Inside the sacred cave of Vaelthia, a gentle warmth blanketed the air. Thea rested on a bed of dragonhide leaves, golden runes still softly glowing on her arms. Vaelthia stood nearby, in her draconic humanoid form, whispering ancient healing chants. The weight of recent battles clung to the cavern like old smoke.
Ryle stood at the edge of the chamber, staring into the mountain's heart.
Then—
A deafening crash.
The serene warmth shattered as a tsunami of roaring water exploded through the entrance, tearing through the runes, sweeping debris and dust in its wake. The cave trembled.
Sylvaris.
A blur of water and dark blue hair burst from the flood, her eyes glowing with a manic light, her once-beautiful expression twisted with feral rage.
"RYYYYYLE!!"
She lunged, claws bared, aiming straight for his throat with blinding speed.
"Ryle!" Thea shouted, instantly in front of him, her Twinlight Swords drawn. She clashed with Sylvaris midair, blades meeting claws in a burst of sparks and steam. The force sent both flying back.
Vaelthia roared, spreading her wings to shield the wounded dragons nearby.
Then, in a blur of shadows and flame—
"ENOUGH!"
A colossal slam echoed as Dravenith herself descended, crashing into Sylvaris with brutal precision, pinning her to the stone floor. The cave groaned under the impact.
"She's not in control!" Dravenith screamed, eyes wide with fury and panic. "Something's taken her mind!"
Ryle's heart pounded.
Undead.
He stepped forward, eyes locked on Sylvaris, whose mouth foamed as her body writhed unnaturally. "She's an undead," he whispered. "Someone is controlling her."
A scream pierced the air—this one outside the cave. A shrill, anguished wail, one Ryle hadn't heard in years.
His eyes widened. Damien.
He ran.
Flames licked at the edges of the Dragon Mountain as civilians scattered, wings and tails flailing. Amid the carnage stood a skeletal figure in scorched robes, eyes alight with ghostly blue fire.
Damien, the Archmage.
Once sealed in stone by Ryle and the dragons, his body now moved in jerks and convulsions. Magic surged from his palms uncontrollably, lighting the sky with cursed lightning.
"Help…" Damien moaned, clutching his head. "I can't… I can't stop it…"
Then, his mouth opened unnaturally wide. His eyes went blank.
And the spells began.
Ryle leapt forward just in time, his wings exploding from his back as he shielded a group of hatchlings from a barrage of Soul Arrows. The mountain shook with every cast, the sky burning black from cursed meteors.
Ryle's fury ignited.
His body erupted in dragon fire, purple flames twisting around his form as he launched at Damien. Spell after spell was hurled his way, but he burned through each one, diving faster, harder—
Until Damien summoned a wall of bone spears, launching them from the earth.
Ryle crashed through it, spinning midair to unleash a stream of fire that engulfed Damien's body entirely. The smell of scorched bone filled the sky.
But Damien didn't stop.
Even as his flesh cracked and blackened, he kept casting.
"Stop hurting them!" Ryle shouted, his voice thunderous.
Then Damien screamed—not from pain, but shock.
His body jerked, writhing in midair. Something was wrapping around him—red, gleaming, pulsing.
Blood.
It slithered like sentient rope, coiling around Damien's limbs and chest, tightening until his joints popped.
And he could no longer regenerate.
A new voice spoke.
Soft. Female. Cold as winter.
"Blood consists of iron, you know?"
Ryle turned midair, breathing heavily, eyes flaring.
Standing atop a floating crimson disc was a woman cloaked in deep scarlet, her eyes like pools of dried blood, her long hair fluttering unnaturally despite no wind.
"Who—"
"I'm Charlotte Draven," she said, her hand raised, keeping Damien bound in place. "Elizabeth's blood servant. And survivor of a forgotten bloodline."
Back in the cave—
Thea cried out.
Sylvaris, still thrashing, had surged back to life. Water exploded in all directions—until blood chains wrapped around her too, pinning her arms to her sides.
Charlotte floated into the cavern, her presence dark but oddly calm.
Her eyes fell on Sylvaris, who had gone still.
"Blood magic was our gift. But the kingdoms feared it. During the Vampire Civil War, my family was hunted… slaughtered. Elizabeth saved me when no one else would."
She stepped closer to Ryle, forming a delicate blood dagger with her fingers. Its tip hovered at his throat.
"Should I avenge my queen?"
Ryle didn't flinch.
"Do it… if you can."
For a long moment, silence.
Then Charlotte laughed.
A soft, tired sound. She retracted the blade and let it melt into her palm.
"No. I only want to talk."
Ryle raised an eyebrow.
She looked at the sky. "Varaziel's return threatens us all. He sees everyone as livestock—even us."
Her voice dropped.
"I will help you… if you let me."
Ryle didn't answer. Thea, now standing, watched her warily. Dravenith and Vaelthia exchanged glances.
Charlotte turned toward the mouth of the cave. The sky had turned red.
"Decide quickly," she said. "Because he's already marching."