Thorne dreamed of fire.
In his dream, he was standing on a battlefield, surrounded by burning corpses, by the dead of a thousand battles. The sky was black with smoke, thick with the ashes of kingdoms, with the remains of things that had once been great. The ground was littered with broken swords and shattered shields, with the bones of the dead, with the wreckage of a world that had destroyed itself.
A dragon descended from the smoke, its scales black as night, its eyes burning with golden fire that seemed to see through flesh, to see the soul beneath. It landed before him, the ground shaking with its weight, with the power of something that shouldn't exist, that had defied death itself. And Thorne felt its presence in his mind—ancient, powerful, filled with a sadness that spanned millennia, a grief that went beyond words, beyond understanding.
"You are the last," the dragon spoke, its voice like thunder, like the sound of mountains breaking, of the sky itself tearing open. "The last of my blood. The last hope for Aetheria. The Plague spreads, the dead rise, the Church burns, and you are the only one who can stop it. The only one who carries the fire that can burn the darkness."
"Who are you?" Thorne asked, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of awe, of standing before something that shouldn't exist.
"I am Ignis," the dragon said, the name carrying the weight of a thousand years, of a power that had once ruled the skies. "The Black Flame. The last of the Great Dragons. The others are dead, their bones scattered, their fire gone. But I remain, and my fire remains, and in you, it has found a home. And you are my heir, the last carrier of dragon fire, the last hope for a world that has forgotten what fire can do."
The dragon extended a claw, and black fire flowed from it into Thorne's chest, burning through flesh and bone, finding purchase in his heart. He gasped as the fire filled him, burning away his weakness, his pain, his humanity, cell by cell, drop of blood by drop of blood, changing him into something that could stand against the darkness and not fall.
"Accept the gift," Ignis said, and there was weight in the words, weight that went beyond simple offering, beyond simple gift. "Accept the burden. The dragon blood will make you strong, stronger than any human, stronger than any weapon the Church can forge. But it will also make you a monster. Every time you use it, you lose a piece of yourself, a piece of your humanity. The fire consumes, and it feeds on what it consumes. Eventually, there will be nothing left but the dragon. You will become fire, and fire knows nothing but burning."
"I don't care," Thorne said, and there was truth in his words, truth that came from seven years of running, of hiding, of losing everything. "I'll do whatever it takes to stop the Plague. I'll do whatever it takes to destroy the darkness. If becoming a monster is the price, I'll pay it. If losing my humanity is the cost, I'll pay it. The world is dying, and I'm the only one who can save it. That's enough."
"Then wake," Ignis said, and there was finality in the voice, a certainty that came from too many years of knowing, of remembering. "Wake and fight. The darkness is coming, and only fire can stop it. Only you can carry the fire."
The dragon breathed fire on him, and Thorne screamed as he burned, as the fire consumed him, changed him, destroyed everything he had been and made him something new.
He woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed, his movements desperate, clumsy. His entire body was burning, but not with pain—with power. With the heat of transformation, with the fire that was changing him, cell by cell, drop of blood by drop of blood. The wound in his side was gone, not even a scar remaining, the poison burned away by dragon fire, the curse destroyed by power that shouldn't exist. His skin felt harder, stronger, like metal beneath the flesh, and when he looked at his hands, he saw faint black scales beneath the surface, like shadows of something that was trying to emerge.
"Thorne?" Lyra's voice from beside him, tight with fear, with the sight of death shadows that had changed, that had shifted, that showed something new.
He turned to look at her, and she gasped. His right eye was burning with golden light, brighter and hotter than it had ever been, and when he opened his mouth, he could see that his teeth had sharpened, almost like fangs, like the teeth of something that wasn't human, that had never been human.
"What happened to you?" Lyra asked, her voice trembling with fear, with the realization that the man she had tried to save was gone, that something else had taken his place.
Thorne looked at his hands, then at the rest of his body, seeing the changes, feeling the differences. "I don't know. I dreamed of a dragon. A black dragon named Ignis. He said... he said I was his heir. He said I was the last of his blood, the last carrier of dragon fire."
Morgana stepped into the room, her movements stopping as she saw him, her eyes widening with the realization of what had happened. "The dragon blood has fully awakened. You're not just carrying it anymore—you've become it. The fire is part of you now, part of your blood, part of your soul. You're not human anymore, Thorne. You're something new."
She walked to him and placed a hand on his chest, closing her eyes, focusing her will, her magic. "Your heart beats with dragon fire now. Your blood burns with ancient power. You're stronger than any human, faster than any horse, tougher than any steel. But you're also less human. The fire consumes, and it's consuming you. Every time you use it, you lose a piece of yourself. Eventually, there will be nothing left but the dragon."
"What does that mean?" Thorne asked, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of fear, of the realization that he had lost something he could never get back.
"It means every time you use the dragon fire, you die a little," Morgana said, and there was gentleness in her voice, gentleness that came from too many years of knowing, of watching. "Eventually, you'll become a dragon completely. Mindless. Destructive. A monster that knows nothing but burning, that cares for nothing but fire. The humanity will be gone, consumed by the fire that makes you strong."
Thorne was silent for a long moment, his mind racing with implications he didn't want to face, with the realization of what he had become, of what he was losing. Then he said, "If that's the price of stopping the Plague, I'll pay it. The world is dying, and I'm the only one who can save it. If becoming a monster is the cost, I'll pay it. If losing my humanity is the price, I'll pay it."
"There might be another way," Morgana said, and there was hope in her voice, hope that came from too many years of knowing, of remembering. She walked to a shelf and pulled out a small silver amulet, the metal warm with age, the gem at its center glowing with faint light, with power that had slept for a long time. "This was created by the last Dragon Lord, the one who destroyed Morthos a thousand years ago. It's a binding amulet. It can help you control the dragon blood, can help you keep your humanity, can slow the fire's consumption."
She handed it to Thorne, the metal warm in his hand, the gem pulsing with light, with power that recognized him. "But it's not a permanent solution. It will slow the transformation, but not stop it. The fire is too strong, the dragon blood too ancient. To truly stop it, you need to destroy the source of the dragon blood's curse. You need to destroy what makes the fire consume."
"Which is what?"
"The Plague itself," Morgana said, and there was weight in her words, weight that went beyond simple statement, beyond simple fact. "The Iron Plague was created by dragon blood, twisted by forbidden magic, shaped by rituals that should have been forgotten. Morthos created it, using dragon fire as fuel, using death as form. If you can destroy the Plague's source, if you can destroy what powers it, you can free yourself from the curse. You can stop the transformation. You can keep your humanity."
Thorne clenched the amulet in his hand, the metal warm against his palm, the gem pulsing with light, with hope. "Where is the source?"
"I don't know," Morgana said, and there was frustration in her voice, frustration that came from too many years of not knowing, of not being able to stop what was coming. "But I know someone who might. The Oracle of the East. She can see the threads of fate, the connections between all things, the patterns that bind the world together. If anyone knows where the Plague came from, where its source is hidden, it's her."
"Where is she?"
"In the Eastern Kingdoms," Morgana said, her voice carrying the weight of distance, of the journey ahead. "Beyond the Desert of Ashes, beyond the lands where the Plague has already consumed everything. It's a long journey, and the road is dangerous. The dead are everywhere, the Church is hunting, the darkness is gathering. But it's the only way. The only hope."
Thorne stood up, testing his new strength, feeling the power that flowed through his veins, the fire that burned in his blood. He felt lighter, faster, more alive than he ever had before, as if he had been asleep for twenty-six years and was finally waking up. The dragon blood sang in his veins, eager to be used, hungry for the darkness it could burn.
"Then we go," he said, and there was determination in his voice, determination that came from acceptance, from knowing what had to be done. "We find the Oracle, and we find the source of the Plague. We destroy what powers it, and we end this."
Lyra stood beside him, her small frame defiant, her silver light beginning to glow around her wrists like captured starlight. "We?"
"You don't have to come," Thorne said, and there was gentleness in his voice, gentleness that came from caring, from the fear of losing something he had just found. "This will be dangerous. More dangerous than anything you've ever faced. The dead are everywhere, the Church is hunting, the darkness is gathering. You could die. You could be burned. You could lose everything."
"I'm already being hunted by the Church," Lyra said, and there was determination in her voice, determination that came from acceptance, from knowing there was no going back. "And I saw the Death Knight controlling the dead. I saw Morthos. This is my fight too. The darkness is coming for all of us, and I won't hide while the world dies."
Morgana smiled faintly, the expression foreign on her face, unused after too many years of knowing, of watching. "The dragon blood and the silver magic. Together, you might actually have a chance. The fire and the light, burning together, might be strong enough to stop the darkness."
She walked to a chest and pulled out a sword wrapped in black cloth, the fabric thick with age, the blade beneath carrying the weight of power, of something that had once been great. "This belonged to the last Dragon Lord, the one who destroyed Morthos a thousand years ago. It's called Dawnbreaker. It will respond to your dragon blood, will feed on the fire that burns in your veins. It's the only weapon that can harm the dead, that can hurt the darkness."
Thorne unwrapped the sword, the cloth falling away to reveal a blade of black metal, the edge sharp enough to cut through flesh, through bone, through hope itself. The blade was black as night, but when he held it, golden light ran along its edge, responding to the dragon fire that burned in his veins. It felt perfect in his hand, like an extension of his arm, like a part of him that had been missing and was now whole.
"Thank you," he said, and there was gratitude in his voice, gratitude that came from knowing he had been given something he couldn't repay, something that would change everything.
"Don't thank me yet," Morgana said, and there was warning in her voice, warning that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing what came next. "The journey is just beginning. And the Plague is only the start of what's coming. Morthos has returned, and he's not just commanding the dead. He's building an army. An army that will sweep across Aetheria and leave nothing but ashes. The darkness is waking up, and this time, there may be no one left to stop it."
She looked toward the eastern horizon, her expression grim, carrying the weight of too many years of knowing, of seeing what was coming. "Morthos has returned. And if he's truly the Death King, then he's not just commanding the dead. He's raising the Great Dragons. He's finding their bones, calling their fire back from the corners of the world. When he has enough Death Dragons, he'll sweep across Aetheria and destroy everything. The living will become the dead, and the dead will serve him forever."
Thorne raised Dawnbreaker, black fire trailing from the blade, the power that shouldn't exist responding to his will, feeding on the dragon fire that burned in his veins. "Then we'll stop him. We'll find the Oracle, and we'll find the source of the Plague. We'll destroy what powers it, and we'll end this. Whatever it takes."
And Lyra knew, with a certainty that went beyond her sight, beyond her magic, that the path ahead led only to darkness, to battles that would destroy everything, to a war that would consume the world.