The heavy oak door of Elias's private chambers clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the profound silence. He leaned his back against the cold, solid wood, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to banish the image seared onto his retinas: Theron Blackwood's intense amber eyes, the unmistakable vertical slits cutting through the golden light. The phantom heat of the Commander's presence still clung to his skin, an unwelcome reminder of the forbidden resonance that had bound their souls moments before. The silence of his room, usually a sanctuary, now felt oppressive, thick with the weight of heresy.
He was a Cardinal of the Holy Light. He lived and breathed the doctrines of the Church, its laws the bedrock of his existence. And he had just witnessed – no, participated in – something utterly anathema. Dragonborn. The word echoed in the hollow space within him, colder than the marble floors of the infirmary. Theron Blackwood, the Church's Sword, its bastion against darkness, harbored the ancient, volatile blood of creatures relegated to myth and fearful legend. Creatures whispered about in hushed tones, mentioned only in cautionary tales or obscure, often banned, texts as symbols of untamed power and potential catastrophe.
The knowledge was a poison chalice. As a Prince of the Church, his duty was unequivocal: report this abomination immediately. Theron's rank meant nothing against the taint of dragon blood. The Holy Inquisition would descend upon him before dawn. The sentence for such heresy wasn't merely death; it was eradication – a cleansing fire meant to purge the tainted soul and body utterly from the world, a warning etched in ashes. Elias's stomach churned. He could picture it: Theron, broken from his recent injuries, dragged before grim-faced Inquisitors, the accusations hurled, the golden eyes flaring in defiance or despair before being extinguished forever. The image was visceral, sickening.
But another image superimposed itself: Theron taking the full force of a Greater Mawfiend's assault so his men could retreat. The raw, protective fury Elias had felt resonating within him during the healing – not directed outward in destruction, but inward, a shield against oblivion. The profound loneliness that mirrored his own isolation, a chasm beneath the Commander's formidable exterior. And those eyes, in that fleeting moment of lucidity… the confusion, the dawning awareness, the unsettling, magnetic pull.
He saved his men. He serves the Light with unwavering loyalty. Does his blood negate his deeds? His soul? The thought was treasonous, a crack in the bedrock of his faith. Doctrine was clear: the dragon blood was inherently unstable, a conduit for primal chaos, a threat to the divinely ordained order the Church enforced. Its existence alone was a crime against the Light. To harbor knowledge of it, to protect its bearer… that was complicity. A sin that could see Elias stripped of his rank, imprisoned, or worse.
The conflict tore at him. His conscience, meticulously shaped by years of devotion and study, screamed for adherence to the Law. The image of the cleansing pyre was doctrine made manifest. Yet, his heart, the wellspring of the Resonant Light that sought to heal and preserve, recoiled in horror. Handing Theron over felt like committing murder himself. It felt like betraying the profound, terrifying connection that still hummed faintly within his core – a connection forged in the crucible of saving a life, not ending one.
He couldn't stay still. The walls of his chamber seemed to close in, the weight of the secret crushing him. He needed answers. Not the sanitized teachings from the pulpit, but the raw, obscured truths the Church buried. He needed to understand what Theron was, beyond the fearful whispers. He needed to know the true nature of the fire he had touched.
Long after the final prayers had echoed through the Cathedral and the halls lay deserted, Elias moved. He shed his distinctive crimson robes, donning a simple, dark grey tunic and trousers – the unassuming garb of a lowly scribe. He pulled the deep hood of a plain cloak low over his silver-blonde hair. The transformation was complete; Cardinal Elias Vance vanished into the shadows.
The Grand Cathedral's library was a city of knowledge unto itself, vast and labyrinthine. Elias navigated the familiar main aisles with silent footsteps, bypassing the well-lit sections dedicated to approved theology, hagiographies, and sanctioned histories. His destination lay deeper, behind an unmarked, iron-bound door tucked away in a forgotten corner near the oldest stacks. The Restricted Archives.
Few had access. Fewer still sought entry. The air here was colder, damper, thick with the scent of undisturbed dust and slowly decaying parchment. Rows of towering shelves held volumes bound in cracked leather, metal, or even strange, scaled hides Elias dared not contemplate too closely. This was where the Church stored the knowledge it deemed too dangerous, too heretical, or too unsettling for common eyes.
His fingers trembled slightly as he produced a small, intricate key – a relic of his rank and scholarly pursuits, rarely used. The lock turned with a reluctant, grating screech that echoed ominously in the silence. He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him, plunging himself into near-total darkness. A whispered word and a small, contained sphere of Resonant Light, dimmed to a mere candle's glow, sprang to life above his palm, casting long, dancing shadows.
He moved with purpose, guided by fragmented memories of catalogues and whispered rumors. He sought sections labeled "Pre-Church Lore," "Extinct Sapients," "Prohibited Bestiaries." The records were frustratingly sparse, deliberately obscured. References to "Dragonkin," "Scaled Progeny," or "Children of the First Fire" were scattered, often contradictory, and almost always tinged with fear and condemnation.
He found a crumbling scroll, its vellum brittle. The ink was faded, the script archaic:
"…the Blood of the Wyrm is Power Unbound. It flows hot, a forge-fire in the veins. Granting strength beyond mortal ken, resilience that mocks death's touch… Yet it is a wild thing, this power. It answers to Rage, to Fear, to the Primal Urges. Unchecked, it consumes the host, twists the mind, unleashes destruction akin to the beasts of legend they emulate. The Church of the Ascendant Light decrees: such power is anathema to Order. Its bearers are potential vessels of Chaos, threats to the Divine Harmony. Vigilance is paramount. Containment or Cleansing is the sacred duty…"
Another tome, bound in what looked unsettlingly like tarnished brass scales, contained fragmented accounts:
"Record of the Purge of Drakenspire Vale, Year 342 A.L. Manifestations of draconic traits observed in isolated populace: unnatural strength, heat emission, ocular metamorphosis under duress. Deemed irredeemably tainted. Cleansing Fire administered per Canon Law XVII…"
Cleansing Fire. The words burned on the page. Elias traced them with a trembling finger. The scroll spoke of power and peril, the tome spoke only of extermination. The message was clear: Dragon blood was power, yes, but power inherently unstable, prone to catastrophic outbursts. Its bearers were walking catastrophes, their humanity perpetually at risk of being consumed by the ancient fire within. The Church's stance wasn't just doctrine; it was born from fear of the uncontrollable, the primal force that defied its ordered universe. Theron, in their eyes, wasn't a hero; he was a ticking incendiary device, his loyalty and service irrelevant against the potential threat of his blood.
Elias sank onto a dusty wooden stool, the dim light from his palm illuminating the motes dancing in the stale air. The words blurred before his eyes. The righteous certainty of the doctrine warred violently with the living, breathing man he knew. He had felt Theron's core during the resonance. Yes, the power was ancient and terrifyingly potent. Yes, it had reacted violently to the demonic threat and his own invasive light. But he had also felt the iron will clamping down on it, the fierce humanity that directed the Commander's actions – the protection, the duty, the loneliness. Was that control inherent? Or was it a fragile dam destined to break?
The Church's answer was simple: the risk was too great. The potential for devastation outweighed any individual merit. Theron's existence itself was a violation of Canon Law. Reporting him wasn't just his duty; it was the only logical, safe course for the greater good.
But the thought of speaking the words, of condemning Theron to the pyre… it felt like tearing out a part of his own soul. The resonance had created a bond, unwanted and terrifying, but undeniably real. He had touched the dragon's heart, and the dragon's heart, in that moment of shared struggle, had not felt like a monster's. It had felt… fiercely alive, protective, burdened.
He closed the heavy, scaled tome with a soft thud, the dust puffing up like a ghostly sigh. The dim light in his palm flickered, mirroring the turmoil within. He was trapped. Caught between the unyielding shadow of Doctrine, demanding Theron's death, and the fragile, terrifying spark of something else – compassion, connection, a horrifying fascination – that demanded his silence. To speak was to commit murder. To remain silent was to become a heretic, harboring a secret that could ignite a firestorm capable of consuming them both and shaking the Church to its foundations.
The weight of the forbidden knowledge pressed down on him in the suffocating darkness of the archives. He had sought answers, but all he found was a deeper, more terrifying shadow – the shadow of his own impossible choice, cast by the harsh, unforgiving light of Church Law. The path forward was shrouded in smoke, and whichever direction he took, it promised only fire and ruin.