Silence. Almost.
Ash drifted in the air like falling prayers. The stench of burned scale and bitter blood clung to the wind, seeping into skin. The arena floor steamed faintly, littered with smoking wounds where dragons had fallen.
One shadow rose. Not flying. Just standing.
The last dragon loomed above the carnage—twice the size of the others, glyphs etched into its hide like birthmarks of older flame. Its scales shimmered with recognition, not rage. It looked at Zcain. Then Nimarza. Then bowed—not in submission, but remembrance.
Nimarza stepped forward. Surgical. Silent. She uncorked a vial—smoke trailing like memory.
The dragon did not flinch. The mist struck its face and spiraled inward. Its limbs locked. Wings twitched. Then stilled. Not from poison. From regret.
She didn't speak. She sang. One soft note. And the air obeyed.
Behind her, Zcain moved. Not to kill. To remember.
A single black thread lifted—vein-dark, rimmed in starlight. It rose like a prayer interrupted, twisting midair into the shape of a spiral. A lullaby. Almost.
The thread hovered. Listening. Then Zcain blinked. And it obeyed.
It didn't strike. It embraced. Then tightened.
The dragon convulsed once. Then collapsed into sand like memory turned to ash. Its heart rose from the dust—still beating, split between forgiveness and ruin.
He caught both pieces. Extended one. A gift. An offering to Nimarza.
She took it without a word.
Ayla's breath caught. He used to give her flower petals when he felt proud. Now he gifts someone else the pieces of gods.
Qaritas's fists curled. Not in rage. In ache.
That unity—the choreography of trust and memory—he didn't have that. Not with his curse. Not even with himself.
The curse stirred. Not with fury. With something softer. Not power. Possibility.
He wanted that connection. Not worship. But belonging.
Part of him whispered: Let me be that clean. But the curse only offered power sharpened by loneliness.
For just a breath, Nimarza didn't move. Not from fear. From memory.
This wasn't her first heart. Just the first one offered instead of taken.
She bowed her head. Then ate it.
So did Zcain.
Qaritas's pulse stuttered. He'd seen sacrifices before. This was worse. This was trust made holy.
He looked at Ayla. She wasn't crying. But the silence inside her pulsed like an open wound.
He wasn't just sharing power. He was rewriting lineage. Refusing every mirror that told him to survive alone.
Qaritas didn't envy the gesture. He mourned the version of himself that had never been taught how to reach like that.
This wasn't alliance. It was rebellion against isolation.
In that moment, Zcain wasn't heir of ruin. He was the boy who remembered how not to be alone.
The blood rain fell harder. He raised his hands to the crowd. Not in victory. In benediction.
Together, they had moved through the field of ruin—Zcain and Nimarza, reaping the remnants.
Their path through the corpses was almost reverent. Zcain's threads pierced ribcages like needles slipping through silk. Hearts rose—some bloated with pride, others shivering with old sorrow. The scent of scorched marrow and copper hung in the air, thick enough to chew. For each offering devoured, the arena pulsed, as if recording each sin not as death—but as scripture.
For every dragon they felled, a heart rose. Some beat with pride, others with shame. But all pulsed with history. Zcain didn't devour them all—some he split, some he offered. Nimarza's hands were stained with memory, not gore. They didn't harvest hearts. They gathered truths. By the time the final dragon stood, they had eaten ten hearts . Maybe more. Enough to rewrite bloodlines. Enough to make the sky remember who held it accountable.
Dragon hearts fell like stars from a ruined sky.
And yet— One shadow remained. Breathing. Watching.
The obsidian didn't crack. It sighed.
As if it had finally seen a god it could worship.
Zcain smiled. Not kindly. But truthfully.
Qaritas saw it first—not in power. In stillness.
This was not a god learning joy. This was a weapon forgetting grief.
He whispered through the bond: "He's not fighting to survive. He's demonstrating."
Ayla didn't speak. But her hands curled. Not in fear. In mourning.
As they walked . Glyph-scaled. Ancient. Jaw cracked. Wing torn. Still standing.
Nimarza stepped forward. Fans gleaming. Etched with memory. Silvered with rage.
She didn't speak. She sang—a single low note.
A vial shattered at its feet. Smoke curled upward. The dragon paused. Held between memory and surrender.
The fans crossed. Then parted. A single slice opened its chest. Not fatal. Just enough to show the heart.
Still beating. Still resisting.
Zcain stepped forward. Not to kill. To remember.
The black thread lifted. Not hungry. Listening.
The dragon's eyes widened. Not in rage. Recognition.
The thread twisted. Forming a broken spiral. A lullaby. Almost.
It didn't strike. It circled. Then tightened.
The dragon convulsed. Then sank. Like a memory surrendering to grief.
Its heart hovered. Zcain caught it. Split it like before, Offering half to Nimarza .
Nimarza accepted the last dragon. As she Bit down. So did he.
Before the crowd could exhale, Zcain raised his hand—and the air answered. Threads laced through
Before the silence could settle, Zcain lifted his hand—and the air split with recognition. Threads pulsed outward, lacing through every fallen dragon. The corpses stirred—not with life, but memory.
They rose into the air like marionettes of consequence. Wings tattered. Eyes hollow. History on display. And then—
He unmade them.
One blink, one breath. Threads curled like razors of forgetting. Bodies crumbled. Scale, claw, bone—all undone. Not as punishment. As closure.
What remained was not ash.
It was silence, As the blood fell like reversed absolution. Not redemption. Remembrance.
The arena didn't cheer. It worshipped.
A single translucent thread rose. Neither red nor black. Not hungry. Just seeking.
It drifted to Ayla. Brushed the air between them.
Like a breath looking for its name.
Qaritas didn't move. Couldn't.
He wondered if his fire could ever reach like that. Softly. Without guilt.
He didn't envy their power. He envied their clarity.
Let me be chosen, the curse whispered. Let me be that clean.
It pulsed. Then vanished.
Not in retreat. In reverence.
Zcain turned. Faced her. Raised two fingers to his chest. Then pointed at Ayla.
Not a lullaby. A sentence.
Not I remember you. But: You waited too long.
Ayla's lips parted. Not to speak. Just to breathe.
If she moved now, it would be war. And mercy hadn't earned its place yet.
Below, Zcain struck.
The bond flared. Reverent. One by one, their thoughts surfaced.
Her fingers twitched. As if the air remembered the lullaby. And waited.
But she didn't sing. Not yet.
The world only understood violence. Lullabies would have to wait.
Qaritas:"He's not just powerful. He's perfect. Designed to unmake gods. But… that thread Ayla wove into him—it's still there. Not erased. Just… waiting."
Cree:"You're not imagining it. I helped shape his soul. I carved joy into him. Laughter. Fire. He used to shine so brightly—Ecayrous once said the light stung."
Hydeius:"He is... the brightest soul I've ever seen. I feel it still. Beneath the blood, the ritual, the silence. It flickers. Not extinguished. Just bound."
Komus:"He never asked for this. Never wanted to rule—he just wanted to be seen. What he's doing down there? It's not conquest. It's theater. A test."
He paused, voice tighter."He's asking: 'Will any of you remember me before I disappear completely?'"
Niraí:"And none of us answered. We bowed to the Hrolyn , for Eon's , but Zcain's actions. This isn't loyalty to Ecayrous—it's gilded exile. That thread that didn't strike? That wasn't hesitation."
She exhaled sharply.That was memory. Rebellion. Her face, etched too deep to burn.
Daviyi voice cracked, barely audible."The black thread—it's not a flaw. It's a failsafe. Ayla's love... encoded. Not broken. Just waiting. Waiting for the one voice that could reach it without fear."
For one breath, he looked not like a god. But a boy trying to remember a song.
And Ayla felt it. Not a memory. A melody.
The obsidian beneath her cracked in a spiral. Not from force. From resonance.
The arena tasted her silence. And smiled.
The lullaby rose in her throat. Not to sing. But to scream.She swallowed it. Like mercy never learned to breathe.
Around her, blood soaked into stone, sticky and warm beneath her boots. The air was wet with it—sweet-metallic, suffocating. Somewhere below, the last heart still pulsed in open air, beating like it hadn't learned how to stop.
The silence cracked—inside her, and beneath her. And the arena... smiled.
And Qaritas thought:
If this is what survived...What did the others become?