The dragonfire had vanished, consumed into the yawning dark of Soren's left eye — yet the moment was far from over.
A heavy silence fell.
Then, with deliberate weight, the dragon lowered its massive head toward Soren. Each breath it exhaled stirred the dust and heat across the ruined battlefield. Its enormous eye, a golden slit of ancient fury and insight, stopped just inches from Soren's face.
And then — it spoke.
"Interesting. I am familiar with that eye. What are you?"
The voice was deep, ancient, and resonant — like boulders grinding together in a volcano's core, laced with fire and echoes of forgotten centuries. It reverberated in the bones of every listener, halting all movement. Howlspire stood frozen behind Soren, wide-eyed. So dragons could speak. And not just speak — they reasoned.
Then why had it attacked them?
Vin, Joran, and Garron exchanged stunned glances. The beast wasn't mindless. It wasn't raging from hunger or instinct. That left only one chilling explanation: it had attacked them by choice — a deliberate hunt, a predator striking down what it deemed insignificant.
Soren's mind raced, but his face remained still. That voice had acknowledged the Eye of Finality, Ruin!
He couldn't respond openly — not here, not with Howlspire behind him.
"…I don't know what you mean," he said, keeping his voice neutral.
The dragon blinked slowly, as if amused. It shifted its gaze slightly, noticing the tension in Soren's stance… and then, its vertical pupil slid toward the three others behind him.
This human is hiding the truth about that eye, it thought.
And it was right.
Soren could feel it—this creature wasn't just powerful, it was ancient. With centuries of wisdom behind it, it could sniff out deception like smoke from a spark.
Soren steadied himself, then spoke again, voice firmer now. "I want to ask. Why did you attack us? Are you working with the Crimson Apostle?"
The dragon let out a low snort. From its nostrils surged twin jets of heated air — not flame, but dry and scorching enough to make them flinch.
"Me? Work with humans? Ridiculous."
It sneered, if such an expression could be made by that monstrous maw.
"It doesn't matter. I simply wanted to kill… for sport." It paused. Then its massive eye fixed back on Soren, a curious gleam within. "But because of you… I'll let all of you live. For now."
It didn't mention the eye again. It didn't need to. The implication lingered like smoke.
"I have other pressing matters. But I will come and see you again."
Before Soren could react, the dragon's breath flared again — not in fire, but with searing energy. A shape began to burn into the side of his neck. He gasped, his knees weakening as the heat flared sharply, a brand pressed to flesh.
"Agh…!" he grimaced, feeling the scalding pain as something etched itself into his skin.
"I will leave my mark behind, so I can find you easily later."
And with that, the dragon unfurled its wings. A great gust of wind surged out, flattening what little remained of the trees and loose debris. Then, with a thunderous beat, it soared into the sky and vanished—leaving only heat, smoke, and devastation in its wake.
Silence returned once more, broken only by the distant rustle of scorched trees.
"…He left. That dragon actually left because of you, Mister Academy Envoy," Vin said, his voice hushed, almost disbelieving.
The other two adventurers didn't answer. They simply collapsed to the ground, sitting down heavily with groans of exhaustion. Their bodies were bruised, bloodied, and finally catching up to the toll the battle had taken.
Soren turned slightly, checking their conditions. All three were alive — for now.
Then, he reached up, touching the side of his neck where the dragon's mark still burned. It wasn't bleeding… but it wasn't ordinary, either. A strange sigil had appeared there — intricate, glowing faintly with embers that refused to die out.
So many things had happened in a storm of chaos.
But he couldn't let himself be overwhelmed.
They needed to leave this place and recover — quickly — before Crimson Apostle's forces arrived to pick at the remains of their fight.
Not long after, the Crimson Apostle arrived.
Flanked by his cloaked followers, he surveyed the aftermath of the battle. Burnt earth. Shattered stone. The lingering stench of dragonfire and blood. But no bodies—none of the corpses he had hoped to find.
He narrowed his eyes beneath the hood.
"They survived... Tch."
His gaze fell on a trail of blood spattered across the rocks, leading away from the battlefield.
"So. The bait worked. They fight againts the mighty dragon."A slow, malicious grin curved across his lips."They're injured. All that's left now is to deliver the final blow."
He raised a hand to his followers. "Find, and kill them."
---
In deep within the woods, Soren and the others had taken shelter inside a cavern.
It wasn't particularly comfortable, but it was dry, quiet, and deep enough to hide them for now. They had moved as far as their injuries allowed, distancing themselves from the chaos they'd barely escaped.
None of them were in fighting shape. Soren and Vin lacked healing magic—only high-class mages could cast true healing spells, and even then, such magic was rare. Healing torn flesh was one thing. But regenerating limbs? Almost unheard of.
Fortunately, while their wounds were severe, none had suffered irreparable damage. Most of the pain came from within—cracked ribs, bruised organs, and lingering burns.
Soren had packed a few high-grade healing potions before he left the Academy. Now, he shared them with the others. Vin, the least injured, helped him tend to Joran and Garron.
For a while, there was only the soft clinking of glass and the muffled groans of pain.
Then Joran spoke.
"We owe you… all of us. We were arrogant. Thought we had everything under control. Thought we didn't need help."
Garron nodded, wincing. "We heard the Academy sent a blind spellcaster. We thought it was some half-hearted gesture. Some noble formality."
They looked ashamed. And genuinely grateful.
Soren, sitting near the cave wall with his eyes still closed, offered a faint smile.
"What's done is done. I'm not here to be resented or praised. I'm here because of the Crimson Apostle."
There was a pause — a quiet moment of shared understanding.
Then, as the tension eased, the three adventurers finally took a breath and sat more comfortably.
They introduced themselves properly this time. Joran, the heavy-voiced warrior with a sharp glare but steady hands.Garron, older, broader, the kind of man who'd taken more beatings than he gave but never stopped swinging. And Vin, the youngest, a mage whose quick mind and keen senses kept them alive more than once.
They spoke briefly, without flourish. There was no need for long speeches. But the names settled something — turned strangers into comrades, at least for now.
"He set this up," Joran continued. "The trail, the ruins, the timing. He wanted us to clash with the dragon. And now that we've survived… he'll be hunting us."
Everyone was quiet.
"We don't have much time," said Soren, his voice low and steady. "Rest while you can. Heal whatever can be healed. Because next time, he won't rely on that monster to kill us."
For a moment, there was only silence — the ragged breaths of the wounded, the occasional drip of water echoing from deeper within the cavern.
Then came the sound.
Not wind. Not stone falling.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate. And not alone.
Vin reached for his weapon. Garron cursed under his breath. Even wounded, all of them reacted at once.
But Soren raised a hand, tilting his head toward the sound.
"...No. This presence... it's not him."
From the shadows emerged two figures. One tall, cloaked in a traveler's coat, his posture sharp — almost military. The other, slimmer, her gait fluid, measured — noble, even.
A faint breeze stirred from the cave's mouth, lifting the edge of her hood just enough to reveal the soft outline of her face.
Soren recognized her perfume before her voice.
"Quite the trouble you've walked into, Mister Noctis," she said, stepping into the torchlight. Her tone was cool, yet tinged with amusement. "I didn't expect we'd meet again this soon."
Her companion — a silent shadow with a blade across his back and the stare of a trained killer — stood just behind her, ever watchful.
The Howlspire adventurers stared, too stunned to speak.
Soren's gaze settled on her face.
Elianne Rosavelle.