Chapter 37

  The blue glow burned into my retinas, blazing like the wrath of an ancient god. I lay helpless, trapped beneath the icy weight of my own armor. My fingers barely moved. Every breath hurt like shards of glass in my lungs. I saw frost from the first blast creeping ruthlessly across my chestplate, spreading like thorns of cold death. Gravor’s voice was still in my head—cheeky as always, but suddenly… strained.

  “I’m working on it!” I heard him say, but his tone was tight, tense. “Dark Essence Megashield ready in three…”

  I felt the first veil of black mist settle around me. Thick and pulsing, like a living being wrapping protectively around my trembling heart. But I knew—it was too slow. Too slow.

  “Two…” Gravor kept counting, but Ygrath was already there. The glow in his throat was no longer a warning—it was a promise. A death sentence. His massive body tensed. His head tilted back, ready to unleash the fury of all frost upon me.

  “One…”

  Gravor’s essence gathered over my chest, thicker, denser—but the dragon was faster. Much faster. The ice in his maw sparkled like the world itself was about to shatter. I saw his teeth. The flickering tongues of frost between his fangs. And I knew—I was going to die. No rescue. No shield. No plan.

  “Zer—”

  The blast came.

  I raised my hands instinctively, fingers curled—an utterly helpless gesture against the oncoming annihilation. The dragon’s breath came crashing down, a storm of pure death, and I…

  …saw the shadow.

  Large. Broad. Sudden. It fell over me like a curtain, like a monument of flesh and resolve. Not Gravor’s mist—no. Something real. A silhouette, dark and massive, between me and the blast. I felt no heat, no frost. Only the dull impact of a body that threw itself against the wrath of the dragon.

  The roar of the ice didn’t stop—but it deflected. Diverted. Dampened.

  I heard a deep gasp. One single, guttural sound of pain. I saw Gravor’s mist thicken now—too late for whoever had taken the hit, but just in time for me.

  I coughed. Then breathed. I was alive.

  But who…?

  The figure didn’t move. Just stood there. Like a tower that had absorbed the unavoidable.

  A drop landed on my chestplate.

  Blood.

  Not mine.

  I raised my trembling gaze.

  And there he was.

  -

  Twelve years. Twelve cursed years.

  That’s how long it had been since Gunnar had lost his daughter—not in a clean battle, not with honor or farewell, but in a merciless, chaotic massacre, crushed beneath the collapse of their home. Her screams, her final gasp, still burned through his dreams every single night. And then, his wife had died too. Whether from physical wounds or heartbreak, he never knew. And so only one thing remained.

  The sound of his daughter’s death.

  Ten years ago, he had set out. The Dragon Wars were already over by then—Varnedor defeated, the fronts dissolved.

  But for Gunnar, the war had never truly ended.

  Not as long as that bastard still breathed—or his bloodline.

  That was the point: no one had ever truly seen Varnedor die. All that remained was ash. A story without a corpse.

  Witnesses had sworn they saw him torn apart and burned to dust by his own monsters—by one of his magical constructs, something later called a “Call of Ash.” But witnesses often saw what they wanted to see, especially when everything around them was burning. And Gunnar... Gunnar wanted more. Proof. Enough blood to drown the truth.

  Then, five years ago: a rumor. One that sounded like all the others—but felt different.

  Varnedor’s heir was said to be alive. Deep in the North. Where only the wind lived, and the mountains were sharper than swords. Gunnar followed the trail—from village to village, tavern to tavern, through snowstorms and silence.

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  Two years later—another lead. West of Thulegard, on the edge of the Frostclaw Peaks: an inn. Unremarkable. Quiet.

  And run by a middle-aged man named Markus.

  No one gave the name a second thought. Why would they? Markus was a common name.

  But Gunnar remembered.

  Varnedor had a son.

  And his name… was also Markus.

  What would a fallen prince, a hunted heir, do—if not live under a false name, trying to build a new life in the desolate wilds?

  Gunnar grew suspicious.

  And eventually, he found allies.

  Two Crytomancers—Dwin and Lira. Fanatics, no doubt. Not friends. But useful.

  They spoke of revenge, of gods in ice and fire. Of a creature deep beneath the world, one that could be reborn through blood.

  Ygrath. The curse of all flame.

  They made a pact.

  Planning. Studying. Sacrificing.

  Gunnar despised them—but he let them continue.

  Until everything changed.

  Because Markus had spoken to them. Telepathically.

  Not like a barkeep. Not like a defeated man.

  But like a father—willing to do anything to bring back his son.

  Then Dwin and Lira had an idea: self-sacrifice.

  Gunnar was speechless. They hadn’t told him. He refused—he wasn’t as fanatical, not as insane.

  After the third round of battle with the paladin, he betrayed them.

  Confused. Broken. Furious.

  He had lost a daughter—and a part of his humanity.

  But when he saw Luken in the spirit realm before him, half-destroyed, consumed by a demon… he knew.

  This was wrong.

  And he had decided to stop.

  Markus was not the monster.

  And neither was the paladin, even if he looked damned like one.

  He was. He himself had become the monster.

  And now, in this moment, he stood there.

  Before the ice blast.

  Between death and the boy he had once vowed to kill.

  Ygrath’s roar became a storm.

  The dragon’s breath tore through the air like a lance from frozen hell.

  But Gunnar didn’t move. No magic. No shield.

  Just his arms crossed in front of his chest, his gaze fixed ahead—where the frost god stood.

  The blast hit him. Full force.

  Ice surged across his skin, through every pore.

  The shoulders froze first, then his chest, then his legs.

  Black veins snaked beneath his skin, tearing the flesh apart.

  The sound wasn’t a scream—it was the snapping of bones, the rupture of blood in veins never meant to bear such cold.

  Gunnar didn’t flinch.

  He stood firm. He was a shield made of flesh. Of guilt. Of love.

  Only one thought flashed through his mind as he looked back at Luken:

  “Live. And be better than me.”

  Then...

  He fell. Silently. Like a statue.

  A man frozen in a final act of humanity.

  -

  I saw him fall. Gunnar. Once my enemy. Then our uncertain companion. And finally… my savior.

  The statue tipped forward. Ice shattered on impact, spraying crystalline sparks across the stone floor. His face was frozen—no pain, no fear. Only resolve. Locked in place for all eternity.

  And something inside me broke.

  No more hesitation. No more fear.

  I lifted my gaze—and Ygrath looked right back at me. That ancient beast, the one who called himself the Curse of Flame. His scales shimmered in a cold blue glow, his eyes blazed with death itself. But death wasn’t on my side today. Today, it was just a debt I had to settle.

  Vin moved first. Her vines slithered across the ground, fast as wind, whispering like snakes. They shot upward, wrapping around Ygrath’s head—and held. The dragon’s skull was yanked to the side, his jaws clamped shut, and a guttural rumble vibrated from deep in his throat.

  Then came Maira. Her eyes burned dark green, still marked by Vin’s healing. She raised her arms—and from the shadows, they rose: two massive, pulsing constructs of sinew and fury, skinless hands forged from pain and wrath. They gripped the dragon’s hind legs, claws digging into flesh, pulling as he reared up and began to lose balance.

  Finally, Simon. He whispered a word—barely audible—and his spirit companion appeared: the massive spectral tiger with glowing eyes. Silent as ever, it leapt through the air and sank its fangs and claws into Ygrath’s face, raking from snout to eye.

  This was my moment. I unfurled my wings, power surging through my limbs, and with a mighty beat I launched myself into the air. Wind howled past as I circled—searching, waiting.

  My eyes swept across the dragon’s ice-armored body. Neck—too thick. Chest—too armored. Legs—too risky.

  Then… the head. Always the head.

  I leveled my blade, letting Gravor’s essence surge through it. The gold was gone—only pure, dense black remained, veined with glowing violet light.

  Like a lightning bolt, I streaked through the air, aiming for the beast’s skull—

  And missed.

  Damn it!

  Ygrath, faster than his size should allow, snapped his head aside. The vines tore apart, cracking against the wall. Maira’s hands still held, but they trembled. Simon’s tiger clawed once more across a dragon eye—

  And then dissolved into flames as Ygrath roared.

  Not just a roar—a quake. A storm.

  A sound born of hatred, meant to destroy. The air shook. The ground split. My bones rattled. I was flung backward, slammed into the wall, and crumpled there, dazed. My whole body burned.

  Maira’s hands burst into black smoke. Vin collapsed. Simon clutched his ears as if they were about to split.

  I couldn’t go on. That’s what I thought.

  But then… I thought of Gunnar.

  “Gravor.”

  My voice was weak—but firm. “Full transformation.”

  Silence in my mind. Then… a low laugh. It wasn’t playful. Not mischievous.

  It was… ancient. Satisfied.

  “With pleasure,” the demon whispered.

  I closed my eyes. And opened them again—in a new world.

  Gravor stepped into me.

  Black flames wrapped around my body, but did not burn.

  My skin darkened, veins pulsed with reddish light.

  The armor cracked, then reformed—blackened metal, etched with runic lines of pure energy.

  My wings? No feathers left. Only shadow. Bone structures wrapped in flickering darkness.

  My fingers lengthened, lost all color. My nails became long, black claws.

  And all over me, things began to grow. My shoulders split open as spikes emerged from the armor. From my back, a tail grew—longer and longer, ending in a blade-sharp tip.

  My voice? When I breathed, the ground trembled.

  My heart? Still beat. For Gunnar. For all of us.

  I was no longer Luken. Not entirely.

  I had become something else.

  Something… in between.

  And I was ready to fight.