The challenge was loud—too loud for a place that had grown accustomed to whispers for three hundred years. Priorin drove his axe into the frozen ground with a heavy thud, and the sound shattered across the ravine like dry, brittle bone.
The dragon responded instantly. Two dull, slime-covered headlights—his eyes—emerged from the darkness. He let out a sound like rusted iron scraping against stone. The first swampy breath hit us before the beast was even fully in the light.
My perfect, calculated plan with the pillars lasted exactly two heartbeats.
The beast didn't try to squeeze between the supports. He simply slammed into the nearest mast with his shoulder, using his massive bulk as a battering ram. The ice roared. A multi-ton pillar collapsed, shattering into thousands of razor-sharp shards. One of them—the size of an anvil—struck Flint.
The boy was slammed into the rocks, pinned under an icy slab. I heard the sound—the sickening crunch of breaking ribs and a sharp, stifled groan. The radiant blast Flint had been preparing to blind the beast flickered helplessly and died in his limp fingers. He lay still, a dark stain rapidly spreading across the ice beneath his head.
"He’s breathing! Everyone cover!" Gellia shouted.
The foul cloud enveloped us. It wasn't just breath; it was concentrated decay. Our eyes burned, and our lungs felt as if they were filling with molten lead. The antidotes bought with Flint’s "blood money" worked, but our bodies protested, retching bile. For a second, we were all disoriented. The Potion of Heroism helped Priorin push through the wave, and he grabbed Gellia, who was convulsively clutching the wooden panther Rorro had given her—perhaps sensing in that figurine her only true ally.
The moment I regained my senses, I rushed to Flint. Gellia was closer. I saw her turn for a split second, assess the boy's condition—crushed shoulder, blood at the mouth, gasping breath—and… she simply turned away. She chose to swing her sword, hacking into the dragon's scales with a cold, frenzied rage, rather than whispering a single word of healing. It wasn't a tactical decision. It was pure, unadulterated bloodlust, leaving no room for compassion for her "accomplice."
"Live, you bastard!" I wheezed, pouring the remains of my healing energy into Flint.
My palm flared with a short, painful light. Flint’s bones responded with a dry click. He gasped for air, regaining consciousness, and I roughly dragged him out from under the icy rubble.
"On your feet!" I barked. "Don't you dare die until we get out of here."
Meanwhile, Priorin had become a living nightmare. Under the influence of the potion and the aura, he was no longer just a Leonin—he was the eye of the storm. And that’s when I saw something that nearly caused my internal "Function" to error out.
Mangratum’s Shield was no longer strapped to his arm. It was flying.
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The heavy disk, shimmering with runes, whistled through the air in wide arcs around Priorin. It intercepted the dragon’s claws with a clang as if arguing with death itself, then immediately darted away to cover the Leonin’s blind spot. It wasn't just magic—it was recognition. The Shield no longer obeyed straps or muscle; it recognized Priorin as its owner by right of fury and steel.
The dragon was suffocating. The tightness of the cave made his maneuvers agony. Gellia moved beside Priorin—cold, precise, merciless. She wasn't protecting; she was punishing. Every strike she landed left deep, smoking wounds. In the light of her golden aura, the dragon’s blood looked like black tar.
The beast tried one last lunge, opening its maw for a lethal breath, but the Leonin seized the initiative. Priorin used a pillar fragment as a springboard—a short run, a burst of speed, and a soaring leap over the snarling snout.
The axe came down from above. A heavy, butcher’s crunch. The blade sank into the neck up to the handle. The dragon’s head slammed onto the ice, venting a final puff of toxic gas. The body shuddered a few times, claws scraping the stone, and then went still.
Silence returned to the abyss instantly, but it was different. Now it smelled of blood, the stench of the Deep, and cold disappointment.
I looked at Gellia. She was wiping her blade on the edge of her cloak, not even glancing toward Flint, who was trying to sit up, clutching his broken side.
"The Scroll," she snapped, gesturing deeper into the cave. "Grab it and let's go. There’s nothing to breathe here."
I helped Flint up, feeling an unpleasant realization growing within me. Gellia had found her justice—she had become as merciless as the creatures we fought. And Priorin... he just stood over the carcass, breathing hard. Mangratum’s Shield slowly descended, continuing to hover half a meter from his shoulder like a loyal beast waiting for a command. It was no longer a "burden." It was a part of him.
I crouched on the bloodied ice, my heart pounding. As the adrenaline faded, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth, I pulled out a scrap of parchment and sketched a few lines. My way of structure in the chaos.
Between the floes—as in a shrine—breathes the cold,
The Shield requires no pair of hands to hold;
When naked blades begin their hollow laugh,
Fear crumbles into shards of frozen glass.
The Lion leapt—the neck was torn apart,
The darkness failed to stop a beating heart;
She—whose vow remained a steady light—
Held the circle through the biting night.
I re-read the last lines and glanced at Gellia. She stood nearby, her aura extinguished. Seeing her indifferently pass by Flint, nearly clipping him with her boot, I realized that the "steady light" in my ballad was a technical description of her magic, not a characteristic of her soul.
The Deep Singer’s lair was modest for a dragon. A few spoiled hides, a scattering of dull copper coins, and some cheap jewelry. But in the center, on a slab of clean slate, lay the scroll tied with gilded thread.
The Score. The Beat of the Warm Place.
I picked it up. The scroll vibrated slightly, answering my touch with a faint hum—almost like the one from Mangratum’s Shield.
"The notes don't like to wait," Priorin said, methodically wiping his axe.
He looked at me, and I felt that invisible thread connecting me to his shield again. But it was different now. The heavy disk slowly rotated in the air half a meter from him, alive and sensitive. Priorin no longer carried it—they walked as a pair.
We moved toward the exit. Leliana’s seven days continued their countdown, but today we had torn a major victory from time. And a terrible truth about ourselves.
The Price of Resonance.
Key Takeaways:
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The Awakening: We just witnessed a massive "Level Up" for Priorin. The Shield of the Bastion is no longer just equipment; it’s a sentient extension of his will. This is the Artifact Resonance reaching its next stage—Autonomous Defense.
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The Cold Paladin: Gellia’s choice to ignore a dying teammate to keep swinging her sword is a chilling turning point. Her "Justice" is morphing into a singular, cold obsession. She’s becoming as hard as the steel she wears.
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Faurgar’s Ballad: Notice how Faurgar uses poetry to distance himself from the horror. He documents the "steady light" of Gellia’s magic while privately noting the darkness in her heart. He is the group’s conscience, even if he only speaks in logic.
Questions for the readers:
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Gellia’s Turn: Was she right to stay in the fight to finish the beast, or did she cross a line by leaving Flint to bleed?
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The Shield: Now that the Shield is flying, how do you think the power dynamic between Priorin and Faurgar will change?
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The Scroll: They have the "Beat." Do you trust Leliana to keep her word once the music starts again?
?? SUPPORT THE JOURNEY & UNLOCK THE DM VAULT
Stat-Block for the newly awakened Flying Shield of the Bastion or the rules for the "Battlefield Coldness" status effect that Gellia is exhibiting, join us on Patreon!
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The Deep Singer’s Loot Table: What else was in that cave?
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Poetry of the Abyss: Faurgar's full sketchbook entries and tactical analysis of the fight.
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Resonance Level 2: How to handle "Sentient Gear" in your own campaign.
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