The forest pressed in on Kairos, damp with the scent of rot and rain, as he staggered through the undergrowth.
Every movement was a negotiation with pain. His wounds throbbed, muscles protested, and the body he now wore felt like a poorly tailored cloak, too tight in some places and far too fragile everywhere else.
He was used to the effortless power of scale and sinew, the certainty of claws and flame. Now, he was trapped in brittle bone and soft flesh, each heartbeat a reminder of mortality.
He found shelter beneath the roots of a fallen oak, its trunk hollowed by age and lightning. The earth was cold and wet, but it was hidden, and that was enough.
He crawled inside, curling up as tightly as Aerion's battered body would allow, and forced himself to breathe slow and deep. The dragon's fire within him was little more than a coal, barely enough to warm his blood, but it kept him from shivering.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep—he doubted he could, not with this body's aches and the howling of distant hounds—but to dig deeper into the mind he'd stolen.
Aerion's memories were a labyrinth, walls slick with grief and fear. Kairos pushed through them, ruthless, searching for anything useful.
He saw flashes of the Lyceum's marble halls, the gentle laughter of Aerion's mother, the stern gaze of his father, the endless parade of tutors and lessons.
He felt Aerion's longing for escape, the comfort he found in books and stars, the ache of being overlooked, underestimated. He tasted the bitterness of betrayal—Therion's cold eyes, the shock of the coup, the horror as blood spilled on the palace floors.
Kairos scowled. Sentiment was a poison. But buried beneath the softness, he found what he needed: names, faces, secrets whispered in the dark.
He sorted through the Dominion's tangled politics, forcing himself to memorize the key players. Therion, the usurper, brutal, cunning, obsessed with power.
The High Chancellor, a snake who'd changed sides at the first sign of blood. The old guard, scattered and leaderless, some in hiding, some dead. The Lyceum's surviving scholars, likely hunted or in flight.
Then there was Vaelgard, an empire built on conquest, ruled by the iron-fisted Emperor Shuman. His generals were wolves, hungry for the Dominion's riches. His spies were everywhere, and his armies had already begun carving up the borderlands.
Kairos sifted through Aerion's memories of lessons, maps, and overheard conversations, piecing together the shape of the coming war.
He saw the weaknesses, the cracks in both realms. Therion's rule was new, propped up by terror and betrayal.
His soldiers were loyal to gold, not blood. Vaelgard's advance was swift but reckless, their supply lines stretched thin, their commanders arrogant.
Kairos smiled, a cold, thin thing. He could work with this.
But first, he had to survive.
He forced himself to move, stretching Aerion's limbs, testing the limits of his new flesh. Every motion was awkward, unfamiliar.
He tried to summon fire, but only a faint warmth flickered in his chest. The dragon's power was there, he could feel it, but it was locked behind layers of weakness and pain.
He ate what he could steal, roots, berries, a half-rotten apple from a villager's cart. It wasn't enough, but it dulled the hunger.
He drank from a muddy stream, the water sharp and cold. He spent hours in silence, listening to the wind and the distant sounds of pursuit.
At night, he forced himself deeper into Aerion's mind, searching for more. He relived the prince's last days at the Lyceum: the coded warnings from loyalists, the secret passages beneath the library, the whispered rumors of rebellion.
He saw the faces of those who might still be trusted, Professor Thaddeus, now dead; Lady Miren, the court mage; Captain Rhaen, who'd sworn to protect the royal line.
He memorized the routes between safe houses, the signals used by the resistance, the weaknesses in the palace's new defenses. Each memory was a weapon, a tool for the future.
But the body was slow to recover. Wounds closed, but left him weak. The fire inside grew, but only in fits and starts.
Sometimes, in dreams, he felt the old power surge, wings unfurling, flames roaring, the world cowering before him. But he always woke to the same frail shell, the same aching hunger.
Kairos did not despair. He was patient. Six centuries in darkness had taught him that much.
He watched the world from the shadows, learning its rhythms. He saw the fear in the villagers' eyes, the cruelty of Therion's patrols, the arrogance of Vaelgard's scouts.
He listened to rumors of the "ghost prince," a monster stalking the woods, neither living nor dead.
He smiled at that. Let them fear him. Fear was the beginning of power.
***
One night, as he crouched in the ruins of an old watchtower, he felt the fire surge stronger than before. His wounds itched, then closed.
His senses sharpened, he could hear the heartbeat of a mouse in the grass, smell the iron tang of blood on the wind. He flexed his fingers, and for a moment, his nails lengthened, hard as obsidian, before retreating.
The dragon was waking. Slowly, but surely.
Kairos looked out at the moonlit forest, and felt a dark, fierce joy.
He was learning this world, its secrets, its weaknesses, its fears. Soon, he would do more than survive.
He would conquer.