Wyrmwood High, 7th Hour.
The scent of paint and graphite filled the air, layered with the soft hum of quiet conversation. Ethan sat beside the window, absently sketching fire patterns into the margins of his notebook. Moka shaded a portrait across from Jonathan—delicate, precise lines capturing something beneath the surface of the face she drew.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting golden streaks across the classroom walls.
For a moment, everything was still.
And then… something shifted.
Not in the room.
Not in the school.
But far away—beyond forests and rivers, beyond the reach of cell towers and mortal eyes.
Out over Kaelridge's skyline…
Beyond the forested foothills and out into the range of the Duskworn Mountains, where old magic never died—it simply went silent.
And now, something in that silence stirs.
Deep beneath a jagged black peak, where sunlight never dares to reach, lies a crypt hewn from obsidian and blackened bone. A single rune glows faintly on the coffin's lid, pulsing… pulsing… and then flaring to life in an eerie sapphire light.
The name carved into the stone:
ALEXANDER DREAD-ROT
Inside, in a sarcophagus built from cursed onyx and bound with the souls of ten thousand dead, the Lich dreams.
The visions come in burning fragments—like coals being crushed into his mind.
Fire.
A boy cloaked in crimson and shadow.
Flames that consume reality.
Eyes that burn hotter than stars.
Power… divine, untamed, and young.
The image burns brighter.
And Alexander sees it clearly:
A being not yet ascended, but holding within him the core of a god.
A dragon prince… radiant with the fire of creation and destruction.
Alexander stirs.
Flesh long dead creaks and strains as brittle tendons move. Shriveled lips peel back over yellowed teeth. His face is a ruined landscape—mostly bone, veined with cold mana, with blackened remnants of flesh that cling to it like shameful memories. Blue flame burns within his empty eye sockets.
The dream ends. But the hunger it leaves behind… only begins.
A sound echoes through the chamber: the screech of rusted hinges as the sarcophagus splits open.
Wisps of pale mana drift like spirits across the floor, circling his ancient form. With no heartbeat, no breath, Alexander rises—not with muscle or will, but through the force of his magic. His skeletal form levitates above the coffin, arms spread in resurrection.
Gold-trimmed black robes flow around him like spilled ink. Jewels sewn into the cuffs glow faintly—runes of domination, crafted from stolen souls. Each thread was woven by lichfire and bound in the name of one law:
All power belongs to the master of death.
He floats down, guided by the will of the abyss. His boots never touch the floor—he doesn't walk; he descends.
From the shadows near the back of the crypt, a creature emerges. Its flesh is pallid, stretched over emaciated limbs, its face stitched and sewn together by crude necromancy. Blue veins pulse beneath its skin, and its breath rattles from lungs long rotted.
It falls to its knees and bows its head.
"Master."
Alexander speaks. His voice is dust and venom, as ancient as the tomb that birthed him.
"I have seen it…"
His fingers twitch with barely-contained obsession. One skeletal hand rises, conjuring an image in blue flame—a projection of Ethan in his dragon form, wings stretched across the void, flames bleeding from his core like molten rivers.
"A power… young. Untamed. Undeserving. It pulses with chaos and divinity. It must be taken."
He turns his burning gaze toward his servant.
"Go. Scout the place known as Wyrmwood High. Stay hidden. I want names, faces, weaknesses. Bring me those worthy of death. The strong will be harvested. The rest are fed to the worms."
The servant chokes out a hiss. "Yes, my lord."
Alexander's voice rises, echoing through the tomb as ancient chains tremble in their sockets.
"Find me soldiers! I shall not raise rabble for this war—I shall build an ARMY of dread, carved from the strongest meat Kaelridge has to offer!"
His robes swirl as he lifts a bony hand into the air. Wisps of undead mana coil around him in reverence. The crypt grows darker. Colder. Older.
"THIS IS MY COMMAND!
GO!
FOR THE GLORY OF ALEXANDER DREAD-ROT!"
The servant shrieks in agreement and flees into the tunnels—vanishing into the night like a whisper beneath the grave.
Back at Wyrmwood High…
Ethan blinked and frowned.
The air had shifted. The sun outside dimmed for just a second. The trees outside the art room rustled, though there was no breeze.
A chill crept up his spine—not from cold, but from instinct.
He sat up straighter, gaze narrowing. His fingers stilled on the page.
Elijah, three seats away, looked up as well. Just a fraction.
Their dragon senses were finely tuned to elemental changes—subtle ripples in the natural world.
And something unnatural had just breathed… somewhere.
Jonathan looked over at them, sensing nothing but noticing their sudden alertness.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
Ethan didn't answer.
He just stared out the window towards the sky.
A sky that suddenly seemed… wrong.
The final bell rang like a sigh of relief.
Backpacks zipped, chairs scraped, and the noise of Wyrmwood High returned to its usual after-school rumble.
Ethan, Elijah, and Jonathan walked side by side down the front steps, the sky overhead painted in soft amber and drifting cloud. The chatter of students faded behind them as the boys took their usual path home—three friends on cracked sidewalks, flanked by leafless trees and faded fences.
Jonathan's house was only two blocks away. But today… the walk felt longer.
The air didn't feel right. Not since sixth period. Not since that shift.
Ethan was the first to speak, voice low and careful.
"You felt that earlier, right?" he asked.
Elijah didn't answer with words. He just nodded once, his expression sharpened like a blade.
"Cold," Ethan continued. "Not wind. Not winter. Something other. It crawled."
Jonathan glanced between them, unsettled. "You're saying you felt… what, a ghost? A curse?"
Elijah finally spoke. His voice was flat and quiet, but his words pressed like ice into the conversation.
"Something watched us. From far away. Eyes we couldn't see. Something old."
Jonathan's mouth went dry.
Dragons—creatures of cosmic fire and storm—did not fear lightly. And yet, these two brothers were speaking in hushed tones like prey in the forest. His mind struggled to hold the idea: What could make dragons afraid?
A pit formed in his stomach.
An instinct older than thought stirred in his bones.
Run. Hide. Burn the bridges behind you.
But just as the chill began to crawl back over his skin—
Ethan's hand touched his shoulder.
Warm. Solid. Unmoving.
And just like that, the dread evaporated. It didn't flee in terror. It simply ceased to exist around Ethan's presence.
Jonathan's breath caught. His shoulders relaxed. He hadn't even realized how tense he'd become.
That one silent touch said everything:
You're safe with us, bro.
Ethan gave him a soft, sideways grin, his hand falling back to his side. It was unspoken—but the warmth remained.
Elijah, walking slightly ahead, scanned every rooftop and alley. His storm-grey eyes darted with precision—searching, calculating, warning.
Lightning sparked faintly at the corners of his eyes, like tiny cracks in reality leaking vengeance. His stare was brutal, but whenever it flicked back to Ethan or Jonathan, it softened—just barely.
Somewhere above, a soft rumble echoed through the clouds.
Thunder. Low. Distant.
A promise.
Touch them—and lightning will strike you dead.
Elsewhere… unseen
The creature had no name. At least, not anymore.
Once, it had been a man. A child. A soldier. A brother.
But that soul had long since withered under the command of Alexander Dread-Rot.
Now, it was a wight—a perfect servant of death. A silent observer, draped in illusion and shadow, its bones restructured by cursed mana, its skin rotted and re-stitched to blend into the background of life.
It had watched the red-haired one—Ethan—from a distance. The aura around him was blinding. The fire of a thousand suns, contained within mortal flesh. Every breath he took shimmered with chaos barely contained.
The other—Elijah—was quieter. Colder. But no less terrifying. The wight had seen lightning dance from his fingertips. It had smelled the ozone of a coming storm wherever he passed.
And yet… it was the third that intrigued the creature most.
Jonathan.
Soft. Mortal. Unshielded. Vulnerable.
Yet somehow… included. Protected.
He was the perfect target.
The wight had followed them all day—through classrooms, across lunch tables, behind trees and stairwells. Cloaked in necrotic illusion, it slithered through the cracks of Wyrmwood's ancient wards. It never struck. It never moved too close.
The dragons never left him alone.
Until now.
They walked home. The red one distracted. The quiet one scanning rooftops. The mortal one lagging behind.
The wight moved like breath between shadows, skittering between alleys and abandoned trash bins. The silence around it was thick. No birds. No rats. Even the wind refused to move where it passed.
Jonathan stepped too close to the curb.
Alone. Vulnerable.
The wight's mouth twisted in anticipation. Its fingers, bone wrapped in flaking skin, twitched with readiness. A spell began to form—a paralysis rune. Then a second—soul shackle.
Then Elijah stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
He turned his head. Slowly.
The wight froze.
Their eyes didn't meet.
But it didn't matter.
Because suddenly—without explanation—a vision burned through the wight's mind:
A flash of blinding light.
A scream of lightning.
A blade forged from pure storm mana ripping through its body like silk.
Pain.
Silence.
Death.
The illusion shattered. Not around the wight—but inside it. Its confidence collapsed into pure, primal terror.
The lightning prince had seen it.
Or worse… sensed it.
A command whispered from the heavens:
Touch them… and die.
The wight retreated. Fast.
Back into the alley.
Then into the sewer.
Then into the cold, wet underworld where it belonged.
It did not breathe. But if it had lungs, they would've been screaming.
It would return to its master. It would tell him what it saw.
And it would pray—if the dead could still pray—that Alexander Dread-Rot would never command it to go near that lightning boy again.
Back on the sidewalk, the brothers slowed their pace.
Elijah said nothing.
But Ethan felt it.
The shadow was gone.
Jonathan exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Is it just me, or did it feel like something was following us?"
Ethan smiled, but there was no humor in it.
"It wasn't just you."