The mist struck first—damp, metallic, tasting of storms. The basin glimmered beyond, its surface shifting like serpent-skin. Xavien stalked in an arc around Deglan, hands flexing before he set them to the rim.
Amerei gripped Evander’s arm, bidding him guard the door, then stepped forward, spine straightening with resolve.
Xavien lifted his hand.
The mist convulsed, darkened, then broke—sandstone yards, banners snapping, men aligned. Wind seared across the vision. Far off, a shadow winged by, ash-small on the horizon.
Amerei leaned in, sweeping the edges the way her father had taught her to read a battlefield.
A man in a dark mantle crossed the yard.
Then nearer—too close to be chance.
Two swords flashed. A sparring match.
Steel screamed, a helm silvering eyes she knew by soul.
Viktor.
His rhythm was precise, punishing, clean as winter air.
He pivoted, drove, recovered.
A raven, carving blades of sunlight with the violence of its wings.
Amerei pressed a hand to her ribs—forgot to breathe.
The image shuddered.
Clouds boiled.
Darkness spread.
The sky cracked lightning.
And along the horizon—
Dragons.
One.
Then three.
Shadows wheeled, cyclone kissing earth, wings blotting sun.
The count rose—three, seven, ten—until the horizon was nothing but wings.
Legion.
Xavien’s voice cracked, raw. “Ashakar…”
The surface convulsed—dragons unraveling into blur.
Deglan’s shadow lunged, blade raised, firelight racing the edge.
Amerei’s scream tore the chamber.
Steel plunged.
