Avatar: Raeden the Father-King

Prologue
******

Facts about Tirinead - The Dracorians #1

The Great Dragons of Tirinead typically stand between 9 feet to 10 feet tall with, at most, an extra three
inches feet added for their horns. They typically weight anywhere between 600 to 700 pounds,
surprisingly light for their size. Before the War of Apotheosis, they only stood about the same size as a
typical human being, at most, 7 feet tall and with highly diminished wingspans. Post-Trinity War, they
once again obtained the power of flight with wings that are over triple their size. Generally, they have
strong, muscular builds though this varies greatly depending on their subspecies. The Nagas, for
example, are generally slimmer than their airborne brethren whereas the Beraunites are far bulkier but
do not have wings. Typically, all Dracorians have reptilians features with some form of elemental ‘breath’
and scales that are harder than the most tempered steel. After the Baharam Fall, Dracorian culture and
architecture has unified to greatly appreciate space and can generally be seen as broad, sweeping and
with very high ceilings.

After the Mass Sterilisation Spell executed by the Dark Triad at the end of the War of Apotheosis, all
Dracorians regardless of subspecies are male only. They have two means of reproduction. The first is
either from converts and volunteers from the human, elven or dwarven population. The second only
comes once a year during Fial’Lluvayn - the Festival of Life.

******

Music is everywhere. It is loud, uplifting and joyous. Even though the sun is setting, there is warmth not
only from the multitude of magical heart-lanterns in the air but also from the multitude of bodies
dressed in finery so densely compacted in the enormous hall. The high ceiling is completely occupied by
the floating lamps that look like two webbed wings wrapped around one another and lit by a single fire
deep within. It is impossible to see the murals depicting great battles drawn in brilliant, colourful tiles
and bright paints separated only by the crisp, blue metal that the Dracorian race has prided itself in
producing.

Everyone is dressed in beautiful, silk. The Dracorians with their wide wings folded over their shoulders
like billowing, leathery capes to match their coloured scales are decked in the finest tunics and dressed.
Elves from far-off lands have their long, hair untied and free to flutter around. Rumours even had it that
the elves specifically grew their hair for this very festival. Dwarves could be seen amongst the crowd,
choosing to don their most pristine of armours and even laughing as they wantonly spilt wine or mead
on their steel. Humans danced with all the other species without a care for how their finery was torn or
ripped by the claws of the Dracorians.

-1-
This was Fial’Lluvayn. The Festival of Life.

A day that commemorated the day that the Dracorians unshackled themselves from the grip of the Dark
Triad and celebrated the miracle that had been bestowed upon them by their god, Malgorin.

The music swelled and rose to a trumpeting blow. You turn alongside the rest of the gathered
celebrants. There is an excited electricity in the air. You are able to push your way through the quietly
quivering crowd to where there stands a tremendous pool of clear, blue water. The perfectly circular
pool is large enough to fit all of the celebrants but for the moment, a single Dracorian stands at its
centre.

“Come, come,” urges the priest, beckoning you and the rest of the crowd. “Do not be shy. Come so I do
not have to wear my voice out before the celebrations.” He winks at no one in particular and a ripple of
quiet laughter fills the room.

You are pushed forward into the pool. The crystal clear waters are warm and come up to your waist.
There is no resistance in wading through the waters almost like passing through air. The base of the pool
is smooth but still has enough traction to avoid any unnecessary accidents by slipping. A respectable
distance is kept away from the priest who spreads his arms and wings wide. It is impossible to tell his
age but there are a few grey flecks in the long, red mane that he possesses.

“You all know why we are gathered here today,” says the Dracorian. “It is Fial’Lluvayn. The Festival of
Life! Today, Malgorin, the God-Dragon of Balance gives us hope and we celebrate in his honour. With
sex!” There was a bit of shock from the newcomers to the Festival and a hearty laugh from veterans. “I
guarantee you that by the end of this tale, the waters of the pool you now stand in will not be clear!”

The laughter was more pronounced this time.

“But we cannot forget why we celebrate this great gift,” continued the priest. “We cannot forget how
we came here. We cannot forget the sacrifices made for our freedom. We cannot forget the heroes that
made this all possible.”

He gently swirled a finger through the pool, sending ripples across the otherwise calm surface. From the
ripples, imagery could be seen like seeing through a window into a different world. Three mighty figures,
silhouetted against a shining light could be seen. A human, a dwarf and an elf.

“In ages past, three mighty individuals rose to unite the humans, dwarves and elves under a single
banner,” intoned the priest solemnly. “Malstraad, Vron-Kordain and Illirodur united their species
together under the Alliance at Trispire. The Dracorians, at the time, were limited to our island of
Traelliviar and paid not much mind to the new alliance that had been forged. When the Tail of the Gods,
the golden comet that was sent by the Gods themselves, came and blessed the Triumvirate of these
kings with immortality and great power, the Dracorians took notice. Long-lived but incredibly arrogant
of their own power, the ancient Dracorians realized that they would soon be forced into subjugation
from this mighty Holy Alliance should they not reinforce themselves. So while the Holy Alliance
continued to grow in power, the Dracorians fortified Traelliviar, building great airships, making alliances
and uniting the Naga and Beraunite clans under a singular banner.”

The image shifted from one of peace to a bloody, terrible war that had some people squirming as it
appeared that they were waist-deep in blood.

-2-
“The Traelliviar armies sought to push further inland as the Holy Alliance’s armies clashed with other
factions. They made landfall on the northwestern coast in what is now Weeper’s Wallow and pushed
even deeper, taking lands while the Alliance was still finding its feet. Eventually, their borders met with
the Alliance. There was no attempt at peace. At this point, the then-named Triumvirate was fresh from
their clashes with the orcs and wanted to secure their western flank. The Alliance pushed back and what
followed were years of struggle between the two nations as borders constantly shifted. Traelliviar had
the greatest aerial navy of all Tirinead at the time with airships and seafaring ships that could outdo
anything the Alliance could muster. But the Alliance fortified their lands and with the blessing of the
Gods, they held doggedly to their borders.”

Ripples shift through the water, washing away the bloodshed and war. Instead, you see a child with
glowing, golden eyes and the faintest cry of a babe fill your ears.

“The war quickly depleted the supplies of both sides but the Gods intervened one last time. Heroes
were created. Children blessed with mighty, divine powers that could change the tide of the war. As
they grew and matured, the Dracorians remained blissfully unaware and continued to harass and taunt
Alliance borders more out of habit than any actual attempt to usurp any lands. That all changed at
Kalsammar’s Divide, the great wall to the southeast just on the border of the Fangs of the World.”

A mighty wall is displayed, the border between the Alliance and Traelliviar lands. Then, the wall is
abruptly shattered, crumbling and falling while the earth split open, swallowing everything and
everyone within.

“You see, the Dracorians had grown fat and accustomed to using their airships for transport,” explained
the priest. “It became a great symbol of status to have highly diminished wings or even to sever one’s
own wings. Even great soldiers relied on their airships and technology to soar through the air. When the
Heroes arrived, each of them with great powers, they shattered the ability of the Traelliviar troops to fly.
Faced with a ground battle, the soldiers could barely hold their own. Then the Heroes collapsed
Kalsammar’s Divide, destroying the wall and swallowing the grounded soldiers. Traelliviar was severely
weakened and the Holy Alliance marched forward.”

Once more, the image changed this time displaying a silver-scaled Dracorian bowing while offering a
crown made of blue metal to what appeared to be a heavily armoured knight.

“Years of war followed but it was one-sided. King Maricroix surrendered, suing for peace on behalf of
the Dracorian race. The Holy Alliance accepted. The Nagas and Beraunites, however, would not accept
this. Seen as traitors to the crown, they were driven from Traelliviar, shattering the once great alliance
of the scaled races. The sea-faring navies of the Nagas dispersed into the southern oceans while the
Beraunites hid amongst the desolated planes that was the Scorched Lands.

“Then came the Mass Sterilisation Spell.”

There is a chill that goes throughout the crowd and thankfully, the images do not change to show the
greatest genocide in Dracorian or Tirinead history.

“For fear of being completely annihilated, Maricroix the Butcher complied with the demands of the Holy
Alliance,” said the priest grimly. “Every woman and female child was put to the sword in what is now
known as the Night of the Screaming Winds. Every egg was shattered. Every female that managed to

-3-
escape was killed by the power of the Spell. Even the Nagas and Beraunites wept as the fate of their race
was quickly decided. It became impossible to keep fighting with no means to replenish their diminishing
numbers. The Nagas retreated beneath the waves, quietly seeking solitude. The Beraunites became
nomadic, hiding from the airships that the Alliance had commandeered amongst the ruins of the once
great Scaled Empire.

“The three kings of the Holy Alliance achieved Apotheosis by draining the divine spark within each of the
Heroes and becoming Gods in their own right. They cast the Old Gods from their throne in Heaven and
became the Holy Triad. All seemed lost…”

The priest smiles and spreads his wings once more. A brilliant, white light shines from the pool.

“The Old Gods then created their Avatars. And with them, them the Avatar of the Dracorians; the Black
Dragon. Raeden the Father-King.”

-4-
 Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Reborn to Fly

******

Facts about Tirinead - The Dracorians #1

Despite looking reptilian, the Dracorians and their subspecies are actually warm-blooded.

Comparing a Dracorian to a lizard or a crocodile especially to one’s face is a very bad idea.

******

For one day in the year, the Winged Palace was open to the general public. The enormous edifice was
the single largest structure in the entire city of Dragonfall located deep within the island of Traevilliar.
Suspended using incredible magics, the brilliant silver and blue structure with its sweeping turrets,
towering parapets and large, stone wings could be seen from everywhere in the city. The structure itself
was a marvel of technology. Built in an age before the Holy Alliance, the completely stone and metal
form of the Winged Palace was the throne of the Dracorian King. Powerful mechanical devices pushed
steam through the myriad of pipes that twisted in a confusing labyrinth on its underside. Propellers and
bronze cogs the size of houses could be seen turning endlessly. These funneled from the pointed base of
the Palace to the flat first floor where beautiful gardens and colourful plazas were positioned to
welcome various guests.

Lush grass was perfectly trimmed. Topiaries depicting great heroes and legendary Dracorians lined a
singular, golden path leading to the sweeping staircase of the Winged Palace. Lanterns shaped like the
mythical phoenixes were perched between each green shrub, often with their wings spread and crimson
flames burning on their backs. All the avian heads were pointed towards the broad, sweeping double
doors of the Palace shaped, predictably, like a pair of webbed wings. Already wide open, the doors
offered an unobstructed view into the gilded atrium of the Winged Palace where the celebrations of
Fial’Lluvayn were already in full swing.

Raeden Windsong was amongst the many guests. Like the nobles around him, he was dressed in his
finest clothing. A bright red tunic was wrapped around his firm, slim figure with flared white sleeves and
decorated with cuts of sapphire blue cloth. Puffy trousers made of the finest silk money could buy were
draped over his thin, shapely legs. Curled suede shoes jingled softly from the belts attached to the
twisting tips. A black cape trimmed with silver hung over his shoulders and hide the lute he had
strapped against his back. A broad-brimmed hat with a peacock’s feather sat atop his head, cushioned
against his long, golden locks and keeping the wavy tumble from being blown by the harsh winds of
being so far up high.

Dracorian guards dressed in their crude, steel armour and wielding their halberds examined the
invitation he produced with a flourish and ushered him in with little more than a grunt. Hundreds upon
hundreds of guests were welcomed to the Winged Palace and the guards were only turning away those
that did not bother to turn up with their best. Commoners who could barely clean their clothes were

-5-
rejected and ordered to wait the long hour or so at the Skylift to return to their hovels. Raedan had to
pity them but it was a fleeting emotion as he swept a stray lock away from his eyes and strutted into the
warmth and colour of the Winged Palace.

The atrium alone was an example of the opulence that was Dracorian nobility. A ceiling glimmering with
jewellery and with a base of gold hung several storeys above them. Long bridges crisscrossed overhead
where guests milled about. Amongst Dracorians, one’s ability to look down on others was a sign of one’s
station. The higher you were positioned, the greater your wealth and importance. So it was only natural
that only the richest and political powerful could occupy the highest balconies and bridges. Little wonder
that at the very top of the atrium resided the royal family.

With the atrium so crowded, Raedan could barely see past the gaudy colours, billowing capes and the
thick, heady perfumes that made his eyes water. A passing servant, dressed in drab grey clothing,
carried a tray of frothy, bubbling drink and he quickly picked up a flute of the amber fluid and downed
half of it just to clear his sinuses of the offending smells. The chatter was deafening. Nobles, wealthy
merchants and even commoners who had somehow managed to meet the dress code of entrance into
the Winged Palace exchanged stories from the mundane farming concerns, states of the mines and even
fishing to world politics and even the health of the current king of Traelliviar.

At mention of the reigning monarch, Raedan lifted his head to look at the highest part of the atrium.
Amongst the confusing mess of walkways and bridges, it was possible to just barely glimpse the current
king of Traelliviar, Louis Callaroeu. Born with the golden scales of his family, Callaroeu had the aged,
weathered appearance of a man who was more than past his prime. His shoulders were heavily
slouched, the crimson and white cape akin to the royal coats of the Holy Alliance nobility looked to wear
him more than the opposite. His big, grey bushy eyebrows almost met in the middle of his heavily
creased brow. Cracks and age showed in his once lustrous scales with his muzzle looking shrivelled.
Glassy, blue eyes appeared neither in the present nor plotting the intrigue that he was known for in his
youth. Wrinkled, shaky fingers gripped the Dragonbreaker - a mighty greatsword that was supposedly
passed onto him by the elf Hero that had led the charge to subjugate the Dracorians as a sign of good
faith.

Beside Callaroeu was his middle son, Prince Vidayn Callaroeu. Many saw much of Louis in Vidayn for he
had the same slim build that Louis once held. Fit, ambitious and incredibly clever, Vidayn was perched to
succeed the throne. Having served in the Traelliviar military, he kept his sable hair short in honour of his
service to the crown. Like his father, he was dressed in finery for this event but where Louis wearily
gazed off into the distance, Vidayn scoured the atrium like a hawk.

A strong hand suddenly gripped Raeden’s arm and he was unceremoniously yanked away from the side
and into the darkened corners of the atrium where no one could see him or his assailant. The strong,
calloused grip was very familiar as was the low source and the tell-tale squeaking of rusty wheels. Taydir
Wingsever

“What are you doing here!?” hissed the green-eyed human. Barely coming up to Raedan’s armpits,
Taydir had once been a mighty opponent on the battlefield. Shrewd, clever and physically imposing,
Taydir had been one of the many Heroes of the Holy Alliance that had turned the tide against the
Dracorians during the War of Apotheosis. However, the years had not been kind to him… and his
ailment.

-6-
“Why, I’ve come to enjoy the festivities, my dear Lord Wingsever,” Raeden replied, toasting in the
direction of the Dracorian nobility. “I was of the opinion that anyone was welcome to the Winged Palace
during Fial’Lluvayn.”

Taydir ran a thick, meaty hand down his face showing the ragged, pink scars that ran down the back of
his hand. “Kordain’s fiery beard, Rae… You know how many people are likely after your throat? You’ve
slept with half of Traelliviar!”

“Half?” Raeden repeated, sounding slightly offended. “I would argue at least three quarters. Seven-
eighths at most.” He frowned slightly and bobbed his head from side to side. “At least everyone on the
southern half.”

“Not the point!” interrupted the Hero, making a slicing gesture with his hand. “There are husbands,
fathers, brothers and sons after your blood right now. Coming to the most public event in all the country
is practically suicide!”

An exaggeration if ever there was one. Though it was flattering that an esteemed Hero such as Taydir
Wingsever would be concerned about him. Raeden looked down upon the figure of the ‘Dragonslayer’.
It was during the War of Apotheosis that Taydir, had once stood near seven feet tall and had been the
pinnacle of human health, almost a demigod, really. Strong, handsome, muscled, he once stood tall
beside his companions the dwarf engineer Narmon’Dull Rockfist and the elven mage, Hallonvir. To this
day, Taydir still maintained the strong square jaw but years of fading into the background had pushed
him into neglecting his appearance. Short-cropped military-style hair had been allowed to grow shaggy
and dishevelled to match the dense beard he wore. At the very least, that beard hid the three gashes
that ran down the side of his left cheek from the Dracorian he had saved and earned him the title of
Dragonslayer. The moniker was not a to mean he was a slayer of dragons. No, it was a mocking name
suggesting that he lays with dragons; Dragons’ Layer.

This mockery had diminished Taydir’s figure but no more than the fact that he could no longer use his
legs. Now, he wheeled himself around in a ‘wheelchair’ made of steel and wood. His once powerful legs
that had carried him across mighty battlefields had shrunk and were hidden beneath a pair of puffy, grey
trousers. Taydir wore the same drab-coloured tunic making him stand out in the flamboyant crowd and
look more like one of the servants milling about. Everyone in the gathering made an attempt to ignore
the disabled Hero. As it had been for the past few decades when Taydir’s heroism became more of a
lesson in history than an accomplishment commemorated every year.

Of course, that is, until he met Raeden.

“Admit it,” said the bard, beaming with his wide, full lips, “you’re glad I turned up.” He leaned down,
draping an arm around Taydir’s shoulders while gesturing wide towards the crowd around him. “Who
better than a bard to remind all of these richly dressed nobles and commoners that we stand here
today, celebrating life because of the great Taydir Wingsever?”

Taydir shrugged him off gruffly. “Now would not be the time for your shenanigans, Raeden. King
Callaroeu is on edge.”

-7-
That was certainly a surprise. Rumours about that the great King of Traelliviar had been stepping back
himself from the day-to-day of governing and letting Vidayn take over. Apparently, he had taken to long
hours in the garden just staring off into the vast ocean beyond the borders of the island kingdom.

“Why?” he asked, bringing the glass of bubbling alcohol to his lips. “Are the rumours true and is Vidayn
actually poisoning his father in an attempt to expedite his claim to the throne?”

Taydir pointed at him accusingly even as the bard hid his coy smile behind a sip of his drink. “Don’t even
joke about that, Raeden. Not here.” The Dragonslayer lowered his hand and glanced about suspiciously.
“No. Apparently the Callaroeus had a dream… A vision. Something about a wolf with blue eyes and
pupils shaped like eight-pointed stars, a ghostly white woman and a dragoness made of steel.”

“Ah dreams,” sighed Raeden with a sigh. “Such fantastical things.”

“Would you be saying this if every member of the Callaroeus had this very same dream?”

Now that was certainly unusual. There were four members of the Callaroeus. The esteemed King Louis
Callaroeu and his middle child, Vidayn, were the most publicly seen and talked about. But Louis had two
other children. Garrison, his eldest and — like him — forced to change his traditional Dracorian name to
one that was more ‘Alliance-Friendly’, was shipped off to far-off Trispire as a ward of a human duke. His
youngest, Elluvea, resided with the elves also as a ward. It was a sure way to cement Traelliviar’s
cooperation. Keep the king’s sons hostage and the dragons will never dare to attack again.

“The four members of the royal family had the same dream?” repeated Raeden. “What was it?”

Taydir shook his head helplessly. “I only got the ramblings of the King and Vidayn dismissed it as mere
coincidence. Some mage playing a prank on them. Garrison said much the same thing though Elluvea
was scared but he’s just a child, after all.”

“He’s at least as old as I am!”

That was a poor choice of words and Raedan knew it from the moment Taydir gave him a sly, sidewards
smile.

“You mean past his prime?”

The bard rolled his eyes and nudged the paraplegic Hero with an elbow. “Your wit is growing sharper
and sharper every day.”

“It must be your toxic influence.” Taydir’s features lost the bright glow that Raedan admired and he
became sullen again. “From what I was told, the Callaroeu’s saw three mighty dragons emerge. One
erupted from the ocean. Another burst through the mountains. A third dove from the sky. Upon the
backs of the third were three mighty soldiers glowing with holy light. The dragons fought one another
but the viewer’s vision was quickly blocked by the approach of the star-eyed wolf. The wolf would stare
at the dreamer directly before the dragons crashed around them, dead. The three holy soldiers would
then charge at the dreamer but the wolf defends them, dying in the process. Then, a fourth mighty
dragon with scales like metal and wings of lightning drives off the avatars of the Holy Triad. The dreamer
is met at last with the features of a glowing, white woman without any features. The three dragons rise
from the grave, turning against the fleeing soldiers and the army that they represent. The woman would

-8-
then turn to extend a hand towards the dreamer and the dreamer would always reach for their hand
before they are abruptly awoken.”

Raedan mulled over the dream for a moment, swirling the drink in his flute glass for a few moments
before realizing he wasn’t supposed to do that with the bubbling kind. “It sounds like some anti-Triad
mage trying to scare the Callaroeus. I wouldn’t think of too much of it.”

Taydir pursed his lips and leaned back into his chair. “Perhaps. I still cannot shake this feeling that
something is coming. Something big.”

The Hero’s bright, blue eyes suddenly lifted, hardening like steel. Raedan turned at the approach of an
elf noble. It was hard to miss those pointed ears. In an attempt a blatant attempt to perpetuate the
stereotype that all elves are tree-hugging naturalists, this particular man had bright, green leaves
embedded into his long, lustrous, red hair. Those ‘leaves’ however, were made of emeralds and steel. In
hand, he held a glass filled with red wine and in the other, the waist of what could only be one of his
wives, a sable-haired beauty as thin as a pixie but who glistened in the enchanted light of the atrium.

Raeden could not help but smile at the beautiful woman, putting on his most charming air and tipping
his hat in her direction.

“Lord Wingsever,” announced the elf, bowing slightly in the Hero’s direction. “It is a pleasure to meet
you.”

Taydir straightened his back, a habit he had developed in an attempt to make himself look taller given
that he was now perpetually sitting. “The pleasure is mine though you would have me at a disadvantage
lord…?”

“Governor,” replied the elf with a curt not. “Governor Farondiir. I am rule the small county of Sareseou
to the far southeast.”

“Governor Farondiir,” Taydir repeated with a nod. “To what do I owe this honour?”

Farondiir took a sip from his wine, making a point to tilt his head upwards and to the side. His
companion looked bored and her attention was elsewhere. “I simply could not help but overhear your
conversation,” answered the governor at length. “Have you heard of the Star-Eyed Wolf?”

The esteemed Saviour of Dragons frowned at that. “He exists?”

The elf lord shrugged absently. “Only rumours and conjecture. There are tales of various visions coming
to others all over Tirinead. All seem to revolve around a wolf with pupils shaped like eight-pointed stars,
a white, faceless woman and a mechanical steed of some sort. Some are already calling them the
‘Unholy Triad’.”

“Blasphemy,” Raeden whispered even though his eyes were securely fixed on the Governor’s
companion. She took notice and batted her eyes at him.

“My apologies,” Farondiir said, placing himself between the two. “But we have not met. Who might you
be?”

-9-
The bard bowed, sweeping his cape behind him even though it brushed up against someone else behind
him. “Raeden Windsong. A bard of many… many talents.” He directed the second ‘many’ directly at
Farondiir’s woman.

“Windsong,” the governor murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I seem to recall that name
somewhere before…” He turned towards his companion. “Ailiva, dear, didn’t Shaylassa say that she was
assaulted by a Windsong once before?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I care not for what that whore does with her days.”

Farondiir sighed and turned to Raeden apologetically. “Please excuse Ailiva’s language. She is a devoted
wife but takes off more from human or dwarven culture and tends to believe that she and I should be
monogamous. Not quite of elven tradition, you see.”

“You don’t say?” Raeden said, feigning interest and quietly accepting such a challenge.

That opened up for Farondiir to begin a rant about how due to the short-lived nature of elves - who
generally didn’t live past thirty or forty years of age - they tended to copulate much more often and with
as many partners are possible. The governor himself had three wives and a husband. Each of the others
had their own relationships with his husband being married to his third wife while Shaylassa was only
officially married to Farondiir but tended to ‘whore herself’ out to others as Ailiva so callously pointed
out.

Raeden was too busy to truly pay attention as he subtly shuffled himself towards Ailiva while feigning
interest. He gently brushed his shoulders against her exposed arm and she lifted one meticulously
maintained eyebrow at him. The faintest sliver of a scowl touched her lips but she had nowhere to move
as her husband was on her other side. Farondiir was far too animated in his monologue to notice the
subtle seduction Raeden was employing. But Ailiva was far more attentive given she was the target of
his enticement.

“You say you are a bard, Master Windsong?” she asked loudly. “Care you regale us with a tune? I grow
tired of endless chatter.” That seemed like a painful jab at Farondiir but the elf Governor was either too
drunk or too dumb to notice.

Raeden smiled and pulled his lute from behind him in a flourish, failing to notice Taydir’s desperate
attempts to prevent him from singing. He strummed the strings, immediately catching the attention of
everyone around him.

“It would be my pleasure, milady,” he said, once again striking a chord. The sound and the abrupt
silence in his immediate area caught the attention of others around him. “Now, allow me to sing a song
in honour of this momentous occasion. A song of love, longing… and freedom.” He flashed Ailiva a smile
and a sly wink while a long, mournful tune echoed from his lute.

“The wind calls to me, my heart seeks to soar.” The bard took a step forward, towards Ailiva. Though she
stood her ground, her features were hard as steel and unmoving. “Though the years have been hard, I
desire more.” He slipped beside her, strumming the musical chords until he had his back pressed against
her. “Shackled to the earth, burdened to toil. My arms to rise, ever to fly, returned to the soil.”

- 10 -
The bard coyly slipped away from Ailiva, moving through the crowd who respectfully gave him and his
sonorous voice way. Their eyes were enchanted, their hearts dancing alongside every strum of his well-
tuned instrument. Even the King of Traelliviar had broken himself away from his distant gaze to peer
down at the bewitching song being sung at his atrium.

“The wind calls to me, my heart seeks to soar,” Raeden sang. “A journey to the distant shore. To spread
my wings and embrace the sun. To battle the raging storm, my day won.”

Many of the Dracorians lowered their heads and shuffled their greatly diminished wings. These were
lyrics that struck deep. Many argued that had the proud race not allowed themselves to become
content and reliant on their airships, they could have won the War of Apotheosis. Centuries of
decadence had caused their wings to shrink and become little more than decorative appendages. There
was even a fad spreading amongst the higher nobility of amputating their wings as a way to embrace
their alliance with Trispire. Those born with full, powerful wings were often seen as commoners or even
the poverty-stricken because they had to rely on their own strength to transport themselves and could
not afford an airship or even a horse.

“The wind calls to me, my heart seeks to soar,” Raeden continued, rising to the climax of the song. “The
beat of wings, a song to shake my core. The sky my home, the sea below! My soul freed and my love to
follow! Hear my voice and hear my roar! The wind calls to me, my heart seeks to soar.” He paused,
letting the chorus ring throughout the silent, reverent atrium as his fingers expertly strummed the
strings, signalling the end of the mournful son. “The wind calls to me,” he concluded, once more turning
to face the Lady Ailiva. “My heart seeks to soar.”

The final chord was struck. The bard swept his broad brimmed hat off his head and bowed. Applause
rang out and as he lowered his head in respect to his audience, he peered up from between his golden
locks and saw even Ailiva begrudgingly applauding his performance. High above, King Callaroeu gently
patted the pommel Dragonbreaker.

Raeden smiled as the chatter continued and nobles and rich-folk alike approached him, asking for his
name. He lost sight of Taydir as the crowd surrounded him. He made polite conversation and though
there were other women that caught his fancy, his eyes were still on the enchanting Ailiva. Whenever
they exchanged glances from across the room, Ailiva would turn away in a huff but with each glance, the
disgust in her ruby-red lips grew less and less.

King Callaroeu’s herald announced that it was time for the feast to begin and the guests began filtering
into the dining hall. Raeden was surprised when Ailiva appeared by his side and gently slipped her lithe,
supple arm with skin as milky as the moon around his. Her lips hovered over his ear and in the faintest of
whispers, little more than a wisp of a wind, she said, “Follow me.”

Aroused and intrigued, Raeden could not help but follow the enchanting elf woman through the crowd.
It was impossible to miss her raven hair amid the ocean of bright colours. His heart bounded to his
throat as she led him out into one of the gardens adjacent to the atrium. The cool night air did nothing
to curb his arousal as the prospect of mounting this woman on the grass as he had often heard elves
make love continued to stir his loins. She glided towards the corner of the garden, between two trees
and away from prying eyes.

She never turned around to face him.

- 11 -
Instead, she absently checked her nails before something slammed into the back of Raeden’s head…

… and all went black.

******

When he next came to, there was only darkness but the loud thrumming of machinery and the beat of
wings rang in his skull like it were empty. A soft moan left his throat and that was when someone’s
heavy footfalls approached. That same someone seized the bag from over his head, grabbing some of
his hair in the process, and yanking it painfully off his head.

“Ouch!” he cried. Searing light pierced his eyes and he grimaced against the rising sun.

Before him was a giant brute of a Dracorian. His head was completely shaved and bald, no mane of any
sort but he had a distinctive red tattoo on the left side of his face that appeared like a dragon rising up
to devour his left eye - which was also completely milky white. It contrasted with the stark white scales
that covered the rest of his body save for the underside of his jaw and his belly which were a dusty grey.
His horns were small, stubby and he possessed set of ‘jaw horns’ that gave him a gruffer look. He did not
appear to have any wings of any sort or if he did, they were well hidden beneath the heavy armour he
wore.

“He’s awake, milady,” grunted the mercenary in a deep, gravelly voice.

Raeden blinked in surprise and he lifted his gaze towards the elegant features of Ailiva as she crossed
into his vision. “Ailiva…?”

“Lady Ailiva, to you scum,” scowled the elf, her enchanting voice twisted into a hateful scowl. Her lips
turned upwards into a sardonic smile. “Welcome onboard the Faeremid.”

It took him a moment to realise that he was on the deck of a small airship. The thrumming he heard was
the sound of the bellows churning to keep the brilliant ship soaring through the air. The beating were
the enormous sail-like wings gently flapping away. being so far high up, there was now howling of winds.
To his left, he could see the door where he could delve down into the belly of the wooden frame. To his
right were a set of railings that allowed an unobstructed view of the rising sun. It would have been a
beautiful sight were he not so close to the edge.

“Apologies that I could not afford to give you the tour of my husband’s fine ship but he is currently
passed out drunk as he always is back at Traelliviar,” Ailiva said.

“Back at…?” croaked Raeden. “Where are we?”

Ailiva nodded to her mercenary and the Dracorian seized the back of Raeden’s head and forcefully
slammed it hard against the wooden railings. Red and pain flashed before his eyes. Stars of pain
momentarily obscured his vision. When they cleared, he could see a long, black chasm that went from
horizon to horizon. There was only one place like this in all of Tirinead.

Kalsammar’s Divide.

- 12 -
“While I despise Shaylassa’s trysts with others outside of our circle, she is still my sister by marriage,”
Ailiva said, gliding silently to stand beside him. “You left her broken hearted, Raeden Windsong.” She
seized his hair roughly, pulling his head back until he was staring directly at the sun. He grimaced,
squeezing his eyes shut. Strength was returning to his limbs but they were bound and tied by thick
ropes. “You promised her the world. Adventure, riches, thrill…” She lowered her lips down to his ear just
like she had done when she had enticed him into the ambush. This time, however, her words were
venomous and filled with spite. “Sex.”

She slammed his head back down against the railings and stepped back with a huff.

“You wooed her in secret for months. Then, you made love to her before leaving without so much a
word.” She again seized his head, pressing it against the railings. Her long, sharp nails dug into his skull.
“We elves do not live as long as you humans. That’s months of her life wasted, bard. Months that she
will never get back! She spent even longer mourning your loss. Where once I thought she would finally
see reason and at long last settle with one partner, you sent her spiralling back into a whirlpool of sex,
depravity and hedonism that is an affront to the Holy Alliance! And I had to waste my time listening to it
all.”

“That was not my intention, milady,” Raeden gasped. “If you would but allow me to make amends…”

“Your sweetened words will not earn you any respite from me, Windsong,” she sneered. “You and your
kind are little more than parasites who cling to the rich and powerful, thinking you are strong and
powerful for seducing those who are above your station.” She leaned down so that they could lock
gazes. “But allow me to enlighten you, Raeden. Power, true power, lies not in how well you flirt with the
sun and avoid being burned. The truest form of power lies in the ability to govern life and death.”

The feisty elf pulled back and gave her mercenary a nod. The telltale sound of a blade being drawn
immediately sent Raeden’s heart and mind racing.

“Milday, please! I —”

The hulk of a man bend down and sliced the bonds holding Raeden’s wrists and ankles down, freeing
him. Confused, Raeden looked to his captor who had folded her supple arms together expectantly.

“Beg,” she demanded simply.

“Milady?”

She sighed, rolling her sable eyes. “You are as dense as you are handsome.” She pointed directly at him.
“Beg for your life. On your hands and knees. Beg.”

It was degrading but Raeden had done far worse things to preserve his life. Dignity was not in the bard’s
vocabulary. He fell to his wounded hands, bowing his head. “Milady…”

“Say my name.”

Swallowing what little pride he had, he began again. “Lady Ailiva, I beg for your mercy. Please spare my
miserable life. It is not worthy of the blade that would end it.”

“What are you?” she hissed.

- 13 -
“I am scum,” he replied without hesitation. “I am a parasite. One that suckles on the teat of the rich and
powerful and who falsely believed himself to lord over them due to my wiles and talent with song.
Beneath my pomp and perfume, I am little more than swine. I humbly beg you to spare the one thing I
have left… my life.”

Ailiva seemed pleased as she turned to her side and plucked the very same lute that Raeden had used to
serenade the entire audience at the Winged Palace. “You are very much right,” she said, examining the
instrument. “You have nothing left.” She held it out at arm’s length. “Savid?”

The mighty mercenary seized the lute and slammed it against his knee. Raeden’s heart jumped at the
sound of splintering wood and the twang of the tightened strings being broken. Ailiva’s bodyguard
tossed the splinters to the ground for Raeden to stare upon.

“You and I are much alike, bard,” she said, curling a supple finger around the narrow chin of hers. “What
most would see as lasting bonds or what they would develop sentimentality over are little more than
tools to us. Take this lute, for example.” She stomped on one of the splinters with her hardened boot.
“Any other bard would have wept or even flinched at the sight of their precious instrument being
shattered and yet you did not flinch.”

“I… I was simply in shock…” he stammered.

“Do not play me for a fool,” Ailiva scowled. “You use people. They are little more than these broken
pieces of wood to you.” Her lips twisted upwards in a coy smirk. “Perhaps I could make use of you.” She
nodded at him. “Get up.”

Raeden gingerly rose to his feet as ordered.

“Turn around. Face the rising sun.”

Again, he did so.

“This is the start of a new dawn for both of us, Raeden Windsong,” she said, her voice easing into
gentleness.

His heart started to ease with relief. The Governor’s wife had chosen to spare him. Perhaps he could be
her loyal bard. Or perhaps she had opted to use him as a weapon against her political rivals. His charm
could win her favours or even cause scandal. It would not be a bad life. So long as he was useful to her,
she would keep him alive.

Then pain exploded from the side of his neck. He found himself choking as liquid filled his lungs and
came rushing up his throat. The flood came pouring out between his lips, blood staining his dirtied tunic.
When he looked down, that pain intensified. He could only shift ever so slightly to the side. Ailiva stood
there with a dagger buried right through his neck.

“Today I rid myself of a parasite and a source of weakness,” she hissed, her eyes cold as steel and as
black as the abyss of her heart. “And you…” Her lips twisted upwards in a cruel smile. “… well, they say
life is a journey and death its’ destination. Enjoy your stay.”

She gave the dagger a twist, the pain almost causing him to completely black out. The blade was yanked
free of his throat and he reached up towards the wound, in a desperate attempt to keep his life from

- 14 -
pouring out between his lips. Two, big, rough hands suddenly seized his back and lifted him easily off the
ground. Savid, the mercenary, boldly lifted him over his head and over the railings of the airship.

Ailiva turned her back to him. “May this world be richer without your voice sullying it with butchered
song.”

Then Raeden Windsong was thrown overboard.

******

A loud, crashing noise split through the darkness. It was a familiar noise. The splintering of wood.
Raeden sprang awake, gasping and clutching his throat. The gentle crackle of a fire rang in his ears
accompanied by his rough, wheezing. There was mostly darkness around him save for the single
campfire sitting in front of him. Warm sheets had been drawn around him and a blood-soaked bandage
was wrapped around his neck. His eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the flames were a knight
stood with what appeared to be the shattered remains of a crate in front of him. From where he lay, he
could make out the scents of the delicious foods that lay around the shattered remains of the crate.

His eyes turned towards the knight himself. The man’s armour was completely white, unnaturally so.
Not silver painted white but as if the metal itself had been made of white. Every piece was gilded,
golden trims accentuating the breaks and pieces of the armour. A cape tumbled from his shoulders that
glimmered like the stars. An all-encompassing helm was wrapped around his features hiding everything
beneath save for the two dark-blue eyes that he possessed. The helm had a sort of ‘crown’ attached to
its brow consisting of three golden towers rising; one from the middle of his brow and then two at the
temples.

Beside the knight lay a powerful looking beast. The creature had scales as black as night but the edges of
said scales seemed to crackle and sizzle like there was electricity within. The creature sat on a pair of
strong, powerful legs with immense claws. In lieu of front legs, pair of wings sprouted from its torso,
wrapped closely against its chest with its bright yellow membrane glistening with its own light. The
creature’s bright yellow eyes regarded Raeden with a keen intelligence that had the bard stand
incredibly wary of the wyvern.

“You’re awake,” the knight said, striding towards him. He plucked what appeared to be a small barrel of
water from the shattered remains of the crate and a cup, bringing it over to Raeden. He poured the
water into the cup and handed it to the bard. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Raeden
Windsong.”

“How…?” Raeden began but his voice came out as a gravelly mess akin to someone grating two rusty
swords together. The water helped but he quickly came to the realization that there was something very
wrong with his voice.

“You fell,” explained the knight. “You are currently at the very bottom of Kalsammar’s Divide. Amongst
the ruins of the once great border wall that had separated the Dracorians and the rest of Tirinead.” A
wave of his gauntlet brought the ruins of blocks and the great wall to light. “I saved you from your fall
alongside Valerie here. Unfortunately, there was nothing we could do about your voice.” A chill ran
down Raeden’s spine and for some reason, he had the inkling the knight was smiling. “Malgorin would
not let me heal that.”

- 15 -
“Malgorin?” he croaked, still unused to the grating sound that came from his own throat. “The Old God
of Death? The Dragon of Death?”

“The very same.” The knight rose and offered his hand to the bard. “You may call me Samuel.”

“Samuel…” Raeden took the offered hand, shakily rising to his feet. “Thank you… Thank you for saving
me. I owe you my life.”

“Think nothing of it,” answered the mysterious knight, waving his hand dismissively. “But our journey
together is far from over. Come, sit by the fire. I shall cook us a meal.”

Raeden crouched beside the warm flames only then realizing out bitterly cold it was down in the middle
of Kalsammar’s Divide. No one had ever dared to venture this far down. It was simply too deep. Though
there was something fascinating about seeing the great blocks and armaments that lay around him. Not
too far away was an old ballista, the wood rotten but its silhouette still barely visible. Massive wood and
iron gates lay splintered and broken against the wall that they had once helped defend. Rusted swords
and halberds were strewn just beyond the fire’s light.

The smell of cooked food caused his stomach to rumble and he watched with infinite patience as
Samuel began roasting a leg of what had to be a deer on the open flame. He warily watched the wyvern
from the corner of his eye, the creature’s poison-tipped tail with its dangerous barbs flicking absently
back and forth. Her long, serpentine neck lifted, electric yellow eyes turning towards the sky. Raeden did
the same and could only see the faintest sliver of blue — like a consistent crackle of lightning — as any
indication of the sky above. They were well and truly beneath the earth.

Samuel produced a small wooden chest from beneath his cape and set it on the ground. Strange as that
was, it was no stranger than the fact that the chest itself did not appear to have any locks or openings. It
had a rectangular base made completely out of wood and with corners bonded by steel and a curved lid
but no pivots by which to open it. The knight set the chest on the ground and took a step back, nodding
towards Valarie. The wyvern promptly slammed her tail against it, shattering it into pieces and sending
splinters everywhere. Stunned, Raeden could only peer on in curiosity as steel plates and cutlery
scattered from the now shattered chest. It occurred to him that the source of the sound that had woken
him was another similar chest being shattered.

Though it begged the question of how Samuel had put the contents into the chest in the first place.

He did not question further as the knight began slicing the cooked meat, placing it on the plates and
handing one to Raedan. The other was given to the wyvern. Hunger stabbed at the Raeden’s stomach
and he devoured the meat without hesitation. Though it was still hot and burned his wounded throat, it
was well seasoned and incredibly tasty. A second and third helping saw him satiated and resting against
a boulder, patting his stomach in silent thanks to his luck.

“Thank you again for your hospitality, Sir Knight,” sighed the bard. “In my years on this world, I have
never met anyone with such generosity.”

“You don’t need to woo me with honeyed words, Raeden Windsong,” answered the knight. “I am here
for another reason.”

- 16 -
It occurred to him that he had never told Samuel his name nor had he seen the knight eat any of the
food he had cooked. The only thing the knight held was a bright red apple that he showed no interest in
devouring. He suddenly became very wary but put on a pleasant, charming face.

“And what would that be, kind sir? Perhaps some way out of this hole?”

Samuel slowly rose to his feet. “The only way to get out of Kalsammar’s Divide is to fly. You do not have
wings. Yet.”

Those words were both ominous and intriguing. “What are you proposing?”

“Do you know who Kalsammar was?”

It was strange that this landmark was so well known and yet Raeden, a bard, had never known its
origins. “I simply assumed it was named after the man who had discovered this region.”

“No. During the War of Apotheosis, Kalsammar was a man who advocated peace between the Holy
Alliance and the Traelliviar Accord. He was the one who ordered the construction of the wall that would
divide the two lands and he called the wall a neutral territory that would divide the two armies and be a
place where they would hopefully come to peace. Kalsammar did all he could to make both sides
comfortable. Including building the last known temple to Malgorin, the patron god of the Dracorians.”

Raeden inclined his head to the side. “I had not known this.”

“Few do. The Holy Alliance have branded Kalsammar a traitor and stricken his name from the history
books save for this very chasm. Given a few decades, it will be renamed and the last vestiges of the
peacemaker would fade forever.” Samuel turned away from Raeden. “I’m telling you this because a
great destiny stands before you, Raeden. One that could both have you seeking revenge against Lady
Ailiva of Sareseou and potentially saving the Dracorian race.”

The bard laughed softy, a throaty, raspy chortle that was a stark contrast to when a mere giggle would
be enough to arouse any woman. Or man. Whichever met his fancy at the time. “Sir Knight, I am
flattered that you would choose me but I am but a simple bard.”

“I doubt you will be singing songs again given your injury.”

“Well, if you would but heal me…”

“As part of my agreement to bring you to him and advise you on your journey, Malgorin stipulated that I
not give you back your singing voice. It is the Dragon of Death’s opinion that he claim something of
yours given that, by rights, you should be dead. He demands that Raeden Windsong the Bard remain
dead and you become his Avatar.”

The former-bard frowned. “His… Avatar?”

“Great change is coming to this world,” said the knight ominously. “A change that will be crafted by
mortals and not necessarily the divine.” Then, the knight turned his head to meet Raeden’s gaze. Those
pupils had shifted. Eight-pointed stars.

“You…” whispered the bard in a soft gasp. “You are the Star-Eyed Wolf… Aren’t you?”

- 17 -
“Word spreads fast,” chuckled Samuel. “That is what I have been called, yes.”

“Rumour has it that you are involved in some sort of apocalyptic vision.”

The knight turned fulled towards Raeden and knelt in front of the bard. “The Old Gods seek to return to
their throne as is their right. The Holy Triad seek to stop them. Those visions come from the latter, trying
to warn their most loyal of my role. However, I will tell you now that I neither serve the Old Gods nor
the Triad.” He pointed directly at Raeden. “My loyalty rests with Tirinead and the wellbeing of its
people.”

Raeden turned his head to the side, gazing at the knight dubiously. “And yet you still want me to go to
Malgorin and be his Avatar?”

“The Old Gods are weak and they have little choice in accepting my terms. Though I will admit that they
are not without their own demands.” He gestured at Raeden’s throat to prove his point. “All I will say is
that you should not take their word as law nor should you trust me entirely. As a man of the courts, you
know full well that loyalties can be as malleable as the seas. But I will say that I will stand by you until
such a time that our differences of opinion must separate us.”

The former-bard laughed softly. “At least you are honest with your intentions. Though I still do not see
why I should go along with a fallen God’s ploy.”

“Predominantly because Malgorin is the one preventing you from regaining your former profession but I
sense it is also because of the faintest bit of curiosity on your part.”

It was a trait that Taydir had often tried to reign in. Raeden’s inherent curiosity had gotten him into
more trouble than he was willing to admit. Exploration and adventure were what drove a bard to the
road, after all.

“I suppose I do owe you my life so I should at least see what the Old God of Death has to say.”

“Excellent.” Samuel rose once more. “Rest. Digest. We will begin our journey in an hour.”

******

Samuel rode astride Valerie, the wyvern striding on all fours with her wings folded. The wyvern was
surprisingly tame even with Raeden striding beside her. Though still somewhat weakened from his fall
and blood loss, whatever magic Samuel had worked on him had healed any external injuries. Excitement
and curiosity burned inside the former-bard and he was eager to see what the Dragon of Death had to
say. His mind was already racing about the tales he would tell and songs he would sing once he got his
singing voice back.

“Tell me, Sir Knight,” he began. “From whence do you hail?”

“Somewhere very far away from here,” answered Samuel enigmatically. Even more mysterious was the
fact that Samuel continued to hold a single red apple as he rode his wyvern.

“And how did you become entangled with the machinations of the gods?”

“The Creator asked me to intervene.”

- 18 -
“You mean Omtariel, the God King?”

Samuel shook his head. “No. The Old Gods, all of Tirinead, were created by the Creator. She entrusted
Tirinead with into the Old Gods’ care but they opted to rule over it instead of nurture it. Upon seeing
what her world had become, she asked me to intervene.”

Raeden laughed loudly, his gravelly guffaw echoing in the near darkness of the Divide. “Surely you must
think it ironic that you are speaking such blasphemy whilst escorting someone into the very arms of the
Old Gods that you represent.”

Again, he had that chilling sensation that Samuel was smiling beneath his helm.

“I don’t need to convince you of all people that this world is in mortal hands, Raeden. You’ve never
believed or even had much faith in the gods, old or new.”

He frowned at that. “Will that be a problem when I come upon the Dragon of Death?”

“Malgorin will surely be annoyed at my choice of his Avatar but he will have little say in the matter.”

“Do I?”

“Naturally. You do not have to accept his offer to become his Avatar. There are many others I can call
upon.”

“But you will not return to me my voice if I choose to refuse his offer.”

“Oh I will. Just you will have to join it in the afterlife.”

Raeden stopped in mid-step and stared agape at the knight. “You will kill me?”

Samuel turned his head to him even as Valarie continue to march into the darkness. “Make no mistake,
Raeden Windsong, you should be dead. The only reason you are alive right now is because Malgorin
needs you. Should you refuse his offer, you will not be of use to him and he will discard you, take the life
that he had granted you.” Samuel glanced ahead again. “Much like how you used to use those in your
path to your advantage.”

That stung and the bard grimaced. “I have yet to accept the Dragon of Death’s offer and here you are
already lecturing me.”

“So that means you will accept it then?”

The turn of words revealed a sharp wit and a deadly intelligence that instantly made the former-bard
wary. Here was not only a capable mage but also a shrewd and intelligent person. Judging by the he
wore, he was likely also a very capable fighter. This was not a man to be trifled with. The more that
Raeden strove forward, he more hesitant he became. That curiosity, however, grew and burned
brighter.

“So as long as I serve the Dragon of Death, I will remain alive. I must pledge myself to eternal servitude
to Malgorin or see my life ended.”

“Not entirely. He has his terms and a quest for you to undertake. In exchange for your life, you are to
spread word of him and reinstall the faith of the Dragon of Death to the world and perform whatever

- 19 -
task it is he gives you. But it shall be that one task. He does not have the power to issue you commands
at every turn. Suggest, perhaps, but not command.”

Raeden had to scoff derisively before hurrying forward before he lost sight of Samuel and Valarie.
“Easier said than done. Most people these days would rather welcome the warm embrace of the Holy
Triad even if that trinity of deities would place them all under a harsh, unforgiving rule than welcome
the inevitability of death that Malgorin promises. Am I supposed to start some sort of death cult?”

Samuel shrugged. “That will be up to you. He gives you life, exceptional powers and in exchange you
start faith in him again.” The knight gave him a sidelong glance. “Expect him to make the exchange
favour him. He may still hold your voice ransom. But I have been given assurance that you will be given
your freedom.”

“I am not sure that I would that ‘freedom’,” mumbled Raeden. He sighed heavily and stretched his arms.
“But I suppose I have little choice in the matter. Either I die or choose to be his Avatar. I quite like life.
Even as I must spout the occasional rhetoric about the Dragon of Death, so be it.” He grinned
enthusiastically. “Perhaps I could compose songs in his name.”

That made Valarie let out a groan-like noise.

“Sadly, one of the reasons that Malgorin told me not to fully restore your voice is because your ability to
compose songs is… lacking. You’re brilliant at regurgitating great ballads or arias but when it comes to
original compositions… your lyrics… well, suffice to say that if even the God of Death can’t stand them,
that says a lot.”

Raeden bristled at the insult. “I take offence to that! My original songs are magnificent! They are the
talk of the courts back at Traelliviar!”

“Really? And what do they have to say about your songs?”

There, the bard blushed and turned away furiously. “Infamy is still some form of fame.”

“I am not denying you that but I have an inkling you would rather be famous for some other reason than
the self-styled great composer and man-whore.”

“I must find ways to fund my research into lyrics after all.”

“So you say.”

Raeden shook his head and brushed away the though with a dismissive wave. “It matters not. Whatever
Malgorin has for me, I shall judge it for myself. Short of assassinating the Holy Triad, I think I will do
whatever it takes to keep my life.”

Samuel fell silent upon those words as they continued to stride through the darkness of Kalsammar’s
Divide. Raeden’s mind wandered to the future. Never had he imagined himself as one to stride around
in robes like the War Priests or members of the clergy but again, he would do whatever it took to
preserve his life. Though his mind did wander back to Lady Ailiva. As humiliating as it was to kneel
before her and beg for his life, he had to respect her loyalty to her husband. Still, he would enjoy the
idea of striding into her court and standing untouchable with the blessing of the God of Death. The look
on her face would certainly be priceless.

- 20 -
Then there was Taydir.

What would a great Hero of the Holy Triad think when his best friend was blessed by one of the very
Gods he had helped usurp. Strange that even at the idea of facing the Dragon of Death, the one thing
that made him nervous was facing Taydir. He loved his life but he was unsure if he would be willing to
take the life of another, especially that of Taydir’s, if it came to defending himself.

That trepidation slowed his advance but it did not change the fact that his boots made a soft clicking
noise against the black stone of Malgorin’s temple. Broken and twisted as it was, the steps leading up to
the giant, yawning mouth of the sable, stone dragon brought a feeling of dread. Hollow, black eyes
reminded Raeden that he was dealing with the former God of Death, cast out of the heavens by the
paragons of the Alliance races. Giant spires that may have appeared like wings were half-buried in the
stone. In many ways, it seemed like a dark reflection of the Winged Palace. Little wonder why the
people of Traelliviar chose to instead take to the skies with brilliant colours compared to this malevolent
edifice.

Samuel led the way through the broken doors leading into the vast chamber beyond. Somehow, the
vast majority of the temple was relatively untouched. Some walls had collapsed and earth had pooled
into the polished, black floor but the towering pillars seeming made of tarred bones remained standing.
Raeden found his throat going dry the further he stepped into the chilling chamber. He took notice of
the black mural etched into the floor. Decades after the War of Apotheosis, the grim painting was still
visible in the dim lighting offered by the torch that Samuel carried. It depicted Malgorin, the great
Dragon of Death, mighty wings spread and countless, ghostly masses in his wings like he had harvested
them.

Winds suddenly howled even though they must have been at least a mile underground. Torches
mounted on the pillars, each held by the grim skeletal hands of corpses sprang to life with a grey flame
that somehow still provided ample lightning. They flickered to life one at a time until the enormous pit
of flame at the far end of the temple erupted with a silvery conflagration that shot upwards towards the
temple’s high ceiling. There was no warmth from the sudden burst. Raeden actually felt even colder as
the fires surged outward and engulfed the entire rear of the temple from wall to wall. From the
flickering flames, a dark shape emerged. First the black muzzle followed by the burning, red eyes and
then the four, ivory horns arched upwards. Enormous, clawed hands followed afterwards as the
immense Dragon of Death stepped out of the flaming gate on all fours, his tremendous black wings
enough to blot out the sun. Nine orbs of different coloured light hovered behind Malgorin’s head like a
halo.

Even Raeden, who scarcely believed in the gods, fell to his knees in awe at the huge deity in front of
him. His mind was already racing for lyrics for a composition of this very meeting.

“This is the mortal you bring to us, Samuel?” scoffed the Dragon, his malicious red eyes not even
scanning Raeden. “Surely you jest.”

“You knew exactly who I was bringing to you when we made our agreement,” answered the knight
curtly. “I suggest you stop spending your waning powers on theatrics and make your offer.”

Malgorin scoffed and only then did he peer down upon the former bard. “Very well. Mortal, you have
the honour of becoming my Avatar. We task you with spreading the name of Malgorin the Dragon of

- 21 -
Death across all of Tirinead. You are to remind all the mortal races that I, the Dragon of Death, loom
forever at the end of their time and hunger for their souls!”

Raeden swallowed hard. “My lord, I have a few… questions.”

“Then ask them for our time is precious!”

Summoning his courage and ignoring the scratching pain in his throat, Raeden said, “My Lord Malgorin, I
humbly ask why I of all people have been spared your deathly grasp and chosen to be your Avatar?”

“Trust me, mortal, you are not our first choice.” The Dragon of Death turned his malicious gaze towards
Samuel. “Unfortunately, you are his first. Seeing as we have little choice in the manner, we must concede
to his judgement and machinations.”

So while Samuel may tout to be a servant of the Old Gods, he had his own agenda. Good to know.

“Then my next question, Great God of Death. Why have you prevented my from regaining my true
voice? Surely with all my functions restored, I will be better positioned to orate your grate message
across the land? A gravelly voice such as this… would not be heard.” He made an effort to sound like he
was choking out the words.

“Of that there is no question but it is not your voice that concerns me but rather the content of your
song.”

Raeden smiled tersely. “I admit that composition is not my strong suit but when I am adequately
inspired, I am sure I would be able to bring forth a dirge that would best capture the aspect of Death!”
He spread his arms towards the looming, black dragon. “And how could I not be stimulated from merely
being in the mere presence of such a magnificent muse.”

Malgorin was silent for a moment. Off in the corner, Valarie rolled her serpentine yellow eyes.

“Honeyed words drip from your mouth like venom, bard, but we are immune to your sweetened toxins,”
boomed the God. “Death is silent. Death is reserved. Death is patient and waits in the far corners of life
for the moment when the victim stumbles and is vulnerable. You are tactless. Complicit to your whimsy.
You care little for consequence.” The Dragon God leaned down towards the former-bard until all of
Raeden’s vision was encompassed by the frightening visage of the Death God. “Allow us to remind you
that death is the ultimate consequence. Count yourself lucky that we have permitted you to live at all
and that we have only taken your voice.”

Each word was a stab to the heart. A painful criticism that left a burning wound. Raeden, however, had
developed a hardened skin from years of being a bard.

“I accept your appraisal with all my heart, Lord Malgorin,” he said, pressing a hand against his chest.
“But if I may argue…” Again, mustering his courage, he lifted his head defiantly against the Death God.
“… what purpose would threatening me be? Should I refuse your offer, I will die and you will be without
an Avatar. Samuel may find another but you will be steps behind and surely the Holy Triad would be
aware of your machinations. You only serve to hinder your own return by depriving me of my voice.”

A stillness befell the Dragon God. Malgorin stared deeply into Raeden, perhaps into his soul, before he
offered a toothy grin.

- 22 -
“We think we see why you have chosen this fool as my Avatar, Samuel.” The Death God straightened,
peering down upon the bard and offering a slight bit of hope. “But a fool is still a fool. Listen to us well,
Raeden Windsong. Do not pretend to know the works of the gods. Should you refuse us, I, Malgorin, will
not kill you. I will rip your body to shreds and keep your soul within me. I will sustain myself on your pain,
agony, torment and every curse you utter against my name. I will still be stronger than I am now even
though my brothers still languish, weakened. I have learnt how to draw power from damnation. Samuel
will bring me the next candidate and you will serve as an example to those who refuse us.”

Raeden’s eyes widened and he spun towards Samuel.

The knight shrugged absently. “He speaks the truth. Currently, the members of the Old Pantheon must
huddle together to even manifest this much in the physical realm. They share a single body even if they
do not necessarily share the same opinions. But should Malgorin consume you, you would effectively be
a worshiper of his. Yes you may hate him with every fibre of your being but the pain he will inflict upon
you will always remind you of who your tormentor is. You would never forget him and as such, he will
grow stronger for it.” The blue-eyed knight looked towards Malgorin. “Even if it is only marginally.”

The bard swallowed hard and looked back to the Death God, quaking in fear. He opened his mouth to
speak but the Dragon God huffed, blowing grey smoke from his nostrils.

“We have little patience for this,” snarled Malgorin. “You have but one question left. Then we expect
your decision.”

Bowing his head, Raeden could only blurt, “What is it exactly you wish of me?”

Retrospect was a harsh mistress and the moment the words came out of his chapped lips, Raeden
regretted them. There was more he could have asked and yet he asked the one thing that would have
been given to him had he accepted. Malgorin knew this and smile to himself smugly.

“As we mentioned, you are to spread the name of Malgorin across all of Tirinead once more. However,
there is another task I would have you do.” Malgorin turned his head towards the west, towards
Traelliviar. “The Dracorians were my people. I created them from the templates of humans, dwarves and
elves. I gave them greater diversity than those soft-skinned mewlings. Yet they squander their natural
gifts using borrwoed technology and magic that befouls the air. I want you to remind them of their
abilities. I want you to remind them that their wings are made to fly. I want you to break them free of the
shackles that the Holy Alliance has around their necks and have them spread their wings, blot out the sun
and bring my vengeance down upon Trispire!”

He wanted Raeden to lead the Dracorians to war.

“My Lord…” he stammered. “I am a bard, not a general.”

“Death inspires many people. Sing a song. Lead from the front lines. I care not. The Dracorians must be
freed and the Usurper Three must be held accountable for the imbalance they have created!” Malgorin’s
voice boomed in corridors of the temple, the grey flames flaring and raging with his passion.

“I… I need time to think on this.”

“There is no time, fool! Take my offer or be destroyed!”

- 23 -
A small, red orb suddenly bounced off against Malgorin’s snout. The Dragon God was stunned as the
little ball - little more than the size of Raeden’s hand - rolled over to the tip of his muzzle and rested
against his left nostril. It was a bright, red apple. The very same fruit that Samuel had kept from when he
first fed the injured bard.

“Death is silent. Death is reserved. Death is patient and waits in the far corners of life for the moment
when the victim stumbles and is vulnerable,” Samuel quoted. “Eat the fruit, Malgorin, and give Raeden a
moment to make his decision. Death can a few more minutes.”

“You dare!? You expect me to eat a piece of fruit that mortals use to stuff into pies!?”

The flames around them suddenly flickered, momentarily casting the chamber into darkness. Samuel’s
cold, flat voice cut through the darkness like a knife, his blue eyes somehow shining in the inky
blackness.

“No.”

Then the torches lit once more and Malgorin plucked the small fruit between two claws and examined it
with curiosity. His red eyes suddenly widened and he turned towards the knight in surprise. “Where did
you get this!?”

“None of your concern. It will keep you busy long enough for Raeden to make his decision.” Samuel
moved towards the bard and gently wrapped an armoured arm around his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s
leave Death behind for a moment.”

Raeden was unsure whether he would prefer to be devoured by the God of Death or to go with the man
who somehow gave Death pause. Still, it seemed Samuel at least offered him some pathway to life and
followed the knight back down the long hallway of the temple and out the door. He dared a glance over
his shoulder and found Malgorin seemingly paralysed by the tiny apple that he held just inches from his
eyes.

“What was that you gave him?” he asked.

“An apple,” answered Samuel enigmatically.

“Please, Samuel,” he pleaded. “Be honest with me. What is it really?”

“As I said. It is an apple. An apple from the Creator’s Garden.”

Raeden blinked. “Is that… significant?”

As they padded down the steps of the temple, Samuel turned to him. “Think of it this way, Raeden
Windsong. A meal, served exactly the same, made exactly the same and with exactly the same
ingredients should taste the same. Yet if it were made from the kitchen of a lowly serf to feed his family
or the finest culinary stations of a king would make all the difference in flavour.” The knight gestured
towards the temple. “The same is with that apple. It is just an apple but because it came from a station
higher than the Old Gods, they are now quarrelling over who gets to partake in it.”

The bard was quickly coming to the realisation that Samuel was not all he seemed and was far more
clever than he had first anticipated. After all, this knight had held onto that same apple for hours. Had
he planned this?

- 24 -
“Will it really sustain him? I mean, them?”

“I never said it would sustain them. I just said that it would keep them busy until you are ready to make
your decision.” Samuel inclined his head to the side. “Though I suspect you have already know how you
will answer.”

That made the bard smile. “I see. And yes, yes I do know what I will choose.” He placed his hands on his
hips and sighed heavily. “I never thought I would be part of a grand tale. I have lived on the peripheries
of grandeur, a ghost flitting between the golden halls and riding the coattails of famed heroes by singing
their songs. To think that I would make my own.”

“Everyone has a story to tell, Raeden. But they do not have to tell it alone. I will be your adviser on this
journey for as long as you’ll have me. I will be sure to remind you never to underestimate the value of
any one person’s story.” He lifted a finger at the bard. “A single life is all it takes to turn a tide. One blade
to win a war. One word to change a mind.”

The bard nodded with a smile. “I think I’d very much like to have a man who can toy with the Old Gods
like you can by my side. Especially if I am to convince an entire race to rise up against the people who
has supposedly oppressed them from decade.” He beamed down at the blue-eyed knight. “But if I
convinced others of far wilder things! I have swayed crowds before! I can persuade an entire nation!” He
turned back towards the temple. “What say we give Malgorin the news?”

Emboldened, the former-bard strode proudly back into the Temple of the Dragon of Death. Malgorin
stood patiently at the altar, looming over them both while grey flames wreathed him. The apple was
gone and there was no mention of it as Raeden took his position in front of the god. He knelt on one
knee respectively, head bowed.

“Lord Malgorin. I have given your offer much thought.” He lifted his head, no hesitation in his words or
his movements. “I whole heartedly accept your offer. I shall become your Avatar.”

The Dragon of Death scoffed. “We are almost tempted to rescind our offer and devour you regardless.”

Silvery flames launched from the torches around him and from within Malgorin’s wings. The flames
surrounded Raeden in a tight circle. A flash of fear erupted in the former-bard’s heart and he leapt to his
feet. Escape was impossible against the ten foot flames. Even Samuel’s visage had vanished behind the
curtain of grey fire. Only Malgorin’s looming features were visible; especially his burning crimson eyes.

“We shall see if you are worthy of that title, Raeden Windsong. Remember this, however, you are one of
our many Avatars. You are not the only one chosen to save the races of Tirinead. We once blessed the
Alliance and its leaders to unite human, elf and dwarf under a single banner to bring peace to this land.
Instead, our Usurpers waged war and cast a foul curse upon all the world. Death is the ultimate equaliser
but even death must be equal to life. For without life there can be no death and without the consequence
of death, there can be no meaning to life.”

One of the orbs behind Malgorin glowed brighter than the rest, a bright, golden sphere that radiated
with power and authority. Malgorin curled his wings around Raeden, blotting out all else save for the
towering dragon and the halo of spheres behind him. When the dragon spoke, the voice that came from
his lips was not the deathly rattle of the God of Death but one more regal and crisp.

- 25 -
“I, Omtariel, the God King, hear by grant you my boon, Raeden Windsong.”

The silver flames suddenly launched straight into Raeden. Before the bard could cry out in protest, the
searing fire was hurling itself down his throat, burning the wounded oesophagus and deep into his belly
only to spread all through his veins. Every limb went rigid and he was forced to throw his head back, his
feet rising up to the tips of his toes and his arms thrown behind him while he bore his chest towards the
amalgam of gods.

“I breathed life into this world,” boomed the God King and ruler of the Old Pantheon. “Humans were the
base template. From that template, we made the taller, fairer race which became the elves. From that
template, the shorter, stouter species became the dwarves. From that template, we built the others. As it
was eons ago, it shall be now. I take the template of your body and reshape it to be one befitting an
Avatar of the Gods, a representative and paragon of the Dracorian Race.”

All the grey fire within him pooled within his mortal frame but it was still just a sack of flesh and bone. It
could only contain so much and when Omtariel finished his declaration, the flames erupted from
Raeden’s fingertips. The raging flames took over every function in his body. His heart raced with the
roaring flames, his blood pumping with its punishing pace, his mind burning with all manner of
sensations, all pleasurable as the power was absorbed into his bones and muscles.

A sensation akin to the mixed ecstasy of pleasure and pain that came with an orgasm erupted from his
fingertips. Brilliant silver flames burst from his nails, consuming them entirely. The lancing fire lashed
briefly through the air before solidifying into large, curved shapes hovering just over his fingertips. A
gentle wind like the breath of new life extinguished the fire from the very tip of the scythe-like growths,
slowly revealing a pointed tip, a sinister curve and the solid base - ivory claws.

Those same flames exploded from the rest of his hand, erupting from where the claws met with his
flesh. Quickly the fire surged to consume the rest of his hand. The fire no longer hurt. The fire was his
raw strength given physical form. There was a rush of power that he had never felt before. All too often,
he had to rely on his wiles and guile to see him through a day but this… this was raw power that he had
never felt before! He could understand how powerfully built men could feel so intoxicated with
throwing their weight and muscles around!

He clenched his fists and the flames immediately dissipated, revealing hardened black scales covering a
hand that was three times the size of his nimble, bard’s hands. Blood-red, softer skin layered over his
palms, complimenting the darkness of the scales. Even with the natural , it was possible to see thick
veins running up and down the back of his palm like he had worked and laboured for most of his life.

Another voice erupted from Malgorin’s wide muzzle. It was light, a whisper and excitable. Almost like a
child.

“I am Ferashim, the God of Speed. To inspire the Dracorians to fly once more, I give you my boon. A
vessel to carry you through the skies. She shall be your loyal steed and will carry you from horizon to
horizon. A symbol of what you represent. The freedom that all Dracorians should crave whether that
freedom is won in death or from the shackles of the Usurpers. Call to her now, Raeden Windsong. Call to
her and she shall answer, always.”

Raeden threw his head back and could not help but roar.

- 26 -
“Skyward Fantasy!” he screamed.

The temple quaked. Behind him, the great gates of the once mighty temple shattered. The pointed,
hawk-like tip of an airship burst through, throwing the wood and iron doors to the ground. Its white
surface was a stark contrast to the darkness around. Golden filigrees danced across its hull bringing to
mind wings and the wind. Unlike other airships, it only had a single set of wings that remained static by
its side, made of the same arcane white metal as the rest of the ship and angled forward. It looked big
enough to fit perhaps twenty men but no more.

Its sudden appearance gave the grey flames another surge around Raeden. The flames curled around his
forearms, burning away his clothes and thrusting his newly enhanced arms away from his chest. Power
rushed throughout his limbs and he instinctively shook off the flames. Enormous forearms as big as a
well-built man’s thighs were revealed wrapped in inky black scales. His upper arms were meatier than
he had ever possessed before, instruments of death and destruction and covered in a lattice of veins
that bulged through his black scales. Raeden doubled over as the weight of his arms pulled him to the
ground.

Malgorin’s own voice echoed through his pounding ears.

“I am Malgorin, the Dragon of Death. As my Avatar, I grant you my boon. Amongst the many gifts that
the Dracorians have forsaken since their conception is the power of their breath. Once great reds blew
flames, the mighty greens spewed acid and the blues shot water with such precision and power that I
could tear through a man’s torso cleaner than any arrow. To you, my Avatar, I grant a breath befitting
one blessed by me. I give you the Flames of Death.”

The last of the fire suddenly surged into Raeden’s mouth and he was left gasping. Shrouded in
Malgorin’s wings, he was left with a burning sensation deep within his chest that was just bursting to be
released. He tried to fight it down but it was like trying to hold back a tide with a single reed. The
former-bard just had to throw his head back and let out another tremendous roar.

Silvery flames erupted from between his lips, that sensation of release following them. His eyes boggled
at the power that erupted from his throat. The flames did not burn him but they called to the rest of his
flesh. His teeth, perfectly straight and pristine white, sharpened into glistening fangs. A nose that was
perfectly crafted for his handsome human face was pushed forward, leading the charge to containing
the fires once more. The black scales that had ended at his shoulders followed its lead, crawling up his
neck and spreading quickly over his jaw and face. His nostrils were pulled away from another, the bridge
of his nose broadening as his lips were dragged further and further away from his eyes. A powerful force
pulled his jaw out to the sides, broadening it and pulling his lips back by their edges so that they
remained anchored at the edges of his jaw like a true Dracorian muzzle. Raeden briefly closed his eyes
as the scales covered them.

He collapsed forward, panting as the silver flames died but the changes continued.

“My flame will continue to burn so long as there is life to consume,” hissed the Dragon of Death. “Use it
wisely for it cannot be extinguished. So long as your heart beats.”

Raeden groaned. He could feel the Flames of Death pushed up against the back of his head. His long,
golden locks were seared by their heat. The silken strands were pushed back as his head reshaped, his

- 27 -
brow thickening while his ears were pushed to the top of his head. Before those very same organs could
migrate too far, pointed lumps formed to bar their way. Two sets of horns emerged, nutty brown. The
first two curled from his brow upwards towards a singular point, like a natural crown. The other two
continued straight backwards, holding his burning hair being them and acting as the guide. The silver fire
briefly washed over his hair, spreading from root to tip and searing every strand a startling white.
Strangely, this also encouraged its growth and sent the mane rushing down the back of his neck and
along his spine.

Clang-clang-clang.

The sound of metal on metal met his sharpened, pointed ears, now blackened just like his scales and
shaped like leaves.

“Child, I am Dauldrin, the God of Smiths. Death is no easy weapon to wield but I grant you this weapon in
the hopes that you will learn that in death there is power.”

Malgorins form breathed out a burst of silver fire and it coalesced in front of Raeden. There, it formed a
long, curved shaft that ended in a talon-like blade. The shaft itself was black as night but with white
patters and grips running through it reminiscent of flames. The pure-white blade was attached to the
shaft by a grip that looked almost like a three-horned dragon with the blade jutting out of its jaw.

It was a scythe.

“Take from me, Doomtalon,” rumbled the God of Smiths. “For each you strike down with this blade, it
will grow in power and so will you. But heed my warning: A scythe is a farmer’s tool and not a weapon.
Though there is power in death, one must have the knowledge and wisdom on how to wield it so as to
reap a harvest and not kill wantonly.”

Raeden, through newly forged grit fangs, said, “I shall.”

And he seized Doomtalon.

Power rushed immediately through his body and he could not help but let another blast of grey flames
shoot out between his lips. Strength blasted through his neck and he groaned as already raspy voice
grew richer and deeper. The bloodied bandage around his neck ripped and tore, falling to the floor
before being wreathed by his silver flames. They remained untouched however - no life bound to them.
As for his neck, the wounds that had once scarred him were gone and in their place was a thick, corded
neck covered in black scales with a crimson crest running from the underside of his jaw all the way down
to the shelf of his collarbone.

Another voice came through as another orb shone.

“I am Rivellin, my child, the God of Wisdom. For you, I grant the knowledge of how to be a Dracorian.
Born you as a human but as a Dracorian, you have new limbs, new abilities and new biology you must
control. An Avatar is the model of his people and you must know how to use your own body before you
are able to stand tall amongst them.”

As the God said this, an immense pressure built just above Raeden’s backside. He former-bard was
forced to lean forward as this pressure started pushing his spine away from his head. It built and built,
causing him to sweat through his scales and his entire body to tense. The veins and muscles all across his

- 28 -
body went rigid and he grew blind with the intensity. A cry and a burst if flame rocketed from his lips. A
long, thick tail erupted from his just above his rear, lashing out rigidly and with a rush of relief that he
almost collapsed there and then. With the black and red scaled limb free, the white mane was at last
free to rush down the rest of his spine and speed towards the tip of his tail, growing thinner as it
reached the pointed tip. Immediately, the nerves connected and Raeden became aware of how to use
them. But there was something else missing.

And another God’s voice provided it to him.

“I am Incarius, the God of the Seas. Dracorians do not only belong to the skies. They dive into the seas
and they run across the land. Remember this well as I grant you the Wings of Inspiration. With these
wings, all who see them spread will view them like your banner, your flag. Fly across the sky and inspire
the masses. You are their Avatar now, let them sing songs of you.”

Pressure once more built in Raeden’s back but this time, it was positioned just between his shoulder
blades. Two sources were growing there but he just knew that they could not be released just yet. The
rest of his body was not ready for their weight. So, the flames within him surged through the rest of his
torso. It broadened his back, built the thick muscles there until they were like ebony mountains and
capable of supporting a pair of wings. He moaned and lifted his head, his voice growing deeper with the
growth of his chest. The powerful back muscles needed their accompanying chest muscles to support
them and his once flat torso developed into a pair of broad, wide pectorals and a set of eight perfectly
defined abdominals framed by a V-shaped torso. He whimpered softly as softer, blood-red scales rolled
down his chest, consuming his nipples entirely and causing them to vanish from his chest.

But the loss of his nipples was quickly replaced by the immense eruption of pleasure that came from his
two wings bursting from his back. He roared, pushing himself off the ground and coming up into a
kneeling position while his enormous, black wings taller than he was and at least twice his width per
wing fully unfurled in all their webbed glory. Silvery veins laced through the black membranes, filled
with the inner flame within him.

Only his legs seemed untouched by the gods.

Then Caellenius spoke. His voice gruff and blunt.

“I, Caellenius, God of Valour, grant you this armour. A reminder that no matter how high one flies, one
must always land and one must always have a strong footing on the ground lest one forget himself.”

That same power came bursting from the tips of Raeden’s toes. His magnificent boots, expensive as
they were, were immediately burned by silver fire before huge, clawed feet erupted from them. Raeden
staggered to his feet just as his legs erupted out of his trousers in a glorious shower of black and red
scales. The shredded fabric was burned by his silver flames. Powerful thighs were beautifully sculpted,
every muscle and vein pressed up against his scales. Calves as wide as his biceps supported his immense
weight and were perpetually supplied by thick, pumped veins. Their visage, however, was quickly
masked by a pair silvery grieves that wrapped over his shins. Brown, leather straps curled around his
calves, holding them in place while the snarling features of a dragon was emblazoned upon their facets.

“With these, you will never be knocked off your feet should they remain on the ground,” rumbled
Caellenius. “While in the air, regardless of how far you fall, you will always land unharmed.”

- 29 -
Panting and with power ripping through his veins, Raeden regarded his magnificent visage, running his
clawed hands over his sculpted, scaly chest. At first, he expected not to feel a thing but the scales on his
torso - the softer, crimson scales - were surprisingly sensitive. He could still feel through the hardened
black scales but it was still muted somewhat.

“I, Lovantier, the God of Fire, grant you my boon, young one.”

Raeden looked up at the Death God, surprised that there was more. Pain erupted from the back of
Raeden’s eyeballs and he cried out as searing, silver light burst from them. He held his hands over his
eyes, crying out, light slipping out from between his fingers.

“There are many that would twist your mind as you would seek to inspire them. So with this, I protect
you from the magical arts that would influence you outside of your own will.”

The pain subsided and when he opened his eyes again, the brilliant, cornflower blue was gone. Instead,
he was graced with a pair of golden, slitted, reptilian eyes.

“I am Ystagur, the God of Earth. Strength is often measured by which medium to stand upon be it in the
air, land or sea. You shall always have the same strength regardless of where you stand. Take this power
and unite the Dracorians.”

Every muscle in Raeden’s body seized up and he could feel the rush of power in him. Even the new limbs
such as his tail and his wings grew strong and he lifted his head with pride.

“I am Wirrium,” said the Gods in front of him. “God of Air. I bless you with my gift, young dragon.
Wherever you are, regardless of the winds or lack there of, you will be able to fly. Take flight and be an
example to your people.”

Raeden immediately spread his wings on instinct and he was lifted into the air. There was a brief flash of
vertigo and fear but then the gift from Rivellin reminded him that this was natural, that he was born to
fly. He looked up at the Death Dragon, rising with a grin on his face as he rose to come to eye level with
the great Pantheon.

“And I am Garodrash,” rumbled the the last of the Gods. “God of Fertility. The Usurpers cursed this land
and we are too weak to undo it. But we can circumvent it. Boy, I give you my boon.”

Suddenly, Raeden felt a rush towards his crotch. He glanced down and noticed that his still pink and
human manhood coming to the rise. His shock emerged when the pink flesh grew an even brighter
shade of red, almost cherry-red. A moan rose from his lips while his member filled with blood but when
it came to full mast, it grew even more and his jaw dropped at the sight of the immense member riosing
up to reach his belly button and then rising even further. Then came a second source of arousal right
next to the first. His right hand instinctively took his cock and angled it to the side. Shock struck his mind
as a second member, already dripping with precum came rising right next to its brother. His breathing
intensified and he reached out with his left hand to touch the growing mass. The moment the first
sensation of that new member hit him, he knew that it was his right to possess Dracorian anatomy. He
immediately seized the second dick, now with a member in both hands and with both members growing
thicker and longer with each passing second. The human shape of each faded with each enthusiastic
stroke. The head became pointed and with a crown of fleshy barbs around its rim. Similar barbs
developed along the underside of his cock and when his fingers brushed against them, his pleasure

- 30 -
intensified. He moaned even louder, his wings quivering, his tail thrashing madly from side to side and
toes curling.

“Blessed be your seed. The Triad would kill every female every conceived so let us make those who come
in contact with your seed a Dracorian male!”

Raeden threw his head back, silver flames bursting from his lips. The roiling flames within his chest
erupted in that last burst, leaving his chest feeling somewhat empty but at the same time relieved. But,
there was a new fire building within his crotch. His breath of flame turned to one of feverish panting as
he jerked his twin meats harder and harder, spraying precum against his flanks while his eyes rolled into
the back of his head and his tongue rolled off to the side. His body grew tenser, muscles aching for that
final release but still the transformation was far from complete. Softer red scales wrapped around his
balls. As if trying to reject them — the last parts of the human Raeden Windsong fighting the Dracorian
— his balls grew, the pink flesh pushing back the crimson scales but ultimately failing as they reached
their maximum orangewatermelon-sized spheres before being completely consumed. The cursed
Dracorian seed filled his testicles and at last fully converted, they pumped the cum through his bright
red meat.

The Dracorian Avatar let out one last whimper, not a roar, but more as whine with his lips pursed. His
hot seed came erupting from his twin dicks, shooting two powerful fountains of gooey, white out to
either side and sending a wave of weakness striking the newly made Dracorian. The Avatar slumped in
the air and though he plummeted, the magic of the Gods prevented him from being injured. His fall was
cushioned and slowed before he hit the ground and he fell on his back — specifically on his tail. His new
weight on the appendage came as a surprise and he yelped as the pain woke him and snatched away the
promise of peaceful slumber under afterglow.

Malgorin began to retreat back through the portal of silver fire he had emerged from.

“You have your mission, Avatar of Dragons. Spread my name. Have all remember me. Free the
Dracorians not only from the Triad but also from their complacency. For Death is always watching and I
come for the complacent.”

The silvery flames abruptly extinguished and Raeden was left stunned at his transformation. He jumped
when he suddenly found Samuel standing next to him, offering him a cloth. Blushing beneath his newly
made black scales, Raeden wiped his seed from his chiselled form.

“I will admit,” he rumbled, his voice still gruff and raspy. “I had not expected to be turned into… into
this.”

The knight chuckled softly. “It was something they avoided to specify, didn’t they? Though I doubt you
are complaining.”

Raeden flexed his arm, admiring the muscles there. “I had always been appreciative of the arts and the
heroic sculptures. I never thought that I could ever be one to inspire such magnificence.” As he lowered
his arm, he noticed that his subsiding members were shrinking into a genital slit. Even though his
testicles remained exposed, his cocks were sliding into the little, vertical pouch that was nearly invisible
against the folds of his rigid abdominals and red scales. It was highly protective of his manhood and
would take some getting used to.

- 31 -
“I suppose that all depends on you, really.” Samuel helped Raeden to his feet. “Will you be an
inspiration of fear and death… or perhaps something else?”

The Dracorian Avatar smiled at him.

“That is something I will have to figure out. But I like to think there is one form of muse I can be that
both Malgorin, you and I can agree on.”

He had that eerie feeling Samuel was smiling again even if he could not see the knight’s face. “And what
is that?”

Raeden grinned, flashing his fangs and he charged towards his airship, the Skyward Fantasy.

“To fly, my good Sir Knight! I shall inspire others to fly!”

******

Ailiva watched Savid dress. The large, hulk was a very delicious specimen of a Dracorian and honestly
the only person in all of Sareseou that could satisfy her. Even her own husband, Farondiir, could do little
to please her with his minuscule dick and inability to ever get it to rise. The boar was always too drunk to
ever grow intimate. But Ailiva had developed a reputation as a little bit of a ‘prude’ for an elf and she
quite liked that. Savid satisfied her sexual needs discretely and Farondiir could go out and get drunk
without her ever speaking of his ineptitude in bed. Of course, that was just another piece that she kept
in her back pocket just in case she ever needed her husband to do something.

Her eyes fell upon Savid’s scarred and muscled back. Absolutely nothing like Farondiir. Savid was
hardened muscle. Built over years of hardship and training. The only scars that were not from some
battle were the two where his wings should be. The Dracorian really only wanted to be accepted, after
all. Those Dracorians that were not of the noble class either worked in the mines or became
mercenaries. Savid was the latter and she found his body infinitely alluring.

“You best get dressed as well, milday,” rumbled her personal bodyguard. “You do have a guest.”

She sighed dramatically. “If I must.”

It had been her idea for a quick session before entertaining her esteemed guest. After disposing of that
bard, she had the airship dock at the nearest town where she had a residence. Business called, after all.
Farondiir would find some way to return to Sareseou. She had things to do. Some of the nobles would
have noticed without a doubt but Farondiir’s domain was a small, distant county that barely drew
notice. No one would spent the effort to spread damning rumours over such a piddling lord. She had
time for… other things.

She rose from the silken sheets of her bed, a bed she owned alone as Farondiir had his own quarters. It
had been an agreement between them that should he ever decide to settle just with a single woman,
she would be that woman and they would sleep in separate beds until then. She would not be second to
anyone. Not even her husband or his husband and other wife. From her bed, she quickly dressed herself
in a long, white gown and combed her ebony hair. She placed a golden circled as a sign of office on her
brow and sprayed on elegant perfume to hide the stink of sex with a dragon.

- 32 -
Once she was prepared, she glided elegantly out of the room, Savid beside her as always, and towards
the audience chamber of her residence.

She was surprised when she found the great Wingsever there greeting her on his little portable throne.
The Faeremid was one of the fastest airships in all of Tirinead. It could make the trip from Sareseou to
Traevilliar in just over a dozen hours where larger, bulkier ships would take days, maybe even weeks to
make the trip. How Taydir had managed to get here when he had been at Traevilliar before she had left
was a mystery.

“Lord Taydir Wingsever,” she greeted, placing herself next to the governor’s throne. “I must admit, this
is a surprise to see you again so soon.”

“I’m afraid it is of grave importance, milday,” rumbled Taydir. “May I speak with the Governor?”

It irked her that Taydir would want to speak with her drunken husband instead of her. Everyone knew
who truly ruled Sareseou. While Farondiir was out gallivanting and being fool, she was running the
county. If all went to plan, however, perhaps she could rule more than that.

“Unfortunately, my lord Farondiir is currently indisposed. Last night’s festivities have taken its toll on
him.”

Taydir grunted. “No matter. It’s you I wanted to discuss anyway.”

She lifted one of her sharp, curved eyebrows. “I? Well…” She curtsied towards him. “I am at your
disposal.”

“Great. So tell me what you did with Raeden Windsong.”

Her mind immediately flashed with agitation. Taydir Wingsever had never been what one would call a
master of intrigue or secrecy. Yet somehow, he had come very close to accusing her.

“I am afraid I have no idea who you are speaking of.”

“Don’t play me for the fool, Ailiva. I’m talking about the bard. Raeden Windsong. You commissioned him
to sing a song early on in last night’s party.”

She batted her eyes at him and waved a hand at her cheeks absently. “Oh, you must forgive me
memory, Lord Wingsever. There was so much happening last night that I cannot simply recall every
person or song that was sung. You will have to clarify.”

Taydir slammed a fist against the armrest of his wheelchair, the sound echoing all across the hall. “Don’t
bullshit me, Ailiva! I know you had Raeden kidnapped. You were seen luring him into the garden as we
were heading to dinner and he was never seen again!”

“Surely you cannot think that I would do such a despicable thing,” Ailiva said in her softest, most hurt
voice. She even managed to muster a few tears. “My Lord, I am but my husband’s wife. One of many
partners as is elfish custom. I have no power to do such a thing.”

“More lies! Everyone knows who really runs Sareseou!” Taydir shook his head and began to turn his
wheelchair around. “Listen to me well, Ailiva. When — not if — when I find my friend, you and I will have
words. I guarantee you will not like them.”

- 33 -
Then the hero wheeled himself out of the small audience chamber.

Ailiva scowled as the doors shut behind him.

“Milady?” Savid asked.

Her dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I want him dead.”

- 34 -