Kyrntar froze mid-swing, his greatsword resting against the rough bark, his gaze locked onto his brother with an intensity that could have pierced stone. His heart pounded, a dark storm of unease brewing inside him, deeper and more unfamiliar than anything he had ever felt. Something had shifted in Icazir, something far more dangerous than recklessness or ambition, and Kyrntar wasn't sure if he could reach him anymore.
Sensing the weight of his brother's stare, Icazir glanced over his shoulder, his lips curling into a subtle, mocking smirk, as if he relished the growing distance between them. "What's wrong, Kyrntar?" he taunted, the frost in his tone unmistakable. "You're not afraid of a little truth, are you?"
Kyrntar's voice, though steady, held a tautness like the pull of a bowstring, ready to snap. "Why do you need more power, Icazir? We're already have potential to be the strongest in the village. What more could you want?"
Icazir turned slowly, sheathing his dual-headed dagger with a deliberate motion, arms crossing over his chest in a gesture of disdain. His eyes glinted with a mixture of frustration and contempt. "That's the problem, Kyrntar," he spat. "You're content with being the strongest here—in this forgotten village at the foot of a mountain, where no one cares. But I want more. The world doesn't care about our strength unless we make them care. I refuse to be caged by the small-minded expectations of these people. They fear the dragon at the peak of our home even now. A sleeping beast with no signs of ever waking up. It could be dead up there and we would be living our lives in fear of what it was. That's true terrifying power."
Kyrntar's frown deepened, his grip tightening around the hilt of his greatsword, knuckles white as he fought the instinct to challenge his brother outright. His mind screamed that Icazir was walking a perilous path, but there was still a flicker of hope—hope that he could pull him back before it was too late.
Taking a steadying breath, Kyrntar felt the tension between them like a thick, oppressive fog. He knew he had to tread carefully now; one wrong word could shatter the fragile bond that still tied them together. Despite the rising doubt in his chest, he couldn't give up—not yet. He had to try one last time.
"Listen to yourself, Icazir," Kyrntar said, his voice soft yet firm. "What good is power if it consumes you? This path you're on... it's dangerous. We don't need more than what we already have—not if it means losing ourselves along the way." His eyes searched Icazir's, pleading for any sign of recognition. "I know there's more out there, but we can face it together, the way we always have. Don't throw everything away for something that might destroy you."
The words hung in the icy air between them, fragile yet heavy, as Kyrntar waited for the brother he once knew to answer.
Icazir shrugged "I guess you won't understand until you see," almost beckoning Kyrntar to start the challenge. Kyrntar accepted.
With a sudden burst of speed, Kyrntar moved, his greatsword slicing through the cold air in a wide, brutal arc. The blade struck true, biting deep into Icazir's shoulder with a sickening thud, drawing a dark ribbon of blood that stained the frosted ground. Icazir grunted, pain flashing across his face, but his lips twisted into a savage grin, his eyes glinting with wild defiance. The fight was only beginning, and he knew it.
Ignoring the searing pain, Icazir lunged forward, his dual-headed dagger flashing like a viper's fangs. The first strike came fast, too fast for Kyrntar to block, and the blade dug viciously into his side, cutting deep. Before Kyrntar could recover, Icazir's second blow followed, tearing through his armor with brutal precision. Kyrntar staggered, his breath leaving him in a visible cloud, every inhale a struggle as he clutched his side, the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers.
But Kyrntar's resolve flared in the face of pain. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, and he inhaled sharply, his chest feeling cold and dark, as he summoned the icy power that lay dormant within him. With a roar, he opened his mouth and unleashed a blast of frost, a freezing torrent that surged forward in a wide cone. The frigid air engulfed Icazir, ice latching onto his armor and scales, freezing him where he stood. For a moment, Icazir faltered, his body locked in place, frost clinging to his skin, his breath shallow as he fought to regain control.
Yet Icazir was far from finished.
With a low, guttural growl, Icazir's chest swelled as he summoned his own draconic fury. He unleashed his Frost Breath, the air before him transforming into a deadly storm of freezing wind and shards of ice. The blast rushed toward Kyrntar, who braced himself just in time, managing to avoid the full force of the attack. Even so, the bitter cold gnawed at his flesh, the sting of frost sinking deep into his bones.
Both brothers stood, bloodied and breathless, frozen and frightened, their bodies trembling from the cold and the exertion. But through the haze of pain, Kyrntar saw his moment. His grip tightened around his greatsword, and with grim determination, he surged forward, each step heavy with purpose.
With all his strength, Kyrntar swung one final time. The flat of the blade arced through the air, connecting with a devastating blow to Icazir's side. The force of the strike sent Icazir crashing to the ground, the impact harsh, his dagger slipping from his grasp as the last of his strength drained away.
For a long moment, the only sound that filled the air was the soft crackling of ice, melting slowly in the brothers' labored breaths. Kyrntar stood above his fallen brother, his chest heaving, his greatsword heavy in his hand. Icazir lay still, the fierce gleam in his eyes now dulled by exhaustion and defeat, his body limp against the frozen earth.
Though the spar was over, the deeper conflict—the one that ran far beneath the surface—was just beginning.
Kyrntar, his chest still heaving from the intensity of the battle, dropped his greatsword, laden with exhaustion. The cold air seared his lungs, each breath a burning reminder of the fight they had just endured. He looked down at Icazir, who lay sprawled on the frosted ground, his body battered but still breathing. Without a second thought, Kyrntar extended his hand.
"Come on, Icazir. Get up," he said, his voice now soft, the edge of battle fading. The adrenaline ebbed, and with it, the tension between them seemed to ease.
Icazir groaned, his muscles screaming in protest as he reached for Kyrntar's outstretched arm. He gripped it tightly, and with a grimace, pulled himself to his feet. For a moment, it was just the two of them, standing side by side, as they had so many times before—brothers, bound by blood and battle, stronger together than apart.
Kyrntar, his voice still tinged with the lingering intensity of their clash, opened his mouth to speak, ready to offer the wisdom he always carried. "You see, Icazir… all the power you need is here. You don't need to—"
His words died in his throat, his breath catching as an unnatural chill crept up his spine. Something was wrong. His gaze fell to the ground where Icazir had fallen, and what he saw twisted his gut with a wave of unease.
The frost beneath Icazir wasn't the pristine white-blue of the mountain's eternal winter. It had darkened, the ice taking on an ominous, shadowed hue—black as night, writhing and spreading outward like a living thing.
Kyrntar's heart pounded. The black ice pulsed with something unnatural, something malevolent. It crept outward from the spot where Icazir had unleashed his breath, an inky darkness swallowing the frost around it, and Kyrntar could feel it—something cold, far colder than any natural chill. It wasn't the frost of their dragonborn heritage. It was something far more sinister.
"Icazir..." Kyrntar's voice was barely a whisper, thick with growing dread. "What is this?"
A vision, or maybe it was just a memory, of the young twins eating together flashed through Kyrntar's mind as he struggled to maintain consciousness
But before Icazir could respond, the darkness surged, snaking up Kyrntar's legs with a speed that stole his breath. A sharp, biting pain radiated from where the black frost touched his skin, but this was no ordinary cold. It felt wrong, like the very essence of life was being leeched from him. His body convulsed as the black ice coiled around him, its touch black, its chill consuming.
Kyrntar grunted in pain, his legs giving out as a wave of crippling weakness overtook him. The cold—it wasn't the familiar frost he had known all his life. This was something darker, something that sapped not just his warmth but his strength, his very life force. His knees buckled beneath him, his powerful frame crumpling as he collapsed to the ground, his body trembling with the force of the necrotic chill.
'Is this Izacir what wants?!'
The thought flickered through his mind as his vision blurred, the edges of the world dimming. He gasped for breath, each inhale more labored than the last. His body refused to move, heavy and numb, as if the darkness had wrapped itself around his very soul.
Beside him, Icazir stood, the black ice creeping ever closer to his feet, its tendrils licking hungrily at the ground. Kyrntar was sure it was just a trick of the light, a symptom of fainting, but it looked almost as if Icazir was proud.
Kyrntar's vision darkened, the cold now unbearable, the pain overwhelming. And as the world around him faded into shadow, a single thought echoed in his mind, haunting and relentless:
'What will become of us… if I can't save him?'
With that, the darkness swallowed him whole.