The forest was a black maw, swallowing Aerion with every desperate step.
Roots snared his feet, branches clawed at his arms, and the cold bit through his torn tunic. His breath came in ragged gasps, loud in the hush and white plumes vanishing in the moonlight.
He didn't know where he was running anymore, only that stopping meant death.
Behind him, the dogs howled, hungry and relentless. Somewhere, men shouted, their voices thick with the promise of violence. Therion's assassins, or Vaelgard's hunters—it didn't matter. They all wanted his head.
Aerion's bare feet left a trail of blood on the moss, each step a fresh agony. His mind spun with images of the Lyceum burning, Thaddeus standing tall and unyielding as death crashed through the doors.
His father's crown, shattered and lost. His mother's lullaby, already fading from memory.
He stumbled into a clearing, his legs were shaking. A creek cut through the center, its water black and cold.
Aerion collapsed at its edge, his hands shaking as he scooped water to his cracked lips. The cold stung the wounds on his lips, but he barely noticed.
Then he stared at his reflection—a gaunt, wild-eyed stranger, blood streaking his face, and his lips blue with cold.
He barely recognized himself. The prince who once hummed to the stars was gone, replaced by a hunted animal.
A twig snapped behind him. Aerion froze, water dripping from his hands. He turned, his heart pounding, to see a man step from the shadows.
The stranger was tall, broad-shouldered, and the moonlight was catching on the axe and dagger at his belt. His face was half-hidden by a mask, but the scars on his jaw were unmistakable—a jagged line from lip to ear, twisting his mouth into a permanent sneer.
"Prince Aerion Veridian," the man said, his voice thick with a Vaelgardian accent. "Or whatever's left of you."
Aerion scrambled backward, slipping in the mud. "I—I don't want trouble," he stammered, his voice sounding hoarse. "This is a mistake, I'm no threat—"
Suddenly, the axe flew, a silver blur towards him. It buried itself in Aerion's shoulder, the blade biting deep. White-hot pain exploded through him, stealing his breath. He toppled into the creek, water splashing, blood turning the current red.
He clawed at the axe, his fingers slick with blood, but every movement sent fresh agony through his body. He couldn't pull it out. He couldn't breathe.
The Vaelgardian strode forward, his boots crunching on gravel. He yanked the axe free with a wet, sucking sound. Blood gushed, pulsing with Aerion's fading heartbeat.
"Trouble?" the man said, studying the blood on his blade. "This isn't personal, boy. Just a contract."
He swung again, this time slower. The axe crashed into Aerion's collarbone, bone splintering with a sickening crack. Blood flooded Aerion's mouth, choking him. The world shrank to a tunnel of pain and cold.
"...should've stayed at that fancy school…" the assassin muttered, his voice fading as Aerion slipped toward darkness.
***
But something flickered in Aerion's chest—a spark, hot and angry, like fire catching in dry grass. It spread, burning through his broken body, filling his veins with molten heat.
The pain changed. It sharpened, became something else. Aerion's fingers twitched, his nails thickening, hardening into claws. His lungs seized, then drew in a ragged, desperate breath.
A voice thundered in his skull, ancient and cold. "Pathetic."
Aerion tried to scream, but his throat only rasped. His tongue felt too big, his mouth filled with the taste of metal and ash.
"A prince who runs like a rat," the voice sneered. "This body's too good for you."
The fire roared to life, flooding every nerve. His eyes burned, his vision fracturing into shards of color and light. The world was too bright, too sharp.
The Vaelgardian stepped back with wide eyes. "What in the hell…" he whispered, fumbling for his dagger.
Aerion—no, not Aerion anymore—rose to his knees, blood pouring from wounds that were already closing, flesh knitting together with unnatural speed. His hands, now tipped with claws, dug into the mud. The water hissed where it touched his skin, steam curling up.
He breathed, and sparks danced from his lips, the air thick with sulfur.
The assassin lunged at him, dagger flashing. The thing in Aerion's body caught the blade an inch from his throat. The steel glowed red, then melted, dripping to the ground in a puddle of slag.
"Contract?" the voice from Aerion's throat rumbled, deeper than any human's, echoing like a chorus of people speaking at the same time. The idea of killing for coin was beneath contempt.
The assassin screamed, a raw, animal sound. He tried to run, but the thing was faster. It caught him in a blink of an eye.
Then there was a hiss of burning flesh, and the crunch of bone. When the noise stopped, only ash and ruin remained.
***
Aerion was gone. The body still wore his face, but the thing inside was older, hungrier, and crueler.
Kairos, the Dragon Emperor, flexed his new hands, feeling the heat pulsing beneath the skin. Aerion's memories flickered—his mother's song, the Lyceum's dusty hall, Thaddeus's sacrifice.
Kairos winced and crushed them at once, shoving them into a dark corner in Aeiron's mind.
This boy was weak for sure, but it would serve. Six centuries of waiting, and finally, a vessel. Not ideal—but he would shape it, even break it, to make it worthy.
He stood, letting the new flesh on his wounds settle. The horizon glowed pink—dawn was creeping in.
Somewhere, Therion sat on a stolen throne, thinking himself safe. Vaelgard's armies sharpened their blades, eager to feast on Veridian's corpse.
Kairos smiled, making Aerion's lips twisted into a cruel sneer. "Let them come," he said, his voice too big for the boy's throat, making it rumble with ancient power.
Six hundred years in darkness. A few more days meant nothing for him.
When he was ready, when this vessel was ready, Therion, Vaelgard, the whole world would learn what it meant to wake a dragon's wrath.