For a long, shuddering moment, Kairos stood in the clearing, the world around him humming with the aftertaste of violence.
The moon had fled behind clouds, leaving the forest in a bruised darkness broken only by the faint glow of cooling embers where the assassin had fallen.
The air stank of burnt flesh, coppery blood, and the sharp tang of something olde. Dragonfire, ancient and wrong, leaking from a vessel that could barely contain it.
He flexed Aerion's hands, watching the claws retract, the skin knitting closed over torn knuckles. The body trembled beneath him, weak and battered, every muscle screaming for rest.
Kairos sneered. Six hundred years locked in the void, and this was the shell fate offered him?
Soft, fragile, crawling with pain and memory.
He spat blood into the creek, watching it swirl away in the current. The water steamed where it touched his skin.
He could feel the dragon's power inside, coiled and hungry, but distant, like a fire banked under wet ash.
Footsteps crunched in the distance. Voices, low and urgent, drifted through the trees. The hounds had gone silent, but their masters were close.
Kairos's new heart thudded, too fast, too weak. He pressed himself against the trunk of a gnarled oak, forcing his breathing to slow.
The memories of Aerion battered at his mind: Thaddeus's sacrifice, the Lyceum's burning towers, the taste of fear.
Kairos crushed them down, but they clung like cobwebs. He needed focus, not grief.
A branch snapped nearby. Torchlight flickered between the trees, shadows dancing. Kairos crouched lower, every instinct screaming to fight, to burn, to tear them apart.
But this body was exhausted, the dragon's power flickering like a dying candle.
He waited, motionless, as three men stalked into the clearing. They wore the black and green of Therion's new regime, swords drawn, eyes hard.
One knelt by the ashes where the assassin had died, frowning at the scorched earth.
"Nothing left but bones," he muttered, voice shaking. "The prince can't be far."
The leader spat. "Fan out. If he's alive, he won't last long."
Kairos gripped the tree, nails digging into bark. He could kill them—he wanted to—but the risk was too great.
He forced himself to crawl, silent and slow, into the undergrowth. Every movement sent spikes of pain through his battered flesh, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.
The men moved off, curses fading into the night. Kairos waited until their lights vanished, then dragged himself to his feet.
His limbs shook, sweat freezing on his skin. He needed shelter, time to heal, to remember how to breathe in this weak shell.
He stumbled through the forest, guided by instinct more than memory. The dragon inside him seethed, frustrated by the limits of flesh.
Once, he could have flown above these trees, burned his enemies to ash with a thought. Now, every step was a battle.
He found a hollow beneath a fallen tree, half-hidden by moss and brambles. He crawled inside, curling into himself, letting the darkness swallow him.
The cold seeped into his bones, but he welcomed it. Pain was a reminder that he was alive, that this body—however pitiful—was his.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward, searching for the fire. It was there, deep and smoldering, but chained.
He could feel Aerion's soul, small and broken, cowering in the shadows. Kairos snarled, shoving it aside. This body was his now.
He slept, fitful and haunted by dreams. Flames devouring the Lyceum.
Thaddeus's eyes, calm even in death. A crown of bone and gold, shattered and lost. The taste of blood, hot and sweet.
He woke to the sound of rain drumming on the leaves above. The world was gray, the forest dripping with mist.
Kairos sat up, every muscle aching. He flexed his fingers, watching the claws slide out, then back in. The wounds on his shoulder and chest had closed, leaving only angry red scars.
He felt stronger. Not whole—not yet—but the dragon's power was stirring, rising like a tide.
He stood, testing his weight. The pain was still there, but manageable. He could move, fight if he had to.
needed food, water, and information. He needed to know what had become of the world in his absence.
He crept through the forest, avoiding the patrols, listening to their shouts and curses.
They spoke of the prince as a ghost, a monster. Some whispered that he was dead, others that he had become something worse.
Kairos smiled, lips twisting into a cruel sneer. Let them fear him. Fear was power.
By midday, he reached the edge of the forest. Smoke rose in the distance, a village, small and battered, clinging to the edge of the Dominion.
He watched from the shadows, weighing his options.
He needed to be careful. The body was still weak, the power inside him unpredictable.
But he was hungry, and the dragon's hunger was a terrible thing.
He moved toward the village, silent as a shadow. The people here were wary, eyes darting to the tree line, hands never far from knives. They had heard the stories, seen the fires on the horizon.
Kairos slipped into a barn, hiding among the hay. He listened as the villagers spoke, xof Therion's coup, of Vaelgard's armies, of the prince who had vanished into the night.
He waited until darkness fell, then crept out, stealing bread and water from an abandoned cart. The taste was ash in his mouth, but it gave him strength.
He found a mirror in the ruins of a house, cracked and dirty. He stared at his reflection.
Aerion's face, but the eyes were wrong. Older. Colder. A dragon's gaze in a lamb's disguise.
He touched the glass, watching the claws emerge, then fade. The power was growing, slow but steady. Soon, he would be ready.
He left the village before dawn, slipping back into the forest. The world was waking, broken and afraid. Kairos felt the old hunger stirring, the promise of fire and blood.
The dragon had returned. And the world would burn.