The rain had stopped, leaving behind a world draped in cold, wet silence.
Kairos, now Aerion, walked, every step sending a hot knife of pain to his belly. The wound from Borak's axe was deep. Blood seeped slowly through the rough bandage he'd torn from his own ruined tunic.
He needed shelter, not just for rest, but for hiding.
He moved away from the smoking ruin of the Lyceum Arcana, keeping clear of the main roads. He pushed into the shadowed lands, the contested borders where Imperial patrols were thin and bandits or desperate folk often lurked.
Such places were good for hiding, but terrible for safety. Aerion understood this with an old, cold knowledge that lived within him. Knowledge of terrain, of evasion, of watching unseen.
He chose his path with care, avoiding the easy valleys which were too open and too likely to be used by travelers.
Instead, he climbed the rocky slopes, using the cover of thick, dripping pine trees. He moved when the wind rustled the leaves, letting the natural sounds mask his steps.
He stopped often, listening intently and looking back down the slope, watching for any sign of movement, any pursuit. He saw none, only smoke rising in the distance where the Lyceum still burned.
His body felt wrong, it was weak, heavy, and alien. The cold air bit at his exposed skin.
Hunger gnawed at him, a constant, dull ache, and thirst dried his throat. These human needs were insults, distractions to his ancient mind.
He hated them, but the body clearly needed fuel. He found a small stream, its water ice-cold, and drank it greedily, the chill numbing his mouth.
He then found some bitter wild roots and forced them down, their taste like dirt. Survival, he knew, was all mattered for this vessel.
Then, the fire came, not from outside, but from within him. It began as a low heat in his bones, a building pressure like steam trapped under a tightly sealed lid. His hands tingled, and the skin felt too tight, too thin.
He clenched his fists, trying to push it down.
'Control it! Contain it!'
His mind tried to control the power within. But the fire pushed back. It surged, growing hotter, brighter, filling his chest. His vision blurred, and gold sparks danced at the very edge of his sight.
The air around him seemed to shimmer, to wrap, distorting the shapes of the trees. He felt power, which was raw, wild, and ancient—boiling just under his skin.
It wanted to burst out from his body. It wanted to burn, and destroy everything around him.
"NOOO!!!"
He hished, and slammed his will against the surge. Sweat broke out on his forehead, cold despite the inner heat.
He leaned heavily against a wet tree trunk, breathing hard, and gritted his teeth.
Slowly, the golden haze faded, and the immense pressure eased.
The fierce heat sank back down, leaving him trembling and utterly drained. It felt like a warning, that the dragon inside this body was restless, and it was far stronger than this fragile human cage.
Maintaining control, he realized, that he was like walking on thin ice.
He pushed off the tree and kept waking, moving deeper into the shadows. The land grew rougher here, with steeper valleys and thicker woods.
Signs of war were present even in this wild place: a burned farmhouse, a field left empty, the lingering scent of old smoke and decay.
He smelled them before he saw them. Smoke, different from the Lyceum's burning, smaller and colder—the telltale scent of a hidden campfire.
And people.
The faint smell of unwashed bodies, of fear-sweat, of sheer desperation.
Aerion stopped, melting instantly into the shadow of a large boulder. His golden eyes scanned the slope below.
A narrow, hidden gully, partly covered by fallen trees and thick bushes. A thin and grey trickle of smoke curled upward, quickly lost in the misty air.
He moved downslope silently like a ghost, using every big rock and every tree for cover. He reached the edge of the gully and peered through a gap in the bushes.
Five peopled huddled around a tiny, flickering fire. Their faces were pale and dirty, their eyes wide with exhaustion and fear.
There were two men—one older with a rough beard and a bad limp; the other younger, thin, holding a crude spear made from a sharpener stick.
And also two women—one middle-aged, her face deeply lined with worry, stirring a small pot over the fire; the other younger, perhaps sixteen, huddled in a thin, worn shawl.
And there was a child, a small boy, maybe five, asleep against the younger woman.
They were refugees, survivors, running from this war. They looked broken and hopeless.
Their clothes were ragged, and they seemed to have little—a few sacks, a battered pot, and the one crude spear.
Aerion watched them with cold eyes, which had revert back to its original blue color.
These people were weak, but they had fire, shelter, and perhaps food. His body needed these things.
He saw the opportunity within the the calculated mind of the Dragon Emperor. Weak people could be... used and controlled. They could watch his back while he rested, or finding better shelter, food, or medicine for his wound.
With those thoughts, he stepped out of the shadows, into the very edge of their fireflight.
The effect of his sudden appearance was instant. The younger man with spear jumped to his feet, pointing the sharpened stick to him with trembling hands.
"Who's there?! Stay back!" His voice cracked with sheer fear.
The others were either scrambled up or froze on their spots completely. Their eyes locked onto Aerion, wide and terrified.
But then they grew curious when saw the dark bloodstain on his tunic and how his body bent by unnaturally.
"Easy now," the older man rasped, trying to sound calm but failing. "Who are you, stranger? What do you want?"
Aerion didn't answer immediately. He stood just outside the small circle of light from the firecamp, his face was pale and hard, utterly unreadable.