. He radiated authority, his mere presence commanding obedience from the elves scurrying around the battlefield.
Vale turned her attention back to her knights, who had finally caught up to the scene. Predictably, Sir Charles was already at the forefront, his sword drawn and his men bristling with anticipation.
“Men! Onward! We’ll drive this beast back and finish it ourselves!” Sir Charles bellowed, raising his blade high. The knights surged forward, their horses pawing the ground, but their charge was abruptly cut short as a line of elven warriors stepped into their path, long spears crossed to bar their way.
“Stand down,” an elven soldier barked, his voice sharp and commanding. “You’ll disrupt the containment runes!”
“Containment runes?” Sir Charles scoffed, his expression twisting with disdain. “That thing is destroying the forest, and you’d have us stand here like cowards? Out of our way, elf.”
“Do not mistake caution for cowardice, human,” the elf replied coolly. “You charge in recklessly, and you’ll doom us all. The sigils must be completed to hold it!”
The tension crackled as both sides bristled. The knights’ horses shifted uneasily, sensing their riders’ fury, while the elves stood firm, their spears unwavering. Sir Charles opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver another arrogant retort, but before the argument could escalate, Vale burst through the lingering smoke.
Her horse reared as she emerged, the firelight glinting off her armor and lending her an imposing presence. “Enough!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the din like a blade.
All eyes turned to her—elves and knights alike. Sir Charles visibly balked, his face flushing at being caught so easily.
“Sir Charles,” she said, her tone sharp as steel. “We are here to protect the village, not to stroke your ego. You will stand down and let the elves complete their work. Am I clear?”
The knight hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for a rebuttal. When none came, he nodded stiffly and pulled his horse back.
Vale turned her gaze to the elven leader, her chest tightening as the man’s piercing eyes met hers. “And you,” she said, addressing him directly, “will explain what exactly you’re planning and how long you intend to keep us standing here while a dragon threatens my people.”
The elven leader inclined his head slightly, his expression unchanging. “Your people will survive the night if we succeed. I suggest you prepare your men to defend the perimeter while we work.”
Before Vale could respond, another thunderous roar split the air, dragging all attention back to the battlefield. The dragon’s flames burst forth again, illuminating the dark figure in the sky as it dodged, circling back to strike. Whatever it was, it wasn’t finished with the fight, and neither, it seemed, was the dragon.
~~~
Brass pulled up hard, wings straining as the dragon’s massive tail whipped past, narrowly missing him. The force of the swing rattled the air, and he tucked his wings in, rolling sideways through the turbulence. The searing heat from the dragon’s fiery breath licked at his back, forcing him to flare his wings wide and catch the updraft. It wasn’t graceful, but it hurled him higher into the night sky, well above the treetops.
For a moment, he scanned the scene below. Flames roared in an infernal circle, casting long shadows over a chaotic battlefield. That’s when he saw them—a new group of soldiers, their banners unfamiliar, arguing with the elves who had been containing the dragon. Their shouting voices were lost in the distance, but their movements betrayed their frustration. One elf pointed sharply at the dragon, while a knight on horseback jabbed his sword toward the ground, clearly at odds.
But Brass couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He banked sharply to the right, just in time to avoid a glowing bolt of purple energy that sizzled past him. His heart thundered as he realized its source: a group of elves below, their leader now directing a small retinue of archers who were already nocking arrows. One of them raised a hand, gesturing toward him, and Brass knew instantly—he wasn’t just dodging a dragon anymore.
“Great. Just what I needed,” he muttered through gritted teeth, diving to avoid another bolt of energy.
A massive tree loomed ahead, its branches clawing toward him like skeletal hands in the smoky haze. Brass twisted midair, his feet smashing into the trunk with a force that cracked the wood. He used the impact to ricochet away, spinning back into the sky. His wings flared again, muscles screaming under the strain as he tried to mimic the diving forms of hawks or eagles he’d seen in documentaries.
It wasn’t pretty. The maneuver wobbled dangerously, and his wings bucked against the air as though resisting the motion, but it worked. He plummeted with terrifying speed, twisting his body just enough to lash out with a kick as he hurtled past the dragon’s massive flank.
The blow landed—a solid, jarring impact against the hardened emerald scales near the creature’s ribs. The dragon’s roar was deafening, a sound that reverberated through his chest like a drumbeat. Its massive claws raked the air as it turned, trying to follow his trajectory, but Brass was already blasting past it again.
For a fleeting moment, hope surged in his chest. Then he felt it—a shift in the air, heavy and electric. Magic. His stomach sank as he scanned the battlefield, panic setting in. Where’s Serra?
His gaze darted downward, heart plummeting when he spotted her. She was sprawled across the scorched ground, dangerously close to the trampling hooves of the knights’ horses. Her staff lay discarded at her side, the glowing runes on its surface flickering weakly. She wasn’t moving.
“Serra!” he shouted, voice raw with desperation.
The distraction cost him. Pain exploded in his shoulder as an arrow punched clean through, jerking his body violently to the side. He spiraled downward, wings losing their rhythm as the ground rushed up to meet him.
[Critical Health Threshold Reached – Loss of Life Occurring in 25 Seconds.]
The system’s voice was cold, clinical, cutting through the haze of pain that threatened to consume him. Brass hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop amidst smoldering ash and broken branches. Every breath felt like fire, his vision tunneling as blood poured from the wound.
“No… not yet…” he growled, forcing himself upright. Clenching his teeth, he activated Blood Healing, the last dregs of his mana draining away in an instant. Agony wracked his body as the arrow was pushed out, the flesh knitting back together with unnatural speed. The system’s countdown faded, but his energy was spent, leaving him dizzy and gasping for air.
The ground trembled beneath him—hoofbeats. Brass’s head snapped up just in time to see an elf galloping toward him, mounted on a shimmering white mare. The rider’s silver armor gleamed in the firelight, their eyes locked onto him with cold precision. At the end of a long, polished pike was a broadhead tipped with glowing runes, its sharp edge aimed directly at his chest.
The ground trembled violently as magic pulsed through it, sending waves of mana surging beneath his feet. With a deep, guttural groan, the earth burst open. Roots as thick as an arm erupted from the soil, writhing and thrashing like living serpents. They struck indiscriminately, lashing out at everything within reach. Brass could only watch as one particularly massive root speared the charging horse mid-stride.
The beast let out a high-pitched scream that was abruptly silenced as the root lifted it off the ground, impaling it clean through the chest. The horse’s momentum carried it forward slightly before it slammed into the ground with a dull, meaty thud, only some feet from where Brass had been standing. Its lifeless body hung grotesquely on the writhing root, blood streaming down in glistening rivulets to soak the soil.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Brass didn’t waste the opportunity. His muscles burned as he sprinted toward the elf trapped under the dead horse. The soldier was frantically struggling, his elegant armor smeared with dirt and blood. Upon seeing Brass approach, panic flashed across his angular features. With a trembling hand, the elf shoved at the carcass pinning him, but it was futile. Desperation contorted his face as he reached into a leather pouch hanging from his side.
From it, he withdrew a strange orb. One side of the sphere pulsed with an ominous orange glow, while the other featured a shallow indentation that shimmered faintly. Before Brass could react, the elf pressed his palm against the indented side, pouring glowing yellow energy into it like liquid light. The two opposing forces—orange and yellow—met at the center of the orb, swirling together in a hypnotic spiral.
Brass’s instincts screamed at him. He didn’t need a tutorial or a system prompt to recognize a grenade when he saw one, magical or not.
“Oh, hell no!”
Adrenaline spiked as he put everything into his legs, his muscles coiling like springs. Just as the elf flung the orb, Brass lunged forward.
The explosion hit just as his feet left the ground.
A deafening boom shattered the air, and Brass felt the searing heat race up his back. The force of the blast flung him like a ragdoll, his body twisting uncontrollably through the smoke-filled air. His skin prickled with pain as the flames licked at him, charring parts of his clothes and leaving the acrid stench of burned flesh. He hit the ground hard, tumbling over rocks and debris before skidding to a stop.
[ -10 HP ]
[ HP 13/23 ]
[ Burn Status: Active. Health will continue to decrease without immediate intervention.]
Brass groaned as he forced himself up, ignoring the system notifications flashing in his peripheral vision. His entire body throbbed, and his back felt like it had been scraped raw by sandpaper dipped in molten lava. Checking his surroundings, he saw the elf had managed to wriggle free from under the dead horse. But his leg was bent at an unnatural angle, twisted and broken. Even so, the elf was already reaching for another orb in his pouch.
“Not a chance,” Brass muttered, grabbing a jagged rock from the ground. He barely aimed before hurling it with all his might.
The rock sailed through the smoky air, striking the elf squarely on the temple with a dull crack. The elf’s head snapped back, and the second orb slipped from his grasp. Clutching his face, the elf let out a pained hiss, but Brass didn’t stop.
Seizing the opportunity, he surged forward and reached for the elf’s throat, intending to end this quickly. But as soon as his hand neared the elf’s chest, a strange hum filled the air. It was low and melodic, almost like the pluck of a harp string reverberating in the distance.
A sudden jolt of energy shot through his arm, repelling his hand violently. He staggered back, glaring at the elf’s armor. The intricate silver plates shimmered faintly, glowing with the faintest trace of runes etched into the surface. The sound of the hum lingered, vibrating softly in the air around them.
“Enchanted armor,” Brass muttered bitterly. “Of course.”
He quickly scanned the ground and spotted a spear that had fallen nearby, its polished shaft gleaming faintly in the firelight. He lunged for it, but as his fingers wrapped around the weapon’s hilt, something clamped onto his ankle tugging back.
Looking down, he saw the elf’s unbroken arm gripping his leg with surprising strength. Brass reacted instantly, shifting his weight and twisting his body. He pivoted sharply on his free foot, driving his heel down with crushing force.
The satisfying snap of bones echoed through the chaos, followed by the elf’s agonized scream.
Brass barely had time to register the sound before his senses screamed a warning. He dropped flat behind the dead horse as a half dozen arrows whistled through the air, their tips trailing streaks of glowing blue energy. They hissed as they zipped through the spot he had just been standing, embedding themselves into the ground with a sharp thunk.
Peeking over the carcass, Brass saw a group of elven archers nocking their next set, their movements precise and disciplined. Behind them, the elf commander, face bloodied and furious, barked orders with a steely determination.
Brass’s breaths came in ragged gasps, the pain in his body gnawing at his every nerve like a rabid beast. His wounds throbbed, the sharp ache of his injuries merging with the distant hum of elven magic still crackling in the air. The world around him blurred for a moment as his focus narrowed onto the elf lying broken before him.
He needed blood.
The spear felt heavy in his hand, not just from its weight but from the decision it represented. Brass stepped closer, his shadow falling over the elf. The man’s alien eyes, shimmering like liquid emeralds, met his own. There was pain in that gaze, and something more—defiance? Fear? Resignation? The elf coughed weakly, blood flecking his lips, and reached out feebly as if to ward Brass off.
For a heartbeat, Brass hesitated. This wasn’t like the brutal clash with the orc or the chaotic gunfight that had ended his human life. Those were distant, impersonal acts of survival. But this? This felt raw. Intimate. The elf was right there, his life dangling by a thread, and Brass held the blade that could sever it.
His grip on the spear tightened. The memory of his own death flickered through his mind, the choking finality of his last breath before everything went black. Brass hardened his heart, locking away the flicker of guilt that threatened to rise.
“Survive,” he muttered under his breath. “You don’t get to feel bad about this.”
With a swift, decisive motion, Brass drove the spear into the elf’s throat. The weapon slid through flesh and bone with horrifying ease, the elf’s eyes going wide with shock as blood bubbled from his lips. The sound of bowstrings twanging cut through the air like a warning bell.
[You have Defeated-Wood Elf Soldier (Uncommon): 20 XP awarded]
He acted without thought, pulling the spear free in a spray of crimson and tossing it aside. Dropping down beside the dying elf, ignoring the arrows slicing through the air above him, and sank his fangs into the man’s neck.
The elf’s blood hit his tongue like liquid fire. It wasn’t just nourishment—it was vitality, raw and untamed. The coppery tang was laced with a faint, otherworldly sweetness that thrummed with the pulse of magic. As he drank, warmth spread through his limbs, banishing the ache of his wounds and flooding his body with a fierce, primal energy.
[ Max HP Restored ]
[ Mana Regenerated: +15 ]
[ Vitality Surge: Temporary Strength and Speed Boost ]
Brass’s senses sharpened. The pounding of his own heartbeat slowed, replaced by the steady rhythm of the forest around him. Every crackling flame, every labored breath of the horse nearby, every movement of the elven soldiers beyond the trees was suddenly clear.
He pulled back, his lips stained with blood, and stood, his body brimming with newfound power. The elf’s lifeless form crumpled to the ground, the faint hum of his enchanted armor dying with him. Brass didn’t look away this time. He didn’t try to justify it or convince himself it was necessary. It was necessary, and that was enough.
The next volley of arrows came, streaking through the night like falling stars. But this time, Brass didn’t flinch. He moved with a speed that felt both natural and unnatural, his body a blur as he ducked and weaved, the projectiles slicing harmlessly through the air behind him.
In the same breath he allowed his body to shift.
The change came effortlessly this time, the lycan form feeling more natural than ever before. The rush of blood, rich and electric, coursed through his veins like liquid adrenaline. Brass’s senses sharpened, every scent and sound around him intensifying. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the acrid smoke of burning wood, and the primal roar of the dragon blended with the shouts of soldiers. His heart thundered like a war drum, and he gave in to the primal instincts coursing through him.
The blood sang, and Brass listened.
He streaked across the battlefield, a blur of fur and fangs, his claws digging into the earth with each stride. The elven archers scattered before him, their commander barking orders, his golden sword catching the firelight like molten metal. But Brass moved faster than their commands could be followed.
With a snarl, he drove forward, his momentum building as he closed the distance. He lunged at the commander, throwing a punch powered by the full force of his lycan body. The air around him whistled with the speed of the strike.
The elf reacted with almost preternatural agility, his golden blade arcing down in a precise, lethal descent aimed at Brass’s chest. Brass’s instincts screamed, and he responded without thinking, his clawed hand flattening mid-strike. The blade met his claws with a metallic screech, the deflection sending the elf’s arm snapping backward. Brass saw a flicker of surprise in the commander’s eyes—a momentary crack in his stoic demeanor.
But the elf recovered quickly, his free hand already glowing with a shimmering sphere of water magic. Brass could sense the power radiating from it, cold and sharp like a winter storm. He could also feel the archers closing in, their movements a predatory dance meant to pin him down.
He didn’t wait. With a growl, Brass activated his Vampiric Speed, channeling it entirely into his left arm. Time seemed to slow as his claw streaked forward, faster than even his mind could process. The commander twisted, trying to evade, but Brass’s strike landed true. His claws raked across the elf’s face with bone-crunching force, sending the commander flying backward into two of his men. Blood sprayed into the air, the scent intoxicating and igniting the beast within.
Before Brass could follow up, the earth trembled.
The dragon pounced, its massive form casting a shadow over the battlefield. Brass barely had time to register its movement before it slammed down, its colossal legs crushing four elves beneath it in a gruesome display of raw power. Screams filled the air as the bodies crumpled, blood spraying across the battlefield in a crimson arc. The dragon’s momentum didn’t waver.
Brass saw the creature’s head whip around, its jaws glowing with a fiery light. It unleashed a searing fireball directly toward him.
Without hesitation, Brass dropped low, pressing himself flat against the ground as the fireball roared overhead. The heat was suffocating, singeing the fur along his back and filling the air with the smell of charred earth. The explosion behind him shook the ground, the flames bursting dangerously close to the group of human soldiers.
The chaos reminded him—he needed to find Serra.
Brass darted toward the edge of the battlefield, weaving between fallen trees and bodies. His heightened senses scanned for her amidst the carnage. The dragon’s roars and the clash of steel and magic formed a deafening symphony, but he tuned it out. His nose caught a familiar scent, faint but unmistakable.
Hold on, Serra.
The battlefield surged around him, a maelstrom of blood, fire, and death, but Brass moved with purpose. He had no time for hesitation.
~~~
It was simultaneously the most incredible and horrifying scene Vale had ever witnessed.
The carnage was unlike anything the Drake Games had prepared her for. In the arena, dragons had been tamed to perform, their destruction controlled, and most were wyverns anyway. But here, in the wild, the adolescent dragon was a force of nature, untamed and feral. Smoke billowed around it, curling through the shattered forest like grasping claws, while the glow of the fire cast its massive silhouette into an otherworldly monster. It was a nightmare come alive, framed by a chaotic sky of swirling ash and flickering embers.
Her heart pounded as she watched it rear up, its jaws glowing faintly before releasing a torrent of flame that devoured everything in its path. The air itself seemed to scream as the inferno roared to life, the heat so intense that even from her distance, her skin prickled uncomfortably.
The elves had tried. She’d seen them spread out in perfect formation, their movements precise as they carved glowing sigils into the earth. But one by one, they’d fallen, the dragon’s wrath scattering them like leaves in a storm. As the containment sigils fizzled and died, the realization struck her like a hammer—no one had control here. The dragon was winning.
Her men had rushed in, brave but foolish, and the sight of their fates churned her stomach anew. Some were pinned to the ground or suspended in the air by writhing roots that erupted from the earth, magical and relentless. Others lay still, their bodies burned beyond recognition or crushed beneath fallen trees and debris.
Vale had already vomited three times, the acrid taste still lingering on her tongue. She clutched her reins tightly, trying to steady herself. Then she saw it—a fresh group of elves charging forward, only to be obliterated in an instant as the dragon landed amidst them. Its massive limbs slammed down with sickening force, leaving nothing but broken bodies and blood-soaked earth in its wake.
She felt the bile rising again, the sheer horror threatening to overwhelm her. She gritted her teeth, her hands trembling as she wiped at her mouth. Focus, Vale. Focus.
She forced herself to straighten, dragging in a deep breath that stung her lungs with the scent of smoke and charred wood. With determination, she mounted her horse again, her movements slow and deliberate as her legs quaked beneath her. She couldn’t afford weakness. Not now.
Yet even as she steadied herself, her gaze was drawn to the shadow in the chaos—a flickering, fleeting form that darted through the smoke and fire like a phantom. It moved with unnatural speed, weaving through the battlefield, its presence a blend of darkness and primal energy.
What is that? she thought, her knuckles white on the reins. She couldn’t make it out fully. The smoke was too thick, and everything moved too fast. But whatever it was, it felt… wrong.
Another roar from the dragon brought her back to the present. A fresh wave of screams rose as the beast unleashed its fury again, its tail sweeping through a group of soldiers and sending bodies flying.
Vale clenched her jaw, her resolve hardening. She couldn’t hesitate any longer. People were dying. Her men, her friends.
With a deep breath, she gripped her sword tightly and nudged her horse forward. You don’t get to falter now. You don’t get to break.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate, but Vale had a duty to fulfill—and she wouldn’t turn away, no matter the cost.
Vale gathered the scattered remnants of her men, her voice hoarse but firm as she barked orders over the cacophony of chaos. “To me! Regroup now!” she called, rallying what few soldiers remained.
As the smoke thinned just enough to make out their faces, she noted the disheveled but still haughty form of Sir Charles among them. His red-stained blade and determined scowl marked him as eager for another chance at glory. “Men, this is our moment!” he bellowed, raising his sword high.
The soldiers muttered their agreement, clutching their weapons tightly, but Vale could see the fear in their eyes. They had already lost so many. She bit back her own terror and nodded, raising her own sword. “Stay together! We charge as one!”
Just as they prepared to charge the dragon, a soldier at her flank cried out, pointing into the smoky gloom. “What is that?!”
Vale turned sharply, her breath catching as she spotted a shadow moving through the haze. It was low to the ground, swift and predatory, coming straight for them. “Hold formation!” she shouted, though her own voice wavered.
The first horse bucked nervously, its rider struggling to steady it. But before he could react, the shadow struck. In a blur of movement, the creature leapt, its claws tearing through the horse’s leg with a sickening crack. The beast toppled, throwing its rider violently to the ground.
The soldiers froze, their eyes wide as the shadow resolved into a form that sent a shiver of primal fear through them. A Lycan.
It stood tall, its muscular frame covered in sleek black fur that shimmered faintly in the firelight. Its features were both savage and strangely refined, a perfect balance of predatory grace and monstrous power. Unlike the wild beasts from the old tales, this creature wore mostly intact black clothing, its tattered edges whispering of a humanity it had long since abandoned.
Before anyone could react, the Lycan moved again, faster than their eyes could follow. It lunged at the next soldier, seizing the man’s spear and yanking him forward. The soldier barely had time to scream before the beast’s jaws clamped down on his throat, tearing it out in a spray of crimson.
Vale gasped, her hand trembling on the hilt of her sword. The Lycan turned its gaze to the remaining soldiers, tossing the lifeless body at their feet as if issuing a challenge. Its amber eyes, glowing with a mix of intelligence and primal hunger, locked onto hers for the briefest of moments.
Her breath hitched. Those eyes… they weren’t just terrifying. They were captivating. Hypnotic, even. She felt a strange pull, her heart racing for reasons she couldn’t fully understand.
The spell broke as the Lycan surged past her, a blur of dark power. Her horse reared, nearly throwing her off, but she managed to hold on. She turned just in time to see it scoop something—no, someone—from the ground. A girl, limp and unconscious.
Before she could make sense of the scene, the dragon roared, its massive form crashing down near the group and scattering them like leaves in a storm. Vale’s horse bolted, and she barely held on as soldiers screamed and dove for cover.
Sir Charles, ever the fool, tried to rally the men. “Focus on the beast! Take it down!” he shouted, charging forward with his sword raised high. But even his bravado faltered as the dragon ignored him entirely, its glowing eyes locked on the Lycan.
Then, in a movement so sudden it seemed impossible, massive bat-like wings erupted from the Lycan’s back. Scaled and powerful, they unfurled with a sound like cracking leather, catching the firelight as the creature crouched low.
With a single, mighty leap, it launched itself into the sky, its wings beating powerfully as it climbed higher and higher.
The dragon roared again, spreading its own wings and taking to the air in pursuit. The ground shook beneath the force of its takeoff, sending Vale and her men sprawling.
She pushed herself up, coughing from the dust and smoke, and stared after the two figures as they disappeared into the night, their silhouettes swallowed by the darkness.
Her heart pounded in her chest, the scene replaying over and over in her mind. The Lycan’s eyes, the raw power of its form, the way it had moved with such purpose. And the girl it had taken.
“What just happened?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant roars fading into the horizon. She felt a strange, unshakable sense that she had just witnessed something far beyond her understanding.