Dawn broke over Harrowgate in a symphony of muted grays, the sun struggling to pierce heavy clouds that promised rain. Tom stood at the western gate, pack secure on his shoulders, waiting for the Mining Guild's assistant who would transport him to Westridge Mine. The coming storm suited his mood—focused, alert, ready to face whatever corruption awaited beneath the earth.
You seem eager, Skaravosk observed, his mental voice carrying something like anticipation. This mission appeals to you.
"It's straightforward," Tom replied quietly. "Clear objective, defined scope, contained threat. And the perfect opportunity to test our abilities in controlled circumstances."
The military mind at work, the dragon noted with amusement. Though I sense something more. A certain... enthusiasm for combat that wasn't present in your previous life.
Tom considered this, recognizing the truth in Skaravosk's observation. As Tomas Reed, battle had been a grim necessity—something to be approached with calculation and survived through skill. Now, something in him actually looked forward to the coming conflict, curious to experience the full extent of his new powers against worthy opposition.
"Maybe it's your influence," he suggested.
Perhaps, Skaravosk conceded. Or perhaps it's simply your younger self's natural inclinations, unconstrained by decades of trauma and conditioning. Not all changes from our merger flow from me to you.
Before Tom could respond, a wagon approached the gate, driven by a wiry young man wearing the Mining Guild's emblem on his leather vest. The vehicle was sturdy, clearly designed for rough terrain, with reinforced wheels and a canvas-covered cargo area.
"Reed?" the driver called, pulling the wagon to a stop. "I'm Terren, Foreman Durnek's assistant."
Tom nodded, climbing aboard without ceremony. "Ready when you are."
"Not much for conversation, are you?" Terren observed with a wry smile as he flicked the reins, setting the pair of draft horses in motion.
"Depends on the topic," Tom replied neutrally, settling into his seat.
"Fair enough. Three hours to the mine—plenty of time to choose a good one." Terren guided the wagon through Harrowgate's gradually awakening streets with practiced ease. "How about the war? Always a cheerful subject."
This boy attempts humor as a defense mechanism, Skaravosk observed. Common among your kind when facing stressful situations.
Tom studied Terren more carefully, noting the tension behind his casual demeanor. "You've been to the mine since the corruption began," he stated rather than asked.
Terren's shoulders stiffened slightly. "That obvious, is it?"
"You're trying too hard to seem unaffected."
The young man sighed as they passed through the city gates and onto the western road. "Twice. Brought supplies for the barricade team. Saw things I wish I hadn't."
"Tell me," Tom said, his tone making it clear this wasn't idle curiosity but necessary mission information.
As the wagon rumbled westward, Terren described his experiences at Westridge—the strange sounds emanating from behind the barricade, the purple light that seemed to pulse in patterns almost like language, the inexplicable sensation of being watched by something that understood human fear and relished it.
"But the worst was Hallick," Terren continued, his knuckles whitening on the reins. "He was a guard at the barricade. Good man, steady. When I arrived for my second supply run, he was... changed. Not completely—you could still recognize him. But his skin had these crystalline growths, and his eyes..." He swallowed hard. "They were fractured, like shattered glass, but still moving. Still aware."
Partial physical corruption, Skaravosk identified. The dungeon's influence is altering human physiology to match its internal patterns.
"What happened to him?" Tom asked quietly.
"Durnek had to put him down," Terren replied, his voice hollow. "Hallick begged him to. Said he could feel his thoughts changing, becoming something else's thoughts. Said he wanted to die while he was still himself."
They rode in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the creak of wagon wheels and the steady clop of hooves against the packed dirt road.
"So yeah," Terren finally said, attempting to recapture his earlier light tone. "Maybe not the war after all. How about the weather? Looks like rain."
Tom allowed the young man his diversion, and their conversation shifted to safer topics—the quality of Harrowgate's taverns, the increasing price of grain due to supply disruptions, the Mining Guild's operations in the region. Terren gradually relaxed as they left the city further behind, the road now passing through rolling farmland interspersed with patches of forest.
Three hours later, as the clouds finally delivered on their promise of rain, the wagon crested a hill to reveal their destination. Westridge Mine was carved into the face of a modest mountain, its main entrance a dark maw in the gray stone. A hastily constructed wooden barricade sealed the opening, reinforced with metal bands and what appeared to be religious symbols painted in red.
A small encampment stood a safe distance from the entrance—three tents and a covered wagon, with half a dozen grim-faced men maintaining a vigilant watch on the barricade. As Terren guided their wagon into the camp, Foreman Durnek emerged from the largest tent, rain dripping from his thick beard.
"You made good time," he called, approaching as Tom jumped down from the wagon. "Weather's turning worse. Best to get inside before it really opens up."
Tom followed the foreman to the tent, aware of the curious and somewhat skeptical gazes of the barricade guards. Inside, the tent contained a folding table covered with maps and diagrams similar to those he'd seen in Durnek's office, along with various mining implements and several lanterns casting warm light against the growing gloom outside.
"My men have their orders to assist you with the barricade when you're ready to enter," Durnek explained, pointing to a detailed map of the mine's layout. "Once inside, you'll need to make your way to the fourth level, here. That's where we found the crystal formation and where the corruption is strongest."
Tom studied the map, memorizing the tunnel system. "Any changes to the layout since the corruption began?"
Durnek nodded grimly. "The last team to attempt entry—three days ago—reported the tunnels on level three had... shifted. Passages that should have been straight had curved. Some that should have connected to others just ended in solid rock."
"Spatial distortion," Tom murmured. "Consistent with dungeon phenomena."
The boundaries between normal reality and dungeon space are becoming permeable, Skaravosk added. Interesting—this suggests the corruption hasn't just affected the physical environment but is altering the fundamental properties of space within the mine.
"What happened to the last team?" Tom asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Two never came out," Durnek replied. "The third made it back to the entrance babbling about voices in the walls and lights that moved like they were alive. Died that night—some kind of crystalline growth spread from his arm to his heart in a matter of hours."
Tom nodded, processing this information with professional detachment. "I'll need a final look at the barricade before entry."
As they stepped back into the rain, which had intensified to a steady downpour, Tom mentally reviewed his strategy. The confined spaces of the mine would make the full dragon transformation impossible, but the half-dragon form or armor form might prove useful if he encountered significant resistance. The real question was how to approach the crystal formation itself—destroy it directly or attempt to seal the breach it represented?
Both approaches have merit, Skaravosk commented, following his thoughts. Destruction is simpler but may release a surge of corrupting energy if not properly contained. Sealing requires more finesse but potentially fewer unpredictable consequences.
They reached the barricade, where two guards stood watch despite the driving rain. Up close, Tom could see the construction more clearly—thick timber reinforced with iron strapping, the wood carved with religious symbols and protective runes. Most appeared to be standard exorcism and containment markings used by the kingdom's temples, though a few were unfamiliar to him.
More concerning was the faint purple glow visible through the narrow gaps between the timbers—a sickly light that seemed to pulse with unnatural rhythm. As Tom watched, the light intensified momentarily, accompanied by a sound just at the edge of hearing—something between a whisper and the crystalline chime of glass vibrating.
It senses us, Skaravosk noted with interest. Or more specifically, it senses me. My essence registers as something outside its understood patterns.
"Is that good or bad?" Tom murmured.
Unknown. But it suggests we'll encounter active resistance rather than mere environmental hazards. The corruption has achieved a level of awareness, however rudimentary.
Durnek appeared at Tom's side, his expression grim. "The light's stronger than yesterday. It's growing bolder."
"Or more desperate," Tom suggested. "Confined energies often intensify before dissipating."
The foreman gave him a skeptical look. "You speak as if you understand these things."
"I've seen similar phenomena," Tom replied truthfully, if incompletely.
After a final inspection of the barricade and confirmation of the entry procedure with the guards, Tom returned to the main tent to make his final preparations. He changed into lighter, more flexible clothing that would accommodate potential transformation, keeping his armor minimal—just bracers and a light chestplate that wouldn't restrict movement.
The sword he'd borrowed from the garrison he left behind entirely. If he needed a weapon, Bloodthorn would serve better, and he could summon it at will without encumbering himself in the narrow tunnels.
As the afternoon waned toward evening, Tom sat cross-legged in the tent, mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead. Though he presented a calm exterior, he found himself unusually eager for the coming challenge—a sentiment Skaravosk clearly shared, the dragon's anticipation flowing through their connection like a warm current.
"We enter at dawn," he said quietly. "Rest until then."
A sound tactical decision, Skaravosk agreed. Though I sense neither of us will sleep deeply tonight.
Five hundred miles south of Westridge Mine, at the edge of a vast plain turned to mud by unseasonable rain, Scout Mira Denton crouched in a waterlogged trench and stared through a spyglass at the enemy lines. Two weeks since their reassignment to the southern front, and the situation had deteriorated from bad to desperate.
The Demon King's forces stretched across the horizon—a grotesque assembly of corrupted beasts, undead horrors, and demonic entities that defied classification. At their center loomed a floating citadel of obsidian and bone, suspended above the battlefield by energies that hurt the eye to observe directly.
"Any change?" Captain Merrick asked, sliding into position beside her. His face was gaunt with exhaustion, his previously immaculate uniform now mud-spattered and torn.
"Their eastern flank is still weakened from yesterday's push," Mira reported, collapsing the spyglass. "But they've reinforced the center with those large quadrupedal constructs—the ones with the crystalline cannons."
Merrick cursed under his breath. "Those things cut through our heavy infantry like paper. We lost three hundred men to just five of them in the last engagement."
"The Heroes are working on a countermeasure," Mira reminded him. "The Storm Caller thinks he can disrupt their energy matrix with focused lightning strikes."
"If they ever return from the Shadow Gate," Merrick muttered. "Three days they've been gone, while we bleed out here in the mud."
Mira couldn't argue with his assessment. The Heroes had departed suddenly, claiming urgent business at a dimensional weak point called the Shadow Gate. Without their supernatural abilities to counter the Demon King's elite forces, the kingdom's army was fighting a losing battle of attrition.
She crawled back through the trench network toward the command tent, delivering her reconnaissance report to the harried officers attempting to coordinate what remained of three different regiments forced into hasty cooperation by battlefield necessity. Among them, she recognized Varn, now serving as an archery captain, his once-cheerful demeanor replaced by grim efficiency.
"Mira," he acknowledged as she finished her report. "Any sign of Jenks's infiltration team?"
She shook her head. "Nothing since they slipped behind enemy lines last night. If they succeeded in sabotaging the siege engines, we'd have seen evidence by now."
Varn's expression tightened. "That's the third team we've lost this week."
The unspoken name hung between them—Reed. Since their return from the Howling Crag mission, neither had spoken much about their lost comrade, but his absence remained a constant undercurrent in their interactions. Reed would have found a way through the enemy lines. Reed would have completed the mission and returned. Reed always survived.
Except the one time he hadn't.
"Get some rest," Varn advised, turning back to the tactical map. "Night assault planned for 0200. We need your eyes on their western approach."
Mira nodded and made her way to her small tent at the edge of the camp. Sleep came fitfully, haunted by dreams of purple mist and the chittering of harvestmen. And sometimes, just before waking, she thought she saw a crimson light in the distance, like eyes watching from beyond the veil of reality.
The Shadow Gate resembled a vertical tear in the fabric of existence—a jagged black line hanging in mid-air within an ancient stone circle, occasionally widening enough to reveal glimpses of a nightmarish landscape beyond. Located on a desolate mountaintop far from inhabited lands, the anomaly had been stable for centuries until the Demon King's resurrection five years ago.
Now it pulsed with malevolent energy, threatening to tear open fully and allow unrestricted passage between realms.
The Four Heroes from Japan stood at cardinal points around the gate, channeling their respective powers to reinforce the dimensional boundary. Takashi Yamamoto, the Sword Saint, traced complex patterns in the air with his blade that glowed with pure white energy. Mei Lin, the Shield Maiden, maintained a barrier that encircled the entire stone ring, containing the chaotic energies that occasionally burst from the tear. Hiroshi Nakamura, the Storm Caller, hovered above, lightning arcing between his hands as he wove a secondary containment field.
At the northernmost point, closest to the gate itself, Akiko Tanaka, the Healer, knelt with her hands pressed to the ancient stone, her healing energy flowing not into a living body but into reality itself, mending the damaged fabric of space-time.
"How much longer?" Takashi asked, his normally impassive face showing signs of strain. "We're needed at the front."
"Almost done," Akiko replied, her voice eerily doubled as if speaking from two places at once. "The boundary is stabilizing."
Hiroshi descended slightly, his youthful face incongruously serious. "We cannot afford to rush this. If the Shadow Gate fully opens while we're occupied with the Demon King's army, we'll be fighting a war on two fronts."
"I know," Takashi acknowledged. "But each day we spend here costs hundreds of lives on the battlefield."
"Lives that will mean nothing if the gate opens," Mei reminded him, her barrier flickering momentarily as she spoke. "Focus, Takashi. Your concentration is slipping."
The Sword Saint nodded and renewed his efforts, his blade moving with impossible precision as it carved sealing runes into the very air.
When they finally paused, hours later, the four gathered in a small cave sheltered from the bitter mountain winds. Though they required less rest than ordinary humans, even Heroes had their limits, and maintaining the boundary repairs demanded immense energy.
"I had another dream of home last night," Akiko said softly as they shared a simple meal. "Tokyo in cherry blossom season. My family visiting Ueno Park."
Mei's expression softened. "What I wouldn't give for a proper Japanese bath. Five years in this world, and I still haven't found hot water that doesn't smell like sulfur."
"Proper ramen," Hiroshi added with a wistful smile. "With chashu and a perfect soft-boiled egg."
"Focus on the mission," Takashi interrupted, though without real heat. "Indulging in nostalgia only makes this harder."
"The prophecy was clear," Akiko reminded him gently. "Defeat the Demon King, and we can return home."
"If the prophecy is true," Takashi countered. "We've seen enough in this world to know that ancient predictions aren't always reliable."
Hiroshi leaned forward. "The prophecy brought us here exactly as foretold. Four from another world, each with powers aligned to the elements. It named the Demon King's resurrection five years ago to the day. Why doubt its promise of return?"
Takashi didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on his sword lying across his knees. "Because I've started to wonder if we're missing something. The Demon King's strategies have shifted in recent months. He's not just seeking conquest anymore—he's looking for something specific."
"The dimensional anomalies," Mei said, understanding in her voice. "The dungeon breaches, the Shadow Gate instabilities..."
"Exactly. They're not random consequences of his power. They're deliberate probes, tests of the boundaries between worlds." Takashi looked up, his eyes reflecting the fire's light. "What if he's trying to follow us home?"
The implication hung heavy in the air. Their world—modern Japan with its millions of unsuspecting people—exposed to a being of pure corruption and malice, with no Heroes to stand against him.
"Then we end him here," Hiroshi said firmly. "Before he finds what he's looking for."
Akiko nodded. "The army needs us. Once we've finished reinforcing the Shadow Gate, we return to the southern front. No more delays."
As they resumed their work at the gate, Takashi found his thoughts returning to a strange encounter from weeks ago—a regular soldier who had drawn the monsters away from his companions at the Howling Crag, sacrificing himself to complete the mission. Just one unremarkable man among thousands in this war, yet there had been something in his eyes—a determination, a will to survive that resonated with Takashi's own.
Such men were the reason they fought, the reason they had accepted the prophecy's burden. Not for glory or power, but for those who stood against darkness with nothing but courage and stubborn resolve.
The Sword Saint renewed his efforts, his blade moving with fresh purpose. They would finish here and return to the battle. The Demon King would fall. And maybe, just maybe, they would see cherry blossoms again.
The night before entering Westridge Mine passed slowly for Tom. He dozed intermittently, alert to every sound from outside the tent—the murmured conversations of the guards changing shifts, the steady drum of rain on canvas, the occasional distant howl that might have been wind or something else entirely.
You should rest more deeply, Skaravosk advised. I can maintain vigilance while you sleep.
"Not used to delegating my survival," Tom replied quietly.
An understandable habit after twenty-three years of war, the dragon acknowledged. Though perhaps one worth reconsidering given our current arrangement.
Tom smiled slightly in the darkness. "Are you offering to stand watch, Skarry?"
I'm suggesting a practical division of responsibilities, the dragon replied with dignity, though Tom sensed amusement beneath the words. My awareness doesn't require your consciousness. I can monitor our surroundings while you rest, then wake you if necessary.
It was a reasonable suggestion, and Tom found himself considering it seriously. The ability to truly sleep while maintaining security awareness would be invaluable—yet another advantage of their merger he hadn't fully appreciated.
"Alright," he conceded. "Wake me if anything approaches within twenty feet of the tent, or if the barricade shows any signs of failing."
Agreed. Now sleep, Tom Reed. Tomorrow we hunt in the deep places of the earth.
There was an undeniable eagerness in Skaravosk's mental voice—a predator's anticipation before the chase. Tom found himself sharing the sentiment as he closed his eyes and allowed consciousness to fade, trusting the dragon's vigilance.
He dreamed of crystalline tunnels that shifted and reformed as he passed through them, of whispered voices that spoke in languages too old for human comprehension, of purple light that followed his movements with malevolent curiosity. Yet unlike Mira's troubled sleep far to the south, Tom's dreams carried no fear—only a calm assessment of the challenges ahead and the growing certainty that he was more than equal to them.
When he woke at the first faint lightening of the sky before dawn, he felt truly rested for the first time in recent memory. Skaravosk's presence in his mind was alert but relaxed, like a great cat lounging but fully aware of its surroundings.
Nothing approached during the night, the dragon reported. Though twice the barricade pulsed with increased energy. It tests its confinement, learning its boundaries.
"Intelligent behavior," Tom noted, pulling on his boots and securing his minimal armor.
Of a sort. Not individual consciousness as you understand it, but a collective pattern-recognition capacity. The corruption adapts to resistance, finding paths of least opposition.
"Like water finding cracks in a dam."
An apt analogy.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the camp shrouded in mist that clung to the ground in spectral tendrils. The barricade guards were already alert, watching the sealed mine entrance with the tense vigilance of men who had seen too much to be complacent.
Foreman Durnek emerged from his tent as Tom approached the barricade, his face haggard from what had clearly been a sleepless night.
"You still certain about this?" the foreman asked without preamble. "No shame in reconsidering. Three teams have already failed."
"I'm certain," Tom replied simply.
Durnek studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Your funeral arrangements?"
"None needed," Tom said with a slight smile. "If I don't return, consider the fee forfeit and seal the entrance permanently. Collapse it if possible."
"Bold confidence or resignation to fate," Durnek observed. "Can't tell which."
Neither can I, at times, Skaravosk commented with amusement.
The guards began dismantling a section of the barricade as Tom made his final preparations—checking his small pack of supplies, ensuring his adventurer's crystal hung securely around his neck, stretching to loosen muscles that already felt supernaturally responsive thanks to the dragon's essence flowing through them.
As the opening in the barricade widened, the purple light from within intensified, casting eerie shadows across the misty ground. The air emerging from the mine carried a metallic tang that made ordinary humans wrinkle their noses in discomfort but that Tom found strangely fascinating—the scent of reality itself being rewritten.
"We'll reseal it behind you," Durnek explained unnecessarily. "Three knocks on the barricade from inside is the signal you're returning and need exit."
Tom nodded, then stepped forward as the opening became wide enough to pass through. The guards watched with expressions ranging from respect to pity, clearly expecting him to join the ranks of the missing and the dead.
They underestimate us, Skaravosk noted with a predator's satisfaction.
"That makes things simpler," Tom replied silently as he crossed the threshold into Westridge Mine, the purple light enveloping him like liquid.
Behind him, the guards hurriedly resealed the barricade, the sound of hammers and the scrape of timber fading as Tom advanced into the mine's main tunnel. The passage was broad and well-constructed, clearly designed for heavy ore carts and teams of miners working in concert. Wall-mounted brackets that once held lanterns now stood empty, but illumination was unnecessary—the purple corruption-light suffused everything, casting no shadows but revealing all details with unnatural clarity.
Tom moved forward with measured caution, alert for any immediate threats but encountering none. The corruption seemed content to observe him for now, the purple light occasionally intensifying or shifting as he passed, like curious eyes following his progress.
It's evaluating us, Skaravosk observed. Testing our intentions.
Twenty yards in, the main tunnel began to slope downward, leading to the first of the four levels Durnek had described. Here, the signs of corruption became more pronounced—crystalline growths emerging from the walls like frozen purple flames, the stone floor beneath Tom's boots occasionally yielding like flesh before firming again.
Fascinating, the dragon commented as Tom paused to examine one of the crystalline formations. The corrupting energy is rewriting the fundamental properties of matter. Stone becoming temporarily organic, then reverting to mineral form but with altered characteristics.
"Can it affect us the same way?" Tom asked, continuing his descent.
It would attempt to, Skaravosk acknowledged. But my essence is inherently resistant to such influences. Dragons exist partially outside normal reality—it's how we manipulate dimensional boundaries to summon weapons or transform. This corruption would need to overpower my nature before affecting yours.
This was reassuring but not cause for complacency. Tom maintained his vigilance as he reached the first level proper—a large chamber with multiple tunnel offshoots, mining equipment scattered as if abandoned in haste. A cart lay overturned, its ore load spilled across the floor, each stone now encrusted with tiny purple crystals that glinted in the omnipresent light.
The descent to the second level went similarly—increased signs of corruption but no active resistance. It was on the third level that Tom encountered the spatial distortions Durnek had warned about.
The main passage, which should have been a straight shot to the stairwell leading down to level four, now curved impossibly, bending back on itself in ways that defied normal geometry. Side tunnels appeared where none should exist according to the maps, while others had vanished entirely. The corruption-light pulsed more actively here, forming patterns that almost resembled writing on the walls before dissolving into chaos again.
"It's trying to disorient us," Tom observed, pausing at an intersection that shouldn't exist. "Guide us away from the central breach."
Or trap us in a spatial loop, Skaravosk suggested. These distortions could potentially create endless pathways that never reach a destination.
Tom considered their options. Following the corrupted passages might lead them in circles indefinitely. Creating a new path by force might trigger active resistance before they were prepared.
There is a third approach, Skaravosk offered. I can temporarily extend my dimensional perception—see the true structure beneath these distortions. It would consume some energy but allow us to navigate directly.
"Do it," Tom decided.
He felt a subtle shift in their shared consciousness as Skaravosk extended his awareness beyond human perception. Suddenly, the twisted passages took on a dual aspect in Tom's vision—the physical distortions remained visible, but overlaid on them was a ghostly image of the mine's true structure, like architectural plans projected onto a twisted model.
There, the dragon indicated, guiding Tom's attention to what appeared to be a solid wall but which the dimensional overlay revealed as the actual passage to level four. The stairwell entrance is being masked by an illusion of solid stone.
Tom approached the seemingly solid wall and, trusting the dragon's perception, stepped forward confidently. The stone rippled like water as he passed through, the illusion unable to maintain cohesion against direct challenge from a being partially outside its influence.
Beyond lay the stairwell—a steep descent carved into the living rock, now heavily encrusted with crystalline growths that thrummed with energy. As Tom began his descent, the corruption-light intensified dramatically, and for the first time, he felt active resistance—a pressure against his mind and body, as if the very air had become hostile.
It recognizes the threat we pose now, Skaravosk noted with satisfaction rather than concern. No more passive observation.
The mental pressure increased as Tom continued downward, attempting to insinuate alien thoughts and sensations into his consciousness. But where an ordinary human mind might have been vulnerable, the merged awareness of man and dragon proved resilient. The corruption's influence slid away like water from oiled cloth, finding no purchase.
Frustrated by this failure, the corruption shifted tactics. As Tom reached the bottom of the stairwell, the passage to level four suddenly filled with a swarm of crystalline entities—roughly humanoid in shape but with too many limbs at improbable angles, their bodies transparent purple crystal shot through with veins of darker energy.
Manifestations, Skaravosk identified. Physical constructs animated by the corruption. Dangerous to ordinary humans but limited in their capacity to harm us.
Tom didn't break stride, continuing forward as the crystalline figures surged toward him. When the first reached striking distance, he sidestepped its awkward lunge and delivered a precise blow to what passed for its head. The crystal shattered satisfyingly, fragments dissolving into motes of purple light that tried to reassemble but failed.
More converged from all sides, their movements becoming more coordinated as they adjusted to Tom's fighting style. He responded by increasing his speed, moving with fluidity that no normal human could match, each strike precisely targeted to shatter his crystalline opponents with maximum efficiency.
When they began to overwhelm him through sheer numbers, Tom decided it was time to escalate. "Half-transformation?" he suggested to Skaravosk.
A reasonable response to these circumstances, the dragon agreed. Focus on limbs and protective scaling first—the confined space makes wings impractical.
Tom channeled the draconic energy flowing through him, directing it toward partial manifestation. His forearms transformed first, crimson scales flowing like liquid over his skin, fingers extending into talons that gleamed in the purple light. Similar scaling spread across his chest and back, forming natural armor that the crystalline entities' attacks simply slid off.
A tail emerged last, providing additional balance and a surprisingly effective weapon as he whipped it through a cluster of manifestations, shattering them with a single powerful sweep.
The corruption responded to this escalation with increased aggression, the manifestations fusing into larger, more formidable forms—no longer vaguely humanoid but twisted amalgamations of crystalline mass with multiple points of articulation. The purple light pulsed frantically, almost like a heartbeat accelerating in panic.
It fears us now, Skaravosk observed with satisfaction. Good. Fear will make it predictable.
Tom pressed forward through the increasingly desperate resistance, his partially transformed body proving more than equal to the challenge. Each crystalline construct that rose against him fell shattered, until finally the passage ahead cleared, revealing the central chamber of level four—and the source of the corruption.
The chamber was vast, far larger than should have been possible given the mine's known dimensions—another spatial distortion, but on a greater scale. At its center rose a crystalline formation like nothing in the natural world—a massive structure that resembled a frozen explosion caught at the moment of detonation, jagged spires of crystal radiating outward from a central point of impossible darkness.
Purple energy coursed through the formation in pulsing waves, each one sending ripples of distortion through the surrounding reality. The air itself seemed to twist and fold around the crystal, creating pockets where perspective shifted nauseously or where time appeared to flow at different rates.
A dimensional breach, Skaravosk confirmed. But not a natural one—this was deliberately created. The miners didn't accidentally uncover this; they were led to it.
Tom frowned, studying the formation from just inside the chamber entrance. "Led by what?"
By whoever serves the Demon King's interests in this region, the dragon replied grimly. This is no random dungeon corruption—it's a calculated weakening of the barriers between realities. Similar to what we witnessed at Howling Crag, but more focused, more precisely engineered.
As Tom considered this disturbing possibility, the darkness at the center of the crystal formation seemed to deepen, expanding outward like ink spreading through water. The purple light responded by intensifying to almost painful brightness, as if in alarm.
Something comes through, Skaravosk warned, his mental voice tightening with sudden alertness. Something that does not belong to this corruption but seeks to use it.
From the darkness emerged a figure that made Tom's enhanced senses recoil instinctively—a tall, emaciated humanoid form wrapped in tattered robes that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the purple light. Where a face should have been was only smooth obsidian skin interrupted by a vertical line that slowly parted like a wound, revealing rows of needle-like teeth arranged in concentric circles.
A Whisper Priest, Skaravosk identified, genuine concern coloring his mental voice for the first time. One of the Demon King's intelligence gatherers and dimensional manipulators. Very dangerous, even to beings of our capability.
The Whisper Priest paused upon noticing Tom, its faceless head tilting at an unnatural angle. When it spoke, the sound bypassed ordinary hearing, manifesting directly in the mind like ice forming on warm flesh.
"Interesting," it said, the word carrying layers of meaning and assessment. "You are not what was expected. Not human, not dragon, but something... intermediary. A fusion? Yes. Fascinating."
Tom maintained his partial transformation, ready to complete it if necessary. "You created this breach."
"Cultivated it," the Whisper Priest corrected, gliding forward with a motion more liquid than solid. "This region has natural dimensional instability. We merely... encouraged its development."
Be wary, Skaravosk cautioned. These entities feed on information. Every interaction provides them data to use against us.
The Whisper Priest's head tilted further, bending at an impossible angle. "A dragon speaks within you. Ancient. Powerful. But not free. Imprisoned, then bound to human flesh. Another fascinating adaptation."
It drifted closer, the darkness surrounding it extending tendrils that tested the air like blind serpents. "Your arrival is unexpected but potentially valuable. My master collects unique specimens. You would be studied with great care."
"Not interested," Tom replied flatly, beginning to circle the chamber to get a better position relative to both the crystal formation and the Whisper Priest.
"Interest is irrelevant," the creature responded with something like amusement. "Collection is inevitable. All unique configurations of matter and energy belong ultimately to the Demon King's archives."
As it spoke, the Whisper Priest's form seemed to fluctuate, becoming momentarily transparent before solidifying again. The darkness surrounding it expanded, filling more of the chamber, causing the purple corruption-light to dim defensively.
It's not fully materialized in this reality, Skaravosk observed. It's maintaining presence in multiple dimensional planes simultaneously—a significant expenditure of energy.
"Why this location?" Tom asked, continuing his careful movement around the perimeter of the chamber. Each step brought him closer to the crystalline formation while maintaining distance from the Whisper Priest. "Why Westridge Mine specifically?"
The faceless entity's mouth-wound pulsed as it replied, "Convergence points exist throughout your reality—places where the membrane between dimensions thins naturally. Mining operations often uncover them. Human greed serves our purposes admirably."
It's stalling, Skaravosk warned. Gathering strength or waiting for reinforcement.
Tom had reached the same conclusion. The Whisper Priest's dialogue seemed calculated to keep him engaged while something else developed—perhaps a more complete manifestation, or the arrival of additional threats.
Decision made, Tom abandoned subtlety. In one fluid motion, he completed his half-dragon transformation—wings erupting from his back, scales flowing across his entire body, his face elongating slightly into a draconic muzzle filled with razor-sharp teeth.
The Whisper Priest recoiled, its darkness contracting momentarily in what might have been surprise. "Dragon essence, yes, but not mere possession—true integration. The Demon King will be most interested in your composition."
"He'll be disappointed," Tom growled, his voice deeper and resonant in his transformed state. With a powerful leap augmented by a single beat of his wings, he launched himself not at the Whisper Priest but at the crystalline formation behind it.
As he soared over the startled entity, Tom summoned Bloodthorn—the crimson shortsword materializing in his scaled hand with a flash of red light. The blade seemed to sing as it cut through the air, eager for the coming impact.
The Whisper Priest screamed—a sound like tearing metal that rippled through multiple layers of reality simultaneously—and attempted to interpose itself between Tom and the crystal formation. But Tom's enhanced speed and the unexpectedness of his target choice gave him the advantage.
Bloodthorn struck the central node of the crystal formation with devastating precision. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—the blade seeming to freeze in mid-strike as if time itself had stopped. Then reality shuddered, and the crystal began to fracture along invisible fault lines, purple energy spilling from the growing cracks like blood from a mortal wound.
"NO!" The Whisper Priest's mental voice hammered against Tom's consciousness with sudden force. "You cannot comprehend what you destroy! The alignment takes centuries to achieve!"
It speaks truth, Skaravosk noted with grim satisfaction. This was no accidental breach but a carefully engineered weak point in reality. All the more reason to ensure its destruction.
Tom wrenched Bloodthorn free and struck again, targeting a different section of the formation. More cracks spread, the escaping energy now pulsing erratically, causing localized distortions throughout the chamber—gravity shifting unpredictably, time flowing at different rates in different areas.
The Whisper Priest abandoned words for direct action. It surged forward, its robed form dissolving into a writhing mass of shadow-tendrils that lashed toward Tom with predatory intent. Where they touched his scaled armor, cold so intense it burned penetrated to the flesh beneath.
Dragon armor form, Skaravosk suggested urgently. The half-transformation leaves too many vulnerabilities against this entity.
Tom focused through the pain of the shadow-contact, channeling draconic energy in a new pattern. His partial transformation flowed and solidified into the armor form Skaravosk had described—crimson scales becoming interlocking plates of living armor that covered him completely, the helm forming a draconic visage that emanated power.
The effect was immediate—the shadow-tendrils that had begun to penetrate his defenses now slid harmlessly off the armor's surface, unable to find purchase on its dimensionally-reinforced structure.
Protected by his new form, Tom turned his full attention to the crystal formation. Bloodthorn had proven effective but slow. For this, he needed something with greater destructive capacity.
Worldrend, Skaravosk suggested, anticipating his thought. My greatsword of unmaking. But be warned—its power in this confined space may have unpredictable effects.
Tom extended his armored hand and commanded the weapon's presence. The air split along an invisible seam, and from the dimensional rift emerged a massive two-handed sword of impossible crimson metal. Where Bloodthorn had been elegant in its simplicity, Worldrend was magnificent in its terrible purpose—a blade designed not merely to kill but to sever the connections that bound reality together.
The Whisper Priest recoiled visibly at the weapon's appearance, its shadow-form contracting defensively. "Dragon-forged dimensional weaponry," it hissed. "You would risk collapsing this entire region to prevent our work?"
"If necessary," Tom replied, his voice resonating metallically through the dragon helm.
With both hands, he raised Worldrend above his head and brought it down in a perfect vertical strike at the heart of the crystal formation. The blade didn't merely cut—it unmade what it touched, the crystal ceasing to exist along the line of impact rather than shattering.
Reality screamed. There was no other way to describe the sound that erupted from the wounded formation—a multi-dimensional cry of pain that transcended ordinary sensory perception. The chamber itself began to contract, the spatial distortions collapsing as their anchor point disintegrated under Worldrend's assault.
The Whisper Priest flailed in increasingly desperate patterns, its shadow-form beginning to fragment as the dimensional energies it relied upon destabilized. "Fool!" it shrieked into Tom's mind. "You doom yourself as well! When the breach collapses, the backlash will destroy everything within half a league!"
It exaggerates but not entirely, Skaravosk admitted. We need to withdraw immediately. The dimensional collapse will indeed release significant energy.
Tom didn't waste time on words. With a final overhead strike that nearly split the crystal formation in two, he dismissed Worldrend back to its dimensional sheath and turned toward the chamber's exit. The Whisper Priest made one last attempt to entangle him, but its strength was fading as the breach it had cultivated began its final collapse.
"This means nothing," it called after him as he sprinted for the stairwell. "You delay the inevitable. The boundaries grow thinner everywhere. What you destroy here, we create tenfold elsewhere!"
Ignore its dramatics, Skaravosk advised as Tom took the stairs three at a time, his armor form providing both protection and enhanced speed. Focus on escape. The collapse is accelerating.
Indeed, the mine around them was changing rapidly—the spatial distortions reversing themselves, tunnels straightening as they returned to their original configurations. But this normalization came with a cost—structural integrity was failing as reality reasserted itself against the corrupting influence that had partially supported the excavated chambers.
Stone cracked overhead. Support beams splintered. Purple light flickered and died in patches, leaving sections of tunnel in near-darkness that Tom navigated through Skaravosk's enhanced senses.
The third level nearly trapped them as a major collapse blocked the main passage, forcing Tom to punch through a weakened wall to create an alternate route. On the second level, crystalline manifestations made a final, desperate attempt to stop him—no longer coordinated but driven by blind self-preservation as their source of power died behind him.
Tom didn't slow to fight them, simply battering through with his armored form's superior strength. Time was the enemy now—each second bringing the dimensional collapse closer to critical mass.
When he finally reached the first level, he could feel the shockwave building behind him—a wall of redistributed energy seeking escape from the mine's confines. The main tunnel to the entrance seemed impossibly long, the barricade at its end a distant barrier between him and safety.
Full sprint, Skaravosk urged. The armor will protect us even if we don't entirely outrun the collapse.
Tom poured every ounce of energy into speed, his armored feet barely touching the ground as he raced the growing wave of purple-tinged destruction that consumed the tunnel behind him. The barricade grew larger ahead, its wooden structure now visible in detail.
No time for the agreed-upon signal. Tom lowered his shoulder and, in the last few strides, channeled draconic power into a battering-ram strike that shattered the reinforced timbers as if they were kindling.
He burst through into daylight just as the shockwave reached the mine entrance. The force caught him from behind, hurling him forward like a crimson meteor to land in the muddy ground thirty feet beyond the entrance. Behind him, the mine's façade collapsed in a thunderous roar, sealing the tunnel beneath tons of rock and earth.
For several long moments, Tom lay where he had fallen, the dragon armor absorbing the worst of the impact but still leaving him momentarily stunned. As dust and debris rained down around him, he gradually became aware of voices—the shocked exclamations of Durnek's team as they emerged from whatever cover they'd found during his explosive exit.
You might consider reverting to human form, Skaravosk suggested dryly. Your current appearance is causing something of a stir.
Tom glanced down at himself, taking in the full crimson dragon armor that encased him from head to toe, still smoking slightly from the energy of the dimensional collapse. With a thought, he dismissed the transformation, scales flowing and receding until he appeared fully human again, lying in a small crater in the muddy earth.
Durnek was the first to approach, his expression caught between fear and awe. "Reed?" he asked tentatively, as if unsure the human-seeming figure before him was the same entity that had exploded from the mine entrance in draconic form.
"It's done," Tom replied simply, accepting the foreman's outstretched hand to help him to his feet. "The corruption is destroyed. The mine will need structural reinforcement, but the threat is eliminated."
The foreman stared at him, processing this information alongside what he had just witnessed. "What... what was that? What are you?"
Tom brushed debris from his clothing, considering how much to reveal. "Something that exists to counter what was growing in your mine," he said finally. "That's all you need to know."
Cryptic yet accurate, Skaravosk commented with approval.
"The corruption wasn't natural," Tom continued, addressing the practical aspects that would matter to the Mining Guild. "Someone deliberately cultivated it—an agent of the Demon King. You might want to check your records, see if any unusual individuals showed interest in this specific location before the discovery."
Durnek's expression darkened. "There was a scholar who visited three months ago. Claimed to be researching mineral formations unique to this region. Paid well for access to our surveys and spent several days taking measurements throughout the mine."
"Faceless? Spoke directly into your mind rather than aloud?"
The foreman paled. "How did you know?"
"Because I met him down there," Tom replied grimly. "Or something like him. They're called Whisper Priests—intelligence gatherers for the Demon King. They seek out naturally thin points between dimensions and exploit them."
As the rest of Durnek's team cautiously gathered around, Tom became aware of their expressions—a mixture of fear, wonder, and the beginnings of the kind of reverence he had no interest in cultivating.
"Your contract is complete," he said to Durnek, deliberately shifting the conversation to practical matters. "The threat is eliminated. The Guild can begin recovery operations once they verify the structural stability."
Durnek nodded slowly, still visibly processing everything he had witnessed. "Your payment... the five hundred gold pieces..."
"Will be collected as agreed," Tom confirmed. "Half through Guild channels, half direct."
He glanced around at the wide-eyed workers who were still staring at him, then leaned closer to Durnek, lowering his voice. "One other matter. I'd appreciate if you and your men could keep what you saw to yourselves. Particularly the armor. It's... not something I want widely known."
The foreman studied him for a moment, then gave a single nod. "We can be discreet. Mining Guild owes you that much at least." He turned to his crew. "What happened here stays with us. Official report mentions only that the adventurer successfully eliminated the corruption through conventional means. Understood?"
The men nodded, though Tom could see in their eyes that the story would likely spread regardless—perhaps not officially, but in whispered tavern conversations and campfire tales. Still, Durnek's effort was appreciated.
They would likely pay triple that amount now, Skaravosk observed with amusement. Fear and gratitude are powerful motivators.
We stick to terms, Tom replied silently. Reputation for reliability matters more than short-term profit.
As Durnek organized his still-stunned team to begin preliminary assessment of the mine entrance, Tom sat on a fallen log at the edge of the camp, allowing himself a moment to recover from the energy expenditure of the mission. The dragon armor transformation had taken more out of him than expected, especially combined with the summoning of Worldrend.
You performed admirably, Skaravosk noted, his mental voice carrying something like pride. Few beings could have confronted a Whisper Priest directly and survived, let alone driven it back.
"We got lucky," Tom replied quietly. "It wasn't fully materialized. If it had been at full strength..."
Perhaps. But you adapted to the circumstances with commendable efficiency. The armor form responded to your will almost instantly—unusually good integration for one so new to draconic transformation.
Tom smiled slightly. "Maybe I'm just stubborn enough to make it work."
A quality I have come to appreciate, the dragon admitted. Your... persistence... is an admirable trait.
Before Tom could respond to this unexpected compliment, Terren approached with a waterskin and a bundle wrapped in cloth. "Foreman thought you might want these," the young assistant said, his earlier casual manner replaced by something approaching reverence. "Water and some food. You were in there for nearly six hours."
Tom accepted both with thanks, only now realizing how thirsty the exertion had left him. As he drank deeply from the waterskin, Terren shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, clearly bursting with questions but unsure how to proceed.
"Go ahead," Tom said finally, taking pity on the young man. "Ask whatever's on your mind."
Terren's words came in a rush. "Are you one of them? The Heroes from the East? I didn't think there were five—all the stories say four. Or are you something else entirely? Have you always had these powers? Can you teach—"
"Slow down," Tom interrupted. "I'm not one of the Heroes. I'm just..." He paused, considering how to describe himself. "I'm just someone with certain abilities suited to certain problems."
"But the armor—I've never seen anything like it. And you flew out of the mine entrance!"
"I didn't fly," Tom corrected. "I was thrown. And the less you know about the rest, the safer you'll be."
Terren looked disappointed but nodded reluctantly. "Foreman says we're heading back to Harrowgate once we secure the site. He wants to deliver your payment personally, says it's the least he can do."
"Fine," Tom agreed, unwrapping the food bundle to find bread, cheese, and dried meat. Simple fare that nonetheless tasted remarkable after the morning's exertions.
As he ate, Tom reflected on what he had learned in the mine. The Whisper Priest's presence changed his understanding of the dungeon breaches—these weren't random occurrences but deliberate weakening of dimensional boundaries. For what ultimate purpose, he could only speculate, but the entity's final words suggested a larger pattern that should concern anyone invested in this world's survival.
The Demon King seeks something beyond mere conquest, Skaravosk mused, following Tom's thoughts. These breaches serve a specific function within a broader strategy.
"The Heroes should be informed," Tom said quietly, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear.
An interesting suggestion from one who seemed eager to avoid entanglement with former affiliations, the dragon observed.
"This isn't about allegiance," Tom clarified. "It's about survival. If these breaches are part of a coordinated strategy, the Heroes are the ones most capable of countering it on a large scale."
A practical assessment, Skaravosk conceded. Though contacting beings of their power presents its own challenges. They might view our merged existence with... suspicion.
Tom couldn't argue with that. Their current form—neither fully human nor dragon but something unprecedented—would certainly raise questions among beings charged with defending the realm against supernatural threats.
As the conversation lulled, Tom found his thoughts drifting to the Whisper Priest's words about the Demon King. Something had niggled at the back of his mind during the encounter—a flicker of emotion from Skaravosk that didn't align with the dragon's usual calculated responses.
"You have history with them, don't you?" Tom asked suddenly, keeping his voice low. "Not just the demon lords who imprisoned you, but their king."
He felt Skaravosk's surprise ripple through their shared consciousness—not at the question itself, but at Tom's perception of what lay beneath it.
Your awareness of my emotional states grows more refined, the dragon observed after a moment. Yes, there is history there, though not direct. The demon lords who betrayed me were servants of an earlier incarnation of what your people now call the Demon King.
"You said you had no interest in revenge," Tom reminded him. "When we first met."
And that remains largely true, Skaravosk replied, his mental voice carefully neutral. Those specific entities perished millennia ago. Their master has been resurrected and destroyed multiple times since then. Revenge against such ephemeral beings would be... pointless.
But Tom sensed something deeper beneath the words—layers of meaning and emotion that the dragon was attempting to conceal.
"There's more," he pressed. "Something you haven't told me."
A long silence followed, broken only by the physical sounds of the wagon wheels on the muddy road and Terren's occasional comments to the horses.
You continue to surprise me, Tom Reed, Skaravosk finally replied. Few beings have ever perceived my deeper intentions so clearly.
The dragon's presence in Tom's mind seemed to expand slightly, as if preparing to reveal something significant.
The demon lords were mere tools, he continued. Convenient instruments for those who truly orchestrated my imprisonment—my own kind. The other Dragon Kings.
This revelation startled Tom. "Why would dragons imprison one of their own?"
Power. Fear. The eternal dance of politics that affects all sentient species, Skaravosk explained, a bitter edge now evident in his mental voice. I was growing too powerful, too quickly. My domain expanded beyond what the others deemed acceptable for a single Dragon King. Rather than challenge me directly—a contest they might well have lost—they manipulated the demon lords into serving as their proxies.
"And you want revenge against them," Tom concluded. "Not the demons, but the dragons who arranged your fall."
I want justice, Skaravosk corrected. Though the distinction may seem academic after thousands of years of imprisonment. But yes, if any of those who betrayed me still exist in this world, I would... address the imbalance between us.
Tom processed this revelation carefully. It changed his understanding of their partnership, added complexity to Skaravosk's motivations for agreeing to their merger.
"Is that why you were so willing to share my body? Not just to escape imprisonment, but to begin rebuilding your power for eventual confrontation with your enemies?"
It was one factor among many, the dragon admitted. Though not the primary motivation. After millennia of confinement, simple freedom held greater appeal than vengeance. But I won't deny that our arrangement offers... possibilities... should certain ancient rivals still exist in this age.
"Would you have told me this eventually?" Tom asked, uncertain whether to feel manipulated or simply unsurprised by the revelation that an ancient dragon king might have complex, layered motivations.
Yes, Skaravosk replied without hesitation. When I judged our bond strong enough to bear the weight of such truths. Our merger is still new, Tom Reed. We are still learning each other's natures.
Tom considered this, then nodded slightly. "No more hidden agendas. If we're sharing a body, we need complete transparency about intentions. Especially those that might affect our survival."
Agreed, the dragon said after a moment's consideration. Though I would note that complete transparency may be an aspirational goal rather than an immediately achievable state. We both carry thousands of memories and hundreds of complex motivations—not all of which are fully conscious even to ourselves.
"Fair point," Tom conceded. "But major objectives and significant history should be shared. Deal?"
Deal, Skaravosk agreed, and Tom felt something shift slightly in their bond—a deepening of trust despite the potentially troubling revelation, or perhaps because of the honesty it represented.
"I'll help you," Tom said suddenly, his decision crystallizing in that moment.
Help me? The dragon's mental voice carried a note of surprise.
"With your revenge. Justice. Whatever you want to call it." Tom's tone was matter-of-fact, but carried quiet determination. "You gave me a second chance at life when I should have died in that dungeon. If those other Dragon Kings are still out there, I'll help you settle your score with them."
He felt Skaravosk's surprise ripple through their shared consciousness, followed by something more complex—a mixture of gratitude, approval, and a fierce satisfaction that bordered on predatory.
A generous offer, the dragon replied after a moment, his mental voice carefully controlled. Especially given that confronting other Dragon Kings would be extraordinarily dangerous, even with our combined abilities.
"I'm aware of the risk," Tom said simply. "But debts should be paid. You've fulfilled your side of our arrangement. I'll help you fulfill your goals in return."
The dragon's presence seemed to settle more comfortably within their shared mind, as if a tension Tom hadn't fully registered had suddenly relaxed.
Your directness continues to surprise me, Skaravosk admitted. Most beings would calculate advantage more carefully before making such commitments.
Tom shrugged slightly. "I've always found that clear alliances serve survival better than complicated arrangements with hidden clauses. We're in this together now. Your enemies are mine."
Then I accept your offer, the dragon said formally. And pledge in return that your enemies shall likewise be mine. Though at present, yours seem considerably less formidable than ancient Dragon Kings.
Tom smiled slightly at this. "Give it time. I have a talent for making interesting enemies."
"We'll consider our approach carefully," he decided, returning to their earlier discussion. "For now, we return to Harrowgate, collect payment, and establish ourselves more firmly. Information has value, and timing its release is as important as the content itself."
Spoken like a dragon, Skaravosk commented with approval.
By mid-afternoon, the Mining Guild team had secured the collapsed entrance and prepared for departure. As Tom climbed aboard Terren's wagon for the return journey, he noted the changed dynamics among the group—the wary respect with which they now regarded him, the hushed conversations that stopped when he drew near.
Word would spread, despite Durnek's instructions for discretion. The tale of a man who transformed into something draconic would travel from tavern to tavern, growing with each retelling. The unremarkable adventurer who had entered Westridge Mine would emerge in stories as something far more fascinating.
Tom found he didn't mind this prospect as much as the old Tomas Reed might have. There was a certain freedom in notoriety, provided one controlled its narrative carefully.
A reputation can be wielded like any other weapon, Skaravosk noted as the wagon began its journey back to Harrowgate. Neither good nor bad in itself—merely a tool whose value depends on its application.
As the mine receded into the distance behind them, Tom felt a sense of satisfaction that went beyond completing a contract or earning payment. For the first time, he had fully embraced the merged existence he now embodied—neither clinging to his human past nor resisting his draconic present, but synthesizing both into something new.
The road to Harrowgate stretched ahead, and beyond it, possibilities as vast as the sky itself. Whatever the Demon King planned with his dimensional manipulations, whatever threats arose in the coming days, Tom Reed—once the most unremarkable of soldiers—would meet them with resources few in this world could imagine.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if perhaps their paths might cross again—the once-unremarkable soldier and the Heroes from another world. Not as comrades as they had briefly been at Howling Crag, nor as potential adversaries wary of each other's nature, but as something more complex—independent powers navigating a world where the boundaries between dimensions grew thinner by the day.
Such philosophical musings, Skaravosk commented with a mental chuckle. And here I thought you were just a practical soldier interested in survival.
"I contain multitudes," Tom replied with a smile, deliberately echoing the dragon's own words from days earlier. "Also, I'm really looking forward to spending some of that five hundred gold pieces on a proper meal. I believe you mentioned wanting to try apple pie?"
As the wagon rumbled toward Harrowgate, the unlikely partnership of dragon king and former soldier continued their internal dialogue, debating the relative merits of various human cuisines with the same seriousness they had applied to combat tactics mere hours before.
Life, Tom reflected, had become much more interesting since his death.