The fortress lay in ruins. The once-imposing walls now bore the scars of battle—deep gashes, scorch marks, and dried bloodstains. Lyra stood in the center of the courtyard, arms wrapped around herself, shivering despite the warmth of the morning sun. She looked down at her hands, where golden scales had replaced the burned flesh. They shimmered in the light, as if forged from precious metal. She clenched them into fists, but they no longer trembled.
Am I still trembling? she wondered. Or have I lost even that?
Vaelrath lay nearby, his smoldering wounds slowly healing. The dragon watched her with an unreadable expression, his golden eyes reflecting the sunlight.
"You saved our lives," he finally said, breaking the silence. "But at a great cost."
Lyra didn't answer right away. She stared at the horizon, where the forest looked calm—almost peaceful. But she knew that peace was deceptive. The Shadows would return. And this time, they would be stronger, more prepared.
"How long before I'm no longer myself?" she asked, repeating the question from the night before.
Vaelrath exhaled, a sound like distant thunder. "That depends on you. The more you use my power, the deeper the fusion becomes. But if you resist… perhaps you can slow the process."
"Slow," she echoed bitterly. "Not stop."
The dragon didn't reply. He didn't need to. Lyra already knew the truth—there was no going back. She had made this pact to survive, and now, she was paying the price.
She turned to him, her golden eyes burning with intensity. "And you? What do you gain from this? Why did you choose me?"
Vaelrath looked away, as if hesitating. "I need you," he admitted at last. "The Shadows are only part of the problem. Their master… he is an ancient threat. One I cannot face alone."
Lyra let out a dry, humorless laugh. "So I'm just a tool to you. A weapon."
"No," he said quickly, almost angrily. "You are far more than that. You are… a chance. A chance to fix what I've broken."
She studied him, trying to understand. "What did you break?"
The dragon closed his eyes, as if the memories were too painful to recall. "Everything," he murmured. "I tried to stop the war, but I failed. I lost my kind, my world… and nearly my soul."
A strange sense of empathy stirred in Lyra, and she pushed it away. She didn't want to feel sorry for him. She didn't want to understand. But a part of her couldn't help it. She, too, had lost so much…
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through her skull, and she collapsed to her knees, clutching her temples. Images surged through her mind, chaotic and fast.
She was in a dark chamber, the walls covered in strange symbols. Whispers filled the air, speaking words she couldn't understand. Then, a figure appeared—a man with silver hair, his violet eyes glowing eerily. He reached toward her, and a searing pain erupted in her chest.
"You are the key," he whispered. "The key to our victory."
Then, everything went black.
Lyra's eyes snapped open, her breathing ragged. She was back in the courtyard, Vaelrath leaning over her, concern flickering in his gaze.
"What did you see?" he asked.
"A man…" she murmured. "With violet eyes. He said I was the key."
Vaelrath growled, a deep, menacing sound. "The Master of Shadows. He's trying to reach you, even from afar."
"Why?" Lyra asked, pushing herself up. "Why me?"
"Because you are bound to me," he said. "And because you have a power he does not understand. A power that could destroy him."
Lyra looked down at her hands, the golden scales gleaming in the sunlight. "Then why don't I feel it? Why do I feel so… weak?"
Vaelrath studied her, something like compassion in his eyes. "Because you resist. You fight against the fusion, against me. And it's consuming you."
"So I should stop fighting?" she asked, her voice unsteady. "I should just accept becoming… this?"
The dragon didn't answer right away. He turned his head toward the forest, as if searching for answers in the trees.
"No," he finally said. "You must find balance. Accept the power, but don't let it consume you. It's the only way to survive."
Lyra closed her eyes, feeling tears slide down her cheeks. She didn't know if she could do that. She didn't know if she even wanted to.
Suddenly, a distant sound echoed—a low rumble, like far-off thunder. Vaelrath's head snapped up, his nostrils flaring.
"They're coming back," he murmured. "And this time, they won't be alone."
Lyra stood, wiping away her tears. Fear coiled in her chest, but alongside it, a new determination. She couldn't run. She couldn't give up. Not now.
"Then we get ready," she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
Vaelrath inclined his head, a flicker of respect in his gaze. "Very well. But remember, Lyra—this is not just a battle against them. It is a battle against yourself."
She nodded, feeling the mark on her chest burn with heat. She knew he was right.
But she also knew she had no choice.
War was coming.
And she would be its heart.