CHAPTER 463: DRACONIC ESSENCE (1)

Then came the first sign of disturbance.

A scent, metallic, sharp, almost burnt. Lindarion lifted a hand for silence. The soldiers halted instantly. Even the air seemed to pause.

They moved carefully toward the source, and as the foliage thinned, the trees opened into a hollow glade. In its center lay a crater, not large, but unnatural. The soil had melted into black glass, and at its heart pulsed a golden ember no larger than a coin.

Ashwing hissed softly. "Draconic essence again."

Lindarion approached, the ground crunching faintly beneath his boots. The ember pulsed faintly in response to his presence.

The [System] flickered.

[Energy Signature: Ancient Draconic Residue.]

[Stabilized. Contained.]

[Possible origin: Heart Fragment.]

Nysha’s eyes widened. "A heart fragment? You mean—"

"Yes," Lindarion said quietly. "What’s left when a dragon dies without returning to its plane."

The ember throbbed again, and the moment he reached toward it, visions flickered through his mind, mountains aflame, wings like continents unfolding beneath storms, and then a scream that tore the sky apart.

He drew back sharply, breathing hard.

Nysha stepped closer, concern flickering across her normally unreadable expression. "What did you see?"

"The end of something," he said. "But not its death."

He turned toward Ashwing. "This fragment didn’t fall here. It was brought."

Ashwing blinked. "Brought by who?"

Lindarion’s gaze hardened. "Whoever is calling the roots to awaken."

They left the crater behind, but the forest around them began to change. The further south they went, the more twisted the trees became.

Their bark glistened as if coated in faint golden sap, and the hum beneath the soil grew louder. The roots here didn’t merely pulse, they breathed.

When night came, it did not bring darkness. The ground glowed from below, lines of light forming intricate runes that spread outward like veins of molten gold.

The soldiers grew restless. Even Nysha’s usual calm was taut, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade.

Then came the sound.

A low groan, deep, resonant, almost human, but layered with something vast. The earth trembled faintly beneath their feet.

Vareth approached, his voice tight. "Prince, what, what is that?"

Lindarion didn’t answer at first. He crouched and pressed his hand to the soil. The warmth there was gone. What remained was... movement. The rhythm of something alive far below.

He rose slowly. "It’s breathing."

Nysha’s jaw tightened. "You said that yesterday."

"I was wrong," he murmured. "Yesterday, it dreamed. Now, it’s waking."

Before he could say more, the forest erupted in light.

The golden veins beneath the soil flared, and the roots around them shifted, rising like serpents. Soldiers cried out, drawing weapons, but Lindarion shouted, "Hold your ground!", and his voice alone stilled the chaos.

He reached for the sword at his side, the shadows along its edge alive with restrained power.

The air tore open in front of him. Not in flame or thunder, but in sound. A whisper so deep it seemed to vibrate through bone.

"You carry the breath of the tree."

Every leaf shivered. The soldiers froze. Even Ashwing’s wings flared wide, his pupils narrowing to slits.

Lindarion didn’t move. "And who speaks?"

The voice came again, layered, ageless. "The roots remember. The blood of the old flame stirs in you."

Light gathered between the roots, forming a figure, not flesh, not shadow, but a fusion of both.

A tall shape, draped in molten gold and faint silver threads, its face obscured by a mask of amber. Its presence radiated calm and awe, the weight of centuries folded into a single moment.

Nysha whispered, "A guardian?"

Lindarion’s tone was steady. "No. A remnant."

The being inclined its head. "I was made when the dragons fell and the roots drank their ash. I am the breath between worlds, the keeper of the sleeping flame."

Lindarion took a step forward, golden irises glowing faintly. "If you are the keeper, then you know who disturbs the flow. Who calls the roots to wake."

The figure’s mask tilted slightly, and the air trembled with its answer. "The one who walks between death and life. The child of the unbroken oath. She seeks to free the sleeping gods."

Nysha’s eyes widened. "Maeven."

Lindarion’s voice dropped to a low whisper. "Of course. She would try to awaken them... the old dragons beneath the world. She wants their power to challenge the divine."

The remnant’s form flickered, fading like light through smoke. "You cannot stop what is bound to rise. But you can choose what wakes first."

Before Lindarion could speak, the golden light surged once more, rushing into his chest like a breath of fire. The force knocked him backward, Ashwing darted to steady him, wings flaring, but he stayed upright, teeth clenched as raw draconic mana coursed through him.

When the glow faded, the glade fell silent again. The remnant was gone.

Lindarion straightened slowly, his breath fogging faintly in the warm air. The soil beneath his boots pulsed once, then steadied.

Nysha stepped closer, her eyes sharp. "What did it do to you?"

He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint hum of power beneath his skin, gold, deep, and resonant, like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

"It gave me a fragment," he said quietly. "The Breath of the First Flame."

Ashwing tilted his head, expression unreadable. "That sounds... extremely bad or extremely useful."

Lindarion looked toward the south, where the mist seemed to churn like smoke. "We’ll find out soon enough."

The forest fell still again, but the air carried a new sound, faint, like scales scraping stone far below. The breath beneath the roots was no longer asleep. It was listening.

And in its silence, the prince of Eldorath felt a terrible certainty take root in his chest.

Maeven had already begun to wake the dragons.

The night deepened into something that felt older than darkness. Even the stars above the canopy seemed to dim, their light faltering as if afraid to trespass upon the ancient breath that now stirred beneath the world. The soldiers had long since gone still, their campfire a nervous flicker surrounded by the weight of unseen roots.

Lindarion sat apart from them, on the rise of a root that wound like a sleeping serpent through the clearing. His sword lay across his knees, its dark edge faintly reflecting the light of the fire. Ashwing curled nearby, tail flicking in restless arcs, golden eyes half-lidded but alert.