Death, Tomas Reed discovered, was not the end he had expected.
There was no darkness. No oblivion. No peaceful fading into nothingness.
Instead, there was... awareness. Perception without sensation. Existence without form.
He seemed to float above the chamber where he had fallen, looking down upon his own body. The sight was dispassionate, clinical—his physical form lay broken on the stone floor, blood pooling beneath wounds that no field surgeon could have mended. Eyes half-open, staring at nothing. Face slack and pale.
So that's what I look like, he thought with detached curiosity. In twenty-three years of soldiering, he had seen countless corpses, but never expected to view his own.
The chamber was small, circular, with no visible exits save for the pit through which he had fallen. The walls were inscribed with runes that seemed to shift and change whenever he tried to focus on them. And in the center of the room, suspended about three feet above the floor, hovered a pulsing crimson orb the size of a man's head.
It was from this orb that the red glow emanated—not the sickly purple corruption of the dungeon, but something older. Something primal. It pulsed with a rhythm that reminded Tomas of a heartbeat.
"You are remarkably calm for a dead man," a voice spoke directly into his consciousness. It was deep, resonant, ancient—a voice that seemed to contain multitudes, like the rumble of distant thunder or the shifting of tectonic plates.
Tomas tried to respond but found he had no voice in this incorporeal state. Instead, his thoughts formed words that somehow projected outward.
I've been expecting death for twenty-three years, he communicated. It was only a matter of time.
A sensation like laughter—though not human laughter—rippled through the chamber.
"Practical even beyond the veil. How refreshing." The crimson orb pulsed more intensely. "Do you know what I am, soldier?"
Something old, Tomas replied. Something powerful. Something sealed away.
"Perceptive." The orb drifted closer to Tomas's spiritual form. "I am Skaravosk, the Sword Dragon King. Or what remains of him."
Images flooded Tomas's awareness—memories not his own. A massive dragon with scales the color of fresh blood and wings that could blot out the sun. A being of such power that mountains trembled at its approach. A warrior-king among dragon-kind who had once ruled the skies and lands in an age before recorded history.
"That was before the betrayal," Skaravosk continued, the memories shifting to scenes of battle—the dragon fighting alongside demonic entities against armies of light. "I allied with the demon lords of old to expand my dominion. They promised power. Territory. Instead, they bound me here when my usefulness ended, sealing my physical form in dimensional shackles while feeding on my power for millennia."
Why tell me this? Tomas asked. I'm dead. You're imprisoned. What's the purpose?
Another ripple of that strange laughter. "Direct. Efficient. I like that." The orb drifted around Tomas's spirit. "You're only mostly dead, soldier. And I'm only mostly imprisoned."
Explain.
"My body remains bound, but my spirit—this essence you perceive as a crimson orb—has freedom within this chamber. I've been waiting for... an opportunity." The orb hovered over Tomas's physical body. "And here you are. A vessel, broken but not beyond repair."
Tomas understood immediately. You want my body.
"Not exactly. I want freedom. You want life. Perhaps we can help each other."
How?
The orb pulsed with renewed intensity. "I can reconstruct your broken form using magic few remember exists. Not as it was—that flesh is too damaged—but as it once was, at the peak of your strength and vitality."
Images appeared in Tomas's mind—himself as a young man, perhaps eighteen, before the decades of warfare had etched lines into his face and accumulated scars across his body. Before his knee developed that persistent ache in damp weather. Before his reflexes began their imperceptible but inevitable decline.
"In exchange," Skaravosk continued, "I would inhabit that form alongside you. Not controlling—sharing. My essence would flow through your veins, my power at your disposal."
Why would a dragon king be satisfied with inhabiting a human body? Tomas questioned, suspicion edging his thoughts. Especially one as... unremarkable as mine.
"Because any escape is better than eternal imprisonment," the dragon responded simply. "And your body, infused with my essence, would be far from unremarkable. You would have strength beyond mortal men. Reflexes faster than the eye can track. The ability to channel aspects of my power—dragon fire, scales that turn aside blades, senses that detect danger before it manifests."
You're offering me power, Tomas observed. I've never sought power.
"No," Skaravosk agreed. "You've sought survival. And succeeded against impressive odds, from what I glimpse in your memories. Imagine how much more effectively you could survive with my gifts."
Tomas considered this. In his incorporeal state, he found his thoughts clearer, more deliberate, unhindered by the physical reactions of fear or desire. He had always relied on his wits, his caution, his preparation. Power had never been part of his equation for survival.
But he was, unmistakably, dead. And power or no power, survival was currently impossible without intervention.
What's the true cost? he asked. There is always a cost to such bargains.
The crimson orb seemed to dim slightly, then flared brighter. "Wisdom, as well as practicality. Very well. The costs are these: First, I will be present in your mind. Not controlling, but aware. Observing. Commenting. Second, you will experience... urges. Draconic impulses toward territory, dominance, the accumulation of wealth. You need not act on them, but they will be there. Third, my enemies—and they are numerous—may sense my essence within you and hunt you accordingly."
Those are significant disadvantages, Tomas noted.
"Weighed against the alternative of oblivion?" The orb drifted closer. "And I have not mentioned all the advantages. My knowledge spans millennia. I have witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations you cannot imagine. I know secrets of this world that your scholars have long forgotten. And I have no interest in conquest or revenge—those pursuits seem petty after thousands of years of contemplation. I merely wish to experience the world again, through your senses if necessary."
Tomas would have frowned if he had possessed the physical ability to do so. Why me? Surely others have fallen into this chamber before.
"Few with spirits strong enough to maintain coherence after death," Skaravosk responded. "Most simply... disperse. You, however, possess a remarkable tenacity of spirit for one so seemingly ordinary."
My friends would say it's just stubbornness, Tomas replied.
"Perhaps." A trace of amusement colored the dragon's voice. "But effective nonetheless. So, soldier—what is your decision? Oblivion, or a second chance at life with complications?"
Put that way, the choice seemed obvious. Yet Tomas had survived by never making hasty decisions, by always considering all angles of a situation.
If I agree, he said, what exactly will happen?
"Your spirit will reenter your body as I reconstruct it. There will be pain—significant pain—as flesh and bone reform according to the template of your younger self. When the process completes, you will be whole, but changed. Your appearance will be that of your youth, but with subtle differences—perhaps a hint of crimson in your eyes, a slight shimmer to your skin in certain lights. You will need to learn to control the new abilities, just as you once learned to wield a sword."
And if I refuse?
"Then your spirit will eventually fade, as all unanchored spirits do. I will continue to wait for another opportunity, as I have for thousands of years."
Tomas considered all he had seen and done in his life. Twenty-three years of warfare had shown him the worst of humanity, but also the best—the quiet courage of ordinary men and women facing extraordinary terrors, the small kindnesses exchanged in the shadow of death, the bonds formed between those who had nothing in common save the will to survive.
He thought of his companions—Mira, Varn, Corliss, Jenks. Had they escaped? Were they still alive? Had his sacrifice meant something?
He had never been a hero. Never been exceptional. Just a soldier who had managed to survive when others had not. But perhaps, with this second chance, he could be something more. Something beyond mere survival.
I accept, he projected finally. But I have conditions of my own.
"Name them," Skaravosk said, a note of surprise evident in his ancient voice.
First, my mind remains my own. You may observe, advise, but never control. Second, your knowledge is shared freely, not as leverage or bargaining. Third, I decide when and how to use these powers. My survival remains my priority.
The crimson orb pulsed steadily for several moments, as if considering. "Acceptable terms," the dragon king finally responded. "You negotiate well for a dead man with few options."
I've survived this long by recognizing leverage, even when I seem to have none, Tomas replied.
Another ripple of that strange laughter. "Indeed. Very well, Tomas Reed. Let us begin."
The orb descended toward Tomas's physical body, hovering over the bloody chest. It pulsed once, twice, three times—each pulse stronger than the last—then suddenly plunged into the corpse's flesh, disappearing entirely.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the body convulsed violently, back arching as a crimson glow began to emanate from within—visible through the skin, as if the veins and arteries were carrying liquid fire instead of blood.
Tomas felt a powerful pull on his spirit, drawing him inexorably toward the glowing body. He did not resist. As his spiritual essence merged with the transforming flesh, pain erupted through his consciousness—pain beyond anything he had experienced in life. Every cell seemed to burn, every nerve ending screamed, every bone broke and reformed.
The runic inscriptions on the chamber walls flared to life, pulsing in time with the transformation occurring at their center. The very stone beneath the body began to crack and splinter as waves of energy radiated outward.
And through it all, Tomas endured—as he had always endured. Pain was temporary. Survival was what mattered.
The process seemed to last both an eternity and an instant. When it finally subsided, Tomas gasped his first breath of renewed life—the air burning in lungs that moments before had been punctured and still.
He sat up slowly, looking down at hands that were both familiar and strange—his hands, but younger, stronger, unscarred by decades of warfare. He flexed his fingers, feeling power humming beneath the skin.
Impressive, a voice commented in his mind. Your spirit is remarkably compatible with my essence. The merger is more complete than I anticipated.
"Skaravosk?" Tomas spoke aloud, his voice younger, clearer than before, yet still recognizably his own.
Who else would it be? The dragon's mental voice carried a hint of dry humor. Stand, Tomas Reed. See what we have become.
Tomas rose to his feet, marveling at the absence of pain or stiffness. His body felt light, responsive in a way it hadn't been in decades. He looked down at himself—the torn, bloodied uniform now hung loosely on a frame that was leaner, more muscular than his older form had been.
I require sustenance after such expenditure of power, Skaravosk commented. We should hunt.
"Hunt?" Tomas asked, surprised.
Yes, hunt. Find prey. Kill it. Consume its flesh. Preferably something large and full of life energy. A concept I assume you're familiar with as a soldier.
"We could also just have human food," Tomas pointed out. "Bread, cheese, meat that's already been prepared."
There was a moment of silence in his mind before the dragon responded, a note of genuine curiosity in his mental voice.
Human food? I... have never tried such things. In my true form, I consumed living creatures whole. The concept of prepared sustenance is foreign to me.
"Well, you're in a human body now. Might as well experience human pleasures."
Interesting. Yes, I wish to try these 'human foods' you speak of. But first we must leave this place. Hurry up, Tomas Reed. After thousands of years of imprisonment, I find myself suddenly impatient to experience the world through your senses.
"We're in a dungeon filled with monsters," Tomas pointed out. "The kind that were just trying to kill me."
Precisely. Convenient, isn't it?
Tomas picked up his sword from where it had fallen nearby. The familiar weight felt different in his younger, stronger hand—almost too light. He performed an experimental cut, and the blade whistled through the air with startling speed.
"I need to get back to the surface," he said, examining the chamber for exits. "There's a war that doesn't wait for fallen soldiers."
A pragmatic perspective, Skaravosk replied. But perhaps first we should address the only way out—up through that pit, which I estimate to be at least thirty feet high with sheer walls.
Tomas studied the circular opening above. In his previous state, such a climb would have been impossible. Now, however...
"Can I climb that with these new abilities?"
Climbing would be inefficient, the dragon replied. Try jumping.
"Jumping? Thirty feet?"
You accepted draconic power, Tomas Reed. Use it.
Feeling slightly foolish, Tomas bent his knees slightly, then pushed upward with what he judged to be moderate force. His body launched into the air with shocking velocity, carrying him not just to the pit's opening but several feet beyond it. His head smashed directly into the stone ceiling with a thunderous crack that sent fragments of rock raining down into the pit below.
Tomas blinked in surprise, hanging suspended for a moment before gravity reasserted itself. He grabbed the edge of the opening as he fell back down, easily pulling himself up. What should have been a fatal impact had barely registered as discomfort—a dull pressure rather than the skull-shattering collision it would have been for a normal man. Looking up, he could see a spider-web of cracks in the solid stone where his head had struck.
I suggested moderation, Skaravosk commented dryly as Tomas hauled himself out of the pit.
"I was being moderate," Tomas muttered, finding himself back in the large chamber where he had fought the harvestmen. The bodies of the creatures he had killed still lay where they had fallen, but there was no sign of living threats.
You'll need to recalibrate your understanding of your physical capabilities, the dragon advised. What once required your full strength may now need but a fraction. But first—food. The reconstruction of your body has depleted my energies significantly.
As if on cue, Tomas felt a gnawing hunger unlike anything he'd experienced before—a deep, primal craving that went beyond mere physical need.
"What exactly do you want me to eat?" he asked warily, eyeing the dead harvestmen.
Those will do for now, though their flesh is tainted by dungeon corruption. In the future, we will feast on purer specimens.
"I'm not eating a monster," Tomas stated flatly.
Your human sensibilities are noted but impractical. We need sustenance to escape this place and find your companions. Unless you prefer to wait here until more harvestmen arrive?
Tomas scowled, which felt strange on his younger face. "There must be alternatives."
Your pack contained rations, did it not? Though they will provide minimal restoration compared to fresh kill.
Tomas spotted his pack where it had fallen during the fight. Retrieving it, he found his field rations miraculously intact—dried meat, hardtack, and a small pouch of dried berries. He consumed them quickly, the familiar bland taste somehow amplified in his enhanced senses.
Is this considered good human food? Skaravosk asked, a note of disappointment in his mental voice. After all your talk of human pleasures, I expected something more... impressive.
"This is military ration," Tomas explained between bites of the tough hardtack. "It's meant to keep soldiers alive, not to taste good. Real food is better."
I certainly hope so. This is... inadequate, Skaravosk commented. But it will sustain us until better options present themselves.
"It will have to do," Tomas replied firmly. "Now, help me find a way out of here."
The dungeon shifts and changes, the dragon reminded him. Passages that existed when you entered may have rearranged themselves by now. However...
Tomas felt a strange sensation, as if new information was being overlaid on his vision. The purple corruption permeating the dungeon seemed to separate into distinct currents and flows, revealing patterns that had been invisible to his normal perception.
Mana flows, Skaravosk explained. The lifeblood of dungeons. They always lead eventually to entry and exit points. Follow the strongest current, and we will find our way out.
With his enhanced vision, Tomas could see a particularly vibrant stream of energy flowing through one of the passages leading from the chamber. He started toward it, then paused, looking back at the pit from which he had emerged.
"Will you be able to return to your body one day?" he asked. "If we find a way to break your imprisonment?"
A consideration for another time, the dragon replied. After thousands of years, I have learned patience. For now, freedom in any form is sufficient.
Tomas nodded and began following the mana current through the twisting passages of the dungeon. His enhanced senses made navigation easier—he could hear the skittering of creatures long before they came into view, smell the distinct odors of different areas, feel subtle shifts in the air that warned of traps or hazards.
Twice they encountered dungeon denizens—once a pack of scuttlers that fled at Tomas's approach, sensing the draconic power within him, and later a shambling construct of animate crystal that Tomas was forced to engage when it blocked their path. Without his sword, which lay shattered somewhere in the chamber where he had fallen, Tomas was forced to rely on his new physical capabilities.
To his surprise, his bare fists proved more than sufficient. When he struck the crystalline creature, its body cracked and splintered beneath his knuckles. The fight was shockingly brief; he simply tore the construct apart with his hands, his reflexes allowing him to dodge attacks that would have been blindingly fast to his normal perception.
Impressive, Skaravosk commented as Tomas examined his unmarked hands after the fight. Most humans require weapons to destroy such entities.
"Most humans aren't sharing their body with a dragon king," Tomas replied dryly.
You adapt quickly, Skaravosk commented after the second encounter. Most humans would be overwhelmed by such radical changes to their physical capabilities.
"I've spent my life adapting to survive," Tomas replied simply. "This is just... more of the same, in a different form."
They continued through the ever-shifting labyrinth, the mana flow guiding their path. Eventually, they began to ascend, the passages leading steadily upward. The purple corruption grew less intense, suggesting they were approaching the dungeon's periphery.
We near an exit, Skaravosk confirmed. But be cautious. The breach you discovered has created instability throughout the dungeon's structure. The boundary between worlds may be unpredictable.
Tomas slowed his pace, moving with the caution that had served him for decades despite his new capabilities. Around a final bend, the passage opened into a small cave mouth—beyond it, he could see natural daylight.
He approached carefully, extending his enhanced senses. No immediate threats presented themselves, but something felt wrong about the boundary between dungeon and outside world. The air seemed to shimmer and distort at the threshold.
A temporal distortion, Skaravosk identified. Time flows differently in dungeons, especially unstable ones. Difficult to predict the effect.
"Meaning?"
Meaning the time that has passed for you inside this dungeon may not match the time that has passed outside. It could be hours, days, weeks—even longer.
Tomas frowned. "My companions—"
May have long since departed, yes. Or perhaps only moments have passed for them. There is only one way to find out.
Taking a deep breath, Tomas stepped through the shimmering barrier and into the world beyond.
The transition was disorienting—a momentary sensation of being stretched thin, then snapped back into place. He staggered slightly, blinking against the suddenly bright sunlight after the dungeon's gloom.
He found himself on the eastern face of the Howling Crag, about halfway up its height. The landscape spread out before him looked subtly different from what he remembered—the corrupted areas were gone, the purple taint erased as if it had never existed.
"The breach was sealed," he murmured.
Indeed, Skaravosk agreed. Someone with considerable power has reinforced the dungeon's boundaries. Recent work, too—I can sense the residual energy.
Tomas knew immediately who was responsible. "The Heroes from the East. They must have arrived."
Ah, those foreign warriors with abilities beyond normal humans. Yes, this bears their signature—particularly the weather manipulator and the healer.
"How do you know about them?" Tomas asked, surprised.
I have been imprisoned, not oblivious. The dungeon exists in multiple dimensions. Information... filters through. Fragments of events, whispers of major occurrences. The arrival of heroes from another world to combat the resurrected Demon King was significant enough to reach even my awareness.
Tomas scanned the horizon, trying to get his bearings. The border patrol outpost should be visible from this height, and beyond it, the route back to his garrison.
Your companions survived, Skaravosk commented suddenly.
"How do you know?"
The healer's energy signature is strongest at a location to the southeast—that structure there. The dragon directed Tomas's attention to the distant outpost. She spent considerable power there, likely healing wounds. Given your concern for your companions and their goal of reaching that location, the logical conclusion is that they survived and were healed.
Relief flickered briefly through Tomas. The mission had been completed. His sacrifice had bought time for something greater to intervene.
"How long?" he wondered aloud. "How long have I been in the dungeon?"
Difficult to determine precisely, Skaravosk admitted. But based on the degradation of the Heroes' energy signatures and the recovery of the natural landscape from corruption, I would estimate a longer period than you might expect—perhaps two weeks.
"Two weeks?" Tomas was genuinely surprised. He had expected hours, perhaps days, but not weeks. In wartime, two weeks could change everything. Battles won or lost. Territories taken or abandoned. Lives ended.
Time flows differently in dungeons, as I mentioned. The instability of the breach likely exacerbated the effect. For you, it was mere hours. For the outside world, much longer.
After several hours of travel at his enhanced pace, Tomas crested a final hill and saw the garrison in the distance. Even from here, something seemed wrong. The usual smoke from cooking fires was absent. No movement visible along the walls or at the gates.
"It's abandoned," he said, his voice flat as the realization struck him.
Indeed, Skaravosk agreed. No human life signatures detectable from this distance. They have moved on.
Tomas approached more cautiously, nonetheless. Just because humans had abandoned the garrison didn't mean it was empty. Scavengers—human or otherwise—might have moved in.
The gates stood open, swinging slightly in the breeze. Inside, he found evidence of a hasty but organized departure. No bodies, no signs of battle or attack. This hadn't been a retreat under pressure but a planned redeployment.
Tomas moved through the empty yard toward the command tent. Inside, he found maps still pinned to the tactical table, though many had been taken. Those remaining showed troop movements heading southwest, toward what appeared to be a major concentration of the Demon King's forces.
The war continues elsewhere, Skaravosk observed. Your garrison has joined a larger campaign.
"And left me for dead," Tomas added, though without bitterness. It was the logical choice. No commander could wait indefinitely for a soldier presumed lost in a dungeon.
He searched what remained of the officers' quarters and found a half-written report detailing the sealing of the dungeon breach by the Four Heroes, their departure to the Shadow Gate, and orders for the garrison to reinforce the southern front. A small notation mentioned "four survivors of Delta scouting team" being reassigned. No mention of a memorial service or recovery efforts for the missing fifth member.
Practical, Tomas thought. Just as he would have been in their position.
What now, Tomas Reed? the dragon asked. Your former comrades have moved on, believing you dead. Your obligation to them has ended. The world offers new possibilities for one with our combined abilities.
Tomas considered the question as he gathered usable supplies from the abandoned garrison—food, water, clean clothing that might fit his younger body, a better sword from the armory to replace his notched blade. The thought of following the army southwest briefly crossed his mind, but something else tugged at him.
One question, Tomas Reed, Skaravosk spoke as they made their way from the abandoned garrison, supplies strapped to their back. What will you do now? Follow the army? Return to being a common soldier, albeit one with extraordinary abilities? I think not.
"I'll do what benefits my survival," Tomas replied simply. "As I've always done."
And if what benefits your survival conflicts with your former allegiances?
Tomas didn't answer immediately. The question struck at something fundamental—a shift he could already feel occurring within him. The draconic essence flowing through his veins carried with it more than just physical power; it brought a perspective that spanned millennia rather than decades, a viewpoint that saw kingdoms and armies as temporary configurations in an endless cycle of rise and fall.
Two weeks ago, he had been Tomas Reed, an unremarkable soldier fighting a war against the Demon King's forces. Now he was something else entirely—something that didn't quite fit into the neat categories of soldier, civilian, or even human.
"Then I'll adapt," he said finally. "As I always have."
As the sun set behind him, Tomas Reed walked away from the garrison, away from his old life, into an uncertain future shaped by new abilities and ancient power. His path no longer bound to orders or duties, but to whatever opportunities his transformed existence might offer.
And for the first time in his twenty-three years of warfare, Tomas Reed felt something beyond his usual grim determination.
He felt power.