“Ancient fire.” Viktor’s expression is grim. “Their weapon has old magic woven through it. Our modern defenses can’t fully counter it.”
Caleb steps forward. Already partially shifted—scales covering his arms, eyes burning gold. “I’ll coordinate defensive positions. Dorian, check the safe rooms.”
“On it.” Dorian is already moving.
I watch Caleb work. Efficient. Decisive. Natural authority earned through years of leadership.
He glances at me. Waiting. And I realize—he’s deferring to me. Waiting for the Dragon King to give orders.
No.
This is his moment. His clan. His fight.
“Caleb.” I keep my voice low. Clear. “This is your command. Tell me where you need me.”
He blinks. Surprise flashing across his face.
“You’re—”
“I’m offering my fire. My strength. But you lead.” I meet his eyes. “You’ve earned this authority. I won’t undermine it by taking over.”
Something shifts in his expression. Understanding. Respect. Maybe even relief.
He straightens. Voice carrying with newfound confidence. “Standard defense. Heavy hitters on the breach point. Support teams on flanks. Mages reinforcing the barrier from inside.” He looks at me. “Kael—I need you at center point. Your fire should counter whatever old magic they’re using.”
“Where exactly?”
“Viktor will show you.” He’s already turning. Giving orders. Coordinating teams.
I follow Viktor and the fighters toward the heat of the battle. The facility transforms around us—administrative building to military installation in minutes.
These people know how to fight.
The south perimeter is in turmoil when we arrive.
Syndicate forces press against the magical barrier—shimmering dragon fire and witch magic rippling with each impact. The weapon Viktor mentioned pulses at the center. Concentrated magic formed into physical force.
It slams against the barrier. Cracks spiderweb through the defensive wall.
“How long will it hold?” I ask.
“Minutes.” Viktor’s jaw is tight. “Maybe less.”
I could end this now. Turn their weapon to slag. Their operatives to dust. The way I did in the Syndicate facility. My ancient fire could reduce everything beyond this barrier to cinders in seconds.
But the barrier itself is made of our people’s magic. Dragon fire and witch power woven together by dozens of mages. My full strength would shatter it from the inside out. The backlash would kill our own defenders. And beyond that—the weapon. If Creed built it knowing I might wake, it could be designed to absorb ancient magic. Redirect it. Turn my strength against us.
So I hold back. Let the ancient fire remain controlled instead of unleashed. Precise instead of devastating.
Through the barrier, I can see them. Syndicate operatives. Dragons in half-shifted forms.
And at the center—Creed.
He stands tall. Confident. Behind the magical weapon that’s tearing our defenses apart.
When he sees me arrive, his expression shifts. Triumph.
“Kael Craven!” His voice carries. Amplified by magic. “Dragon King returned from the grave. Finally.”
