The chamber was a perfect circle, vast enough that its far edges faded into shadow, despite the light emanating from its centre.

  The domed ceiling soared impossibly high, supported by seven obsidian pillars arranged in a heptagon around the rooms perimeter. Each pillar etched with scenes that shifted and changed as if alive – battles, rituals and ancient magic.

  At the chambers centre stood a raised dais of white stone, upon which rested could only be Vallen’s vault.

  A cube of solid darkness, its edges defying perception warping the light around it.

  Concentric rings of runes encircled the dais, pulsing with a cold blue light that cast eerie shadows across the faces of the surviving teams.

  Tavalor’s group stood at one point of the heptagon – himself, Emberfist and Luneth forming a tight unit, weapons ready.

  Across from them the Starlight Twins had taken up a position, their once-perfect synchronicity disrupted by Mira’s injuries. Lyra kept her sister close, their crystalline armor dulled and cracked in places but still gleaming with elven magic.

  Kethar and his two remaining Solaran guards formed another point, their silver amour stained with blood and grime. The northern warrior’s face was a mask of grim determination, his massive blade held ready despite the visible exhaustion in his stance.

  Then there was Dorian’s team. Four members, golden armour pristine and unmarred, as if they had strolled through the dungeon’s trials rather than battled through them. They stood with a casual confidence, Dorian himself wearing a smirk that seemed strangely fixed on his face.

  ‘Eleven survivors’ Emberfist muttered, her eyes scanning the chamber. ‘Out of how many?’

  ‘Not for long,’ Luneth replied quietly, her gaze fixed on the shadows gathering at the edges of the room. They seeped from the walls like living ink, forming a writhing barrier between the teams and the seven archways they had entered through.

  Vallen’s spectral form flickered above the vault, his expression unreadable. ‘The final trial begins,’ he announced, voice reverberating through the chamber. ‘Only one may claim the key.’

  An elimination trial? Thought Tavalor.

  The shadows surged forwards without warning—a wave of darkness that moved with terrible purpose. They no longer resembled the formless tendrils from earlier encounters. These shadows had shape, substance, wielding weapons of crystallized darkness that gleamed with malevolent light.

  ‘Form up!’ Kethar called, his voice cutting through the sudden chaos. ‘Back to back!’

  Survival instinct overcame rivalry. The teams shifted, forming a rough circle facing outward, their backs to the central dais.

  Kethar's massive blade sliced through the first shadow to reach them, its form dissolving into mist only to reform seconds later, stronger and more defined.

  The Starlight Twins moved as one unit despite Mira's injury, their blades leaving trails of silver light through the darkness. Where they struck, the shadows briefly retreated, hissing like water on hot stone.

  ‘Light,’ Lyra called out, ‘They're vulnerable to pure light!’

  Emberfist's gauntlets flared in response, flames extending into whips that cut wide arcs through the advancing horde. ‘Then let's give them light!’

  The shadows pressed inward, endless in their assault. For every one dispersed, three more formed from the darkness at the chamber's edge. They attacked in waves, testing defences, probing for weakness, growing smarter with each successive assault.

  Luneth darted between attackers, her daggers finding vulnerable points where shadow joined shadow. ‘They're trying to separate us,’ she warned, narrowly avoiding a clawed hand that reached for her throat.

  Tavalor noticed it too—the strategy behind what had seemed like mindless aggression. The shadows were indeed trying to isolate individuals, to break the defensive circle. And they were succeeding.

  The gap between Kethar's group and the Starlight Twins was widening as they were forced back by relentless pressure.

  ‘Close ranks!’ he shouted, but his voice was lost in the din of battle.

  A shadow warrior, larger than the others, launched itself at the gap. One of Kethar's guards moved to intercept it, but too slowly.

  The shadow's blade—now solid enough to reflect light—pierced the guard's armor with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, his body convulsing as darkness spread from the wound, consuming him from within.

  Within seconds, he collapsed—not into death, but into shadow itself, his form dissolving into the greater darkness. The shadow that had struck him grew, becoming more substantial, its features shifting to incorporate aspects of its victim.

  ‘Gods above,’ whispered Emberfist, momentarily stunned by the transformation.

  Dorian's team, meanwhile, fought with uncanny precision. Their movements were too perfect, their coordination flawless despite the chaos. Dorian himself wielded twin swords of strange golden metal that seemed to cut through shadow with unusual effectiveness.

  ‘Something's not right with them,’ Luneth muttered, appearing at Tavalor's side between strikes. ‘Have you noticed? They don't breathe hard. They don't sweat. They don't bleed.’

  Tavalor had noticed. His [Dragon Sight] revealed what the others couldn't see—a faint distortion around Dorian's team, like heat shimmer over desert sand. ‘They're not what they appear to be,’ he agreed, deflecting a shadow blade with his arm.

  The battle intensified as the shadows pressed their advantage. The defensive circle contracted further, forcing the survivors closer together. The Starlight Twins found themselves isolated, cut off from the main group by a wall of shadow warriors.

  ‘Lyra!’ Mira called out as a shadow blade sliced through her already-damaged armor. Light flared from the wound—not blood, but pure energy leaking from her crystalline form.

  Lyra responded with a desperate burst of power, a wave of white light pulsing outward from her armor. The nearest shadows dissolved, but the effort cost her. She staggered, momentarily vulnerable, and the shadows pounced.

  The twins stood back to back, surrounded by darkness. Their armor shifted through colours rapidly—defensive patterns activating in chaotic sequence as they fought to maintain their position. But the shadows were adapting, learning to counter each color shift with a corresponding attack pattern.

  ‘We can't hold,’ Kethar shouted from the other side of the chamber, his remaining guard falling to one knee as a shadow blade found its mark.

  The battle was turning against them. The shadows weren't just growing stronger—they were evolving, becoming more intelligent with each passing minute. Their attacks now coordinated perfectly, exploiting weaknesses, countering strengths.

  Luneth was the first to voice what they were all beginning to suspect: ‘This isn't a trial,’ she hissed, ducking under a shadow blade. ‘It's a harvest.’

  The realization spread across the survivors' faces as they fought. They weren't meant to succeed—they were meant to be consumed, to feed the shadows, to make them stronger. The dungeon wasn't testing them; it was using them.

  ‘Then why bring us all to the same chamber?" Emberfist countered, her flames momentarily pushing back the darkness. ‘Why not pick us off separately’

  Tavalor's gaze shifted to Dorian, whose perfect fighting form never faltered, whose smile never slipped. ‘Because someone is pulling the strings,’ he replied. ‘And I think it's time we found out who.’

  A scream cut through the chamber—one of the Starlight Twins had fallen. Mira collapsed to her knees, a shadow blade protruding from her chest. Light poured from the wound, her form beginning to dissolve at the edges.

  Lyra's anguished cry seemed to shake the very foundations of the chamber. Her armor blazed with blinding light as she threw herself at her sister's attackers, all discipline abandoned in favour of raw fury.

  ‘We have to help them!’ Luneth started forward, but Tavalor caught her arm.

  ‘We can't reach them in time,’ he said grimly. ‘And they know it.’

  Indeed, the shadows were already reforming around the fallen twin, absorbing her light, growing stronger. Lyra fought like a demon, her blade cleaving through shadow after shadow, but for each one she dispersed, two more took its place.

  Kethar's group was faring little better. His guard had succumbed to his wounds, leaving the northern warrior alone, his back against one of the obsidian pillars, fighting with the desperate energy of a cornered animal.

  Through it all, Dorian's team maintained their perfect formation, their golden armor unmarred, their movements synchronized with impossible precision. And as Tavalor watched, he caught a flicker—the briefest moment where Dorian's form seemed to shift, revealing something else beneath the golden facade.

  ‘Whatever happens next,’ Tavalor said to Emberfist and Luneth, ‘stay close. This isn't just about surviving the shadows anymore.’

  The battle raged on, the survivors fighting not just for victory, but for the truth buried beneath the dungeon's deceptions—and for their very lives.

  ***

  The chamber shuddered as Lyra fell beside her sister, their synchronized light finally extinguished. The shadows surged inward, pressing the remaining survivors closer to the central dais.

  Kethar fought with the desperation of a doomed man, his blade carving futile arcs through the darkness. Tavalor, Emberfist, and Luneth maintained their tight formation, backs to one another as the horde closed in.

  Only Dorian's team remained untouched, their golden armor gleaming amid the chaos, their movements still inhumanly perfect.

  ‘Enough of this charade,’ Tavalor called out, his voice cutting through the din of battle. ‘Show yourself, Dorian. Or whatever you truly are.’

  The fighting seemed to pause—a moment of unnatural stillness descending over the chamber. The shadows receded slightly, forming a ring around the survivors rather than pressing the attack. Dorian's team lowered their weapons in perfect unison, their heads turning toward him with mechanical precision.

  Dorian's laugh echoed unnaturally, overlapping with itself like multiple voices speaking at once. His golden armor began to ripple, the metal flowing like liquid, reshaping itself around his form.

  ‘Very perceptive,’ he said, his voice distorting. ‘Most don't notice until it's far too late.’

  The facade cracked. Dorian's handsome face split like a porcelain mask, revealing something else beneath—a visage of living gold, features too perfect to be human, eyes that gleamed with ancient intelligence. His companions underwent similar transformations, their forms shifting into golden simulacra of their former selves.

  ‘What are you?’ Emberfist demanded, her gauntlets flaring brighter.

  ‘I am a Watcher,’ the being that had been Dorian replied. His voice reverberated with power, each syllable ringing like struck metal. ‘Or rather, an aspect of one. A fragment given form to accomplish what must be done.’

  Tavalor’s eyes narrowed: ‘The Watchers that Vallen spoke of. The ones who imprisoned magic.’

  ‘The ones who preserved magic,’ the golden being corrected, spreading his arms. The armor continued to flow and reshape, becoming more ornate, more alien. ‘Who saved this realm when the Giants nearly destroyed it. Who constructed order from the ruins of their arrogance.’

  His companions spread out, taking positions at equidistant points around the chamber. The shadows parted for them, subservient rather than hostile.

  ‘The shadows are yours,’ Luneth realized, her daggers lowering slightly. ‘They always were.’

  ‘Tools, nothing more,’ the Watcher confirmed. ‘Necessary for the culling, for the preservation of the system. Every few centuries, those with the potential to disrupt our order emerge. They must be … redirected.’

  Kethar spat blood onto the stone floor: ‘You lured us here. All of us.’

  ‘The dungeon calls to those who would upset the balance. It always has. My kind simply ensures that the most dangerous elements must be removed.’ The Watchers gaze fixed on Tavalor. ‘But you, you are something unexpected. Something that shouldn’t exist in this age.’

  With a gesture from the Watcher, the golden figures at the chamber's perimeter lifted their hands in unison. The floor beneath them illuminated, revealing intricate runic circles that had remained hidden beneath a layer of illusion. The circles flared to life, lines of golden light racing across the stone, connecting to form a complex pattern that encompassed the entire chamber.

  ‘A binding circle,’ Emberfist breathed, recognizing the arcane geometry. ‘He's trapping us.’

  ‘Not all of you,’ the Watcher replied. ‘Just the anomaly.’

  The magic surged upward, golden light forming a dome over the chamber. The circles beneath their feet pulsed, and the stone itself began to warp, creating barriers that separated the survivors from each other. Tavalor found himself pushed toward the central dais by an unseen force, while Emberfist and Luneth were forced back, stone walls erupting between them.

  ‘Tavalor!’ Emberfist shouted, her fists hammering against the magical barrier that now separated them.

  The chamber reconfigured itself around them, the ancient magic responding to the Watcher's will. Within moments, the vast space had been divided into smaller segments, isolating each survivor. Only Tavalor and the golden Watcher remained in the central area, facing each other across the dais that held Vallen's vault.

  ‘I've existed since the founding of this prison-realm,’ the Watcher said, approaching Tavalor with measured steps. ‘I've overseen the purging of countless anomalies—wildborn mages, dimensional interlopers, even the occasional descendant of the Giants. But you...’ He tilted his head, studying Tavalor with unnerving intensity. ‘You're something older. Something that should have been extinct long before we arrived.’

  Tavalor maintained his calm despite the rising pressure in the chamber. The air crackled with magical energy—not just from the Watcher's circles, but from something deeper, something responding to his own presence.

  ‘You know what I am,’ Tavalor said. It wasn't a question.

  ‘I suspect,’ the Watcher replied. ‘The signs are there for those who know how to read them. The impossible magic. The resistance to our structured system. The ancient presence that clings to you like a second skin.’ His golden face twisted into something like a smile. ‘Dragon.’

  The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Somewhere beyond the barriers, Tavalor could hear the sounds of combat—Emberfist and Luneth still fighting, Kethar roaring defiance at unseen enemies. But here, in this central chamber, time seemed to slow.

  ‘Tell me,’ the Watcher continued, circling Tavalor like a predator. ‘How did your kind survive our purge? We were thorough. We had to be. Dragons were the greatest threat to the new order—wild magic incarnate, chaos given form and will.’

  ‘Perhaps you weren't as thorough as you thought,’ Tavalor replied, matching the Watcher's movements, maintaining the distance between them.

  The Watcher's golden eyes narrowed. ‘No matter. The oversight will be corrected today.’

  He struck without warning, faster than mortal eyes could track. A blade of pure golden light formed in his hand, slashing toward Tavalor's throat with lethal precision.

  Tavalor barely managed to dodge, the blade passing close enough to singe his skin. The heat of it was unlike anything he'd felt before—not mere fire, but the concentrated essence of structured magic itself.

  ‘Your reflexes are impressive,’ the Watcher noted, readying another strike. ‘But they won't save you.’

  The next attack came from multiple angles, golden blades materializing in the air around Tavalor. They converged simultaneously, leaving no path of escape. Tavalor raised his arms in a desperate defensive gesture—

  And the blades shattered against his skin.

  The Watcher paused, golden face registering something like surprise. ‘Interesting.’

  Tavalor looked down at his arms. Where the blades had struck, his human disguise had cracked, revealing gleaming black scales beneath—[Ancient Scales], his draconic defence, manifesting physically for the first time since his awakening.

  A wave of pain followed the revelation, his entire body suddenly burning as if from within. The human form he'd maintained for so long was breaking down, unable to contain the draconic power surging in response to the threat.

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  ‘So the dragon emerges,’ the Watcher said, backing away slightly. ‘Good. I prefer honesty in these exchanges.’

  The chamber trembled as Tavalor fell to his knees, his body convulsing. The pain was excruciating—bones shifting, muscle tearing and reforming, his very essence fighting against the constraints of his human shell. He could hear shouts from beyond the barriers—Emberfist calling his name, Luneth crying out in alarm.

  ‘Your companions cannot help you,’ the Watcher said, raising his hand. The golden circle beneath them intensified, the light becoming almost blinding. ‘This binding was designed specifically for your kind, drawn from the oldest templates in our archives. Even at the height of your power, you cannot—’

  His words cut off as Tavalor screamed—a sound that began human but ended as something else entirely. The transformation could no longer be contained. His skin split like a chrysalis, black scales erupting across his body. His frame expanded, growing larger by the second, bones cracking and reforming into a massive, serpentine shape.

  The binding circle flared in response, golden chains of light attempting to restrain the emerging dragon. For a moment, they held, magical energy straining against raw draconic power. The Watcher stepped back, his golden face showing genuine concern for the first time.

  ‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘The binding should—’

  The circle shattered with a sound like a thousand mirrors breaking at once. Golden light exploded outward, blinding in its intensity. The barriers separating the chamber collapsed, stone walls crumbling like sand. The Watcher was thrown backward, his perfect form denting as it struck one of the obsidian pillars.

  The intensity of the energy smashed the other survivors into the wall. Knocking them all out. It was only Tavalor and the Watcher left conscious.

  When the light faded, Tavalor stood transformed. No longer human, not even remotely. A dragon—massive, majestic, terrible in its beauty. Black scales gleamed with golden highlights, catching the light like precious metal.

  Wings unfurled, spanning nearly the width of the chamber. Ruby eyes burned with ancient power, fixing on the Watcher with predatory focus.

  The Watcher rose slowly, his golden form rippling as it repaired itself. ‘So,’ he said, his voice still calm despite the situation. ‘The last dragon reveals itself at last. How fitting that it should happen here, at the heart of Vallen's sanctuary.’

  The dragon that had been Tavalor inhaled deeply, the air in the chamber seeming to rush toward him, drawn into lungs large enough to swallow a man whole.

  ‘You speak of order,’ Tavalor's voice rumbled, deeper now, resonating through the chamber like distant thunder. ‘Of preserving magic. But all I see is a prison. A cage built by those who feared what they couldn't control.’

  The Watcher's golden form brightened, drawing power from the scattered remains of his binding circle. ‘Control is necessary. The alternative is chaos—the same chaos that nearly destroyed this realm when your kind ruled it.’

  ‘Not chaos,’ Tavalor replied. ‘Freedom.’

  The dragon lunged forward with impossible speed, jaws open, claws extended. The Watcher met the attack with a barrier of golden light—the pure essence of structured magic confronting the living embodiment of the wild magic it had sought to contain.

  The collision released a shockwave that shook the foundations of the dungeon. Cracks spread across the chamber's walls and ceiling, ancient stone groaning under the strain of powers never meant to clash in such close proximity.

  Golden light collided with draconic fury, the impact sending shockwaves through the ancient chamber. The Watcher staggered backward, his perfect form denting where Tavalor's massive claws had struck. Confusion flickered across his metallic features—the first genuine emotion he had displayed.

  ‘Impossible,’ the Watcher hissed, his voice distorting. ‘The binding should have contained your power.’

  Tavalor advanced, each step shaking the floor beneath them. His massive form filled the chamber, wings partially extended, ruby eyes blazing with ancient power. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

  ‘You keep using that word,’ Tavalor said, teeth gleaming. ‘Perhaps your archives are incomplete.’

  The Watcher's response was a torrent of golden magic—structured spells woven with mathematical precision, each designed to incapacitate, to bind, to destroy. They struck Tavalor's scales and dissipated like water on hot stone. No effect. Not even a mark.

  The Watcher changed tactics, summoning golden constructs—weapons, shields, even simulacra of legendary beasts. They charged at Tavalor from all directions, moving with impossible speed. Tavalor didn't bother to dodge.

  His tail swept through three constructs, shattering them into motes of light. His claws reduced others to golden dust. Those that managed to strike him simply broke against his scales, leaving him unmarked. With his companions unconscious, he could unleash his full power without restraint or witness.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ the Watcher said, backing away as his arsenal proved ineffective. ‘The system we created – it maintains the balance. Without it magic would consume this realm, just as it nearly did before.’

  Tavalor advanced steadily. ‘It doesn’t matter to me. You shouldn’t have bothered me, I wouldn’t have bothered you.’

  The Watcher's golden face contorted with something like fear. ‘What are you? Not just a dragon—we catalogued every species, every magical lineage. You should not exist.’

  Tavalor didn't answer. Instead, he inhaled deeply, his massive chest expanding. The air in the chamber seemed to rush toward him, drawn into his lungs.

  When he exhaled, it wasn't fire that emerged, but something far more devastating—a beam of concentrated magic, raw and unstructured, the antithesis of the Watcher's ordered power.

  The Watcher raised a golden barrier, pouring all his remaining power into it. The beam struck the shield, and for a moment, they were locked in stalemate—wild magic versus structured defence. Then, with a sound like the world tearing apart, the barrier shattered. The beam caught the Watcher square in the chest, punching through his golden form and into the wall behind him.

  The chamber shuddered violently. Chunks of ceiling began to rain down as ancient supports gave way. The Watcher, his form now riddled with cracks, golden light seeping from the wounds, staggered toward one of the archways.

  ‘This isn't over,’ he gasped, his voice failing. ‘The others will come. The system will be preserved.’

  Tavalor surged forward with impossible speed for a creature his size. One massive claw pinned the Watcher to the stone floor, pressing him into the cracked flagstones.

  ‘Tell your masters,’ Tavalor rumbled, leaning close, ‘leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.’

  The Watcher's golden eyes flickered, the light within them fading. ‘You don't understand what you're doing,’ he whispered. ‘Without the system... chaos…’

  With the last of his strength, the Watcher's form dissolved into liquid gold, slipping between Tavalor's claws and flowing toward the nearest archway. Tavalor gave chase, his massive form somehow navigating the collapsing corridors with fluid grace, but the Watcher was elusive in this new state—flowing through cracks, seeping into the ancient stonework.

  The entire dungeon was coming apart now, the magic that had sustained it for centuries unravelling in the wake of the confrontation. Stone groaned against stone as walls shifted and floors buckled.

  Behind the retreating dragon, the blast zone of his confrontation with the Watcher began to collapse. Before Tavalor pursued the fleeing Watcher further, he paused, looking back at his unconscious companions.

  The Watcher's golden form disappeared into the depths of the dungeon, flowing like liquid metal through cracks too small for Tavalor to follow. The dragon's breath had decimated the chamber behind them, molten stone still dripping from the walls where his raw power had struck. Tavalor roared in frustration, the sound reverberating through the collapsing corridors.

  As the echo of his roar faded, a familiar shimmering appeared in the air before him. Vallen materialized—not the fragmented aspect they had encountered at the entrance, but something more substantial. His ethereal form seemed clearer now, more defined, as if drawing strength from the chaos around them.

  ‘So the last dragon reveals himself at last,’ Vallen said, his voice neither fearful nor awed, but simply curious. ‘I suspected there was something unusual about you from the moment you entered my sanctum.’

  Tavalor's massive form filled the corridor, wings tucked against his sides, ruby eyes glowing in the dim light. ‘You knew?’ he rumbled, his draconic voice sending small tremors through the stone beneath them.

  ‘Not precisely,’ Vallen admitted, moving closer with the fluid grace of one who had no physical form to constrain him. ‘But I sensed an anomaly. Magic that didn't conform to the Watchers' system.’

  The spectral elf circled Tavalor slowly, studying his form with the detached interest of a scholar. ‘The last time I saw a dragon was... well, it must be millennia now. Yet you're different from those I remember. Stronger, somehow. More... elemental.’

  The dungeon shuddered around them, another section collapsing in the distance. Vallen gestured, and a doorway appeared in the wall beside them, previously hidden beneath layers of illusion.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘there isn't much time. Your friends will need you soon, but before that, there are things you should know.’

  Tavalor hesitated, then followed the ethereal figure through the doorway. Beyond lay a small, perfect chamber untouched by the destruction raging through the rest of the dungeon. At its centre stood a pedestal of white stone, upon which rested a simple wooden box.

  ‘My treasury,’ Vallen said with a hint of irony. ‘Not gold or jewels, but something far more valuable—knowledge’

  Tavalor approached cautiously, his massive form somehow fitting comfortably in the space despite its size. As he drew nearer to the pedestal, the box opened of its own accord, revealing nothing but a small crystal sphere that glowed with a soft blue light.

  ‘What is it?’ Tavalor asked.

  Vallen's form flickered slightly. ‘A record. My observations of magic's evolution in this realm.’ His gaze turned to Tavalor, focusing intently on the dragon's chest. ‘But more importantly, I can see them now. Within you. Two [Primordial Gem]s, embedded in your very essence.’

  Tavalor's clawed hand moved instinctively to his chest, where beneath the scales, he could feel the faint pulse of the strange objects Vallen had named.

  ‘One came with you,’ Vallen continued. ‘The meteor that summoned you to this realm. But the other... you claimed it somehow. Absorbed it from another.’

  Images flashed through Tavalor's mind—Mordarath's Stone, the gem that had caused Azure's family so much suffering. The purple light that had streamed from it, flowing into him, becoming part of him.

  ‘The Watchers feared these gems above all else,’ Vallen said. ‘They are fragments of wild magic in its purest form—unbound, untamed, incapable of being controlled by their system. That's why you were able to break the binding circle so easily. Your very nature defies it.’

  The spectral elf moved to the crystal sphere, touching it lightly. Images appeared in the air between them—intricate diagrams showing the evolution of magic systems through the ages.

  ‘Human magic has come far,’ Vallen observed. ‘When the Watchers first established their system, limiting each person to six spells, it seemed like a prison—and it was. But look what humans did with those limitations.’

  The images shifted, showing countless variations of magic circles, each more sophisticated than the last.

  ‘They adapted,’ Vallen continued. ‘Where the ancient systems relied on raw power and innate talent, humans democratized magic. They created precise circles, standardized incantations, reliable results. Even a child could learn, given time and proper instruction.'

  Tavalor watched, fascinated despite himself. ‘But it's still a cage.’

  ‘A cage, yes, but one they've learned to exploit in clever ways.’ Vallen smiled, a hint of pride in his expression. ‘My people—the elves—resisted the new system. We clung to our ancient methods, our connection to wild magic. We thought ourselves superior for it.’

  His form gestured, and the images changed again, showing elven mages performing complex rituals, contrasted with human mages using simple, efficient circles.

  ‘But the humans... they surprised us all. They took the six-spell limitation and turned it into a strength. Their standardized system allowed for unprecedented collaboration, for innovation within strict parameters. Where elven magic remained the domain of the gifted few, human magic became accessible to many.’

  Tavalor tilted his massive head, considering. ‘The structured magic I've seen... it’s not powerful, but there's an efficiency to it. A precision.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Vallen nodded. ‘The original magic—the wild magic that dragons and Giants wielded—was limitless but unpredictable. Beautiful but dangerous. The Watchers' system constrained it severely, but humans found the hidden strengths within those constraints.’

  The images showed a final evolution—modern mages combining circles in ways never intended, creating effects that approached the versatility of wild magic while maintaining the stability of structured systems.

  ‘They learned to combine spells, to layer them, to use them in sequences never imagined by the Watchers. They're still bound by the six-spell limit, but they've stretched those boundaries in ways that even I find impressive.’

  Tavalor absorbed this, feeling a newfound respect for the ingenuity of humans. Their adaptation to such harsh limitations spoke of a resilience he hadn't fully appreciated.

  ‘Why tell me this?’ he asked.

  Vallen's expression grew solemn. ‘Because you represent something the Watchers fear more than anything—the return of wild magic. The freedom to break their rules. But that freedom comes with responsibility.’

  The spectral elf gestured to the collapsing dungeon around them. ‘This is what happens when wild magic collides with structured systems. Chaos. Destruction. The world has adapted to the Watchers' order, built its foundations upon it. To shatter that order completely would bring suffering to millions.’

  Tavalor sighed. ‘I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t care about their prison. So long as they leave me alone. I’ll leave them alone.’

  For the first time. Vallen looked surprised. Then he laughed. ‘You just want to be left alone. But will they leave you alone.’

  A distant rumble shook the chamber, more urgent than before. The dungeon's collapse was accelerating.

  ‘Your friends need you,’ Vallen said, his form beginning to fade. ‘The challenge ahead is greater than you know. The Watcher you faced was merely a fragment, an aspect. The others will come now, drawn by what you've revealed yourself to be.’

  Tavalor rose to his full height, wings shifting restlessly. ‘Let them come.’

  Vallen's final words hung in the air as his form dissipated completely: ‘Remember what I've shown you. The future may depend on it.’

  The chamber began to crumble as Tavalor turned, racing back through the collapsing corridors toward where his companions lay unconscious. He concentrated as he ran, forcing his massive form to contract, scales retreating beneath skin, wings folding into nothingness. The transformation was excruciating, but necessary.

  By the time he reached them, he was human once more—battered and exhausted, but determined to get them all to safety before the dungeon claimed them forever.

  With a final roar that shook the chamber, he concentrated, forcing his massive form to contract, scales retreating beneath skin, wings folding into nothingness. The transformation was excruciating in reverse, but necessary.

  By the time Emberfist, Luneth, and Kethar began to stir, Tavalor was back in his human form, though his clothes were tattered and his skin shimmered strangely in places. The violent explosion of magical energy had kept them unconscious throughout his transformation and battle, leaving them with no memory of what had truly occurred.

  ‘What... happened?’ Luneth murmured, holding her head as she struggled to sit up.

  Tavalor helped her to her feet, his own movements stiff and pained. ‘The Watcher,’ he said simply. ‘I managed to defeat him, but not before he nearly brought the place down on us.’

  Emberfist's eyes were fixed on the massive hole in the chamber wall—a perfect circle melted through solid stone, the edges still glowing with residual heat. ‘You did... that?’

  Tavalor nodded grimly. ‘I had no choice. But we can talk later—this whole place is coming down. We need to move.’

  The three survivors navigated the disintegrating corridors, leaping over chasms that opened beneath their feet, ducking under falling debris. Kethar took the lead, his warrior's instincts guiding them toward what he hoped was an exit. Behind them, the oppressive darkness that had permeated the dungeon was being replaced by a strange, pulsing light—the magic of the place breaking down, returning to its wild state.

  ‘The knowledge,’ Luneth said suddenly, skidding to a halt. ‘Vallen's chamber—the history—we can't let it be lost!’

  Emberfist cursed, flames flaring from her gauntlets in frustration. ‘We don't have time!’

  ‘I've got it,’ Kethar said, patting a leather satchel at his side. ‘Grabbed what I could while you were out. Now move!’

  They pressed on, the dungeon collapsing behind them with increasing speed. The corridors twisted and turned, disorienting them further, but Kethar's sense of direction held true. They emerged into a larger chamber—one they recognized from their entry.

  ‘The canal entrance,’ Luneth said, relief evident in her voice. ‘We're almost out.’

  But the way was blocked. The magical barrier that had allowed them passage through the water now flickered and failed, exposing them to the crushing pressure of the canal above. Water began to seep through cracks in the ceiling, first in droplets, then in steady streams.

  ‘Now what?’ Emberfist demanded, the flames around her hands sputtering as water dripped onto them.

  Tavalor, who had been leading them through the collapsing corridors, turned to face the blocked exit. His eyes glowed momentarily with an inner fire, and he grimaced with concentration. Without warning, he thrust his hands forward, releasing a blast of raw energy that shattered a section of wall to their right, revealing a hidden passage.

  ‘This way,’ he said, his voice hoarse but commanding. ‘I sense an older tunnel network. It should lead us out.’

  Without questioning how he had reappeared or what he had done, the three followed him through the new opening. It led to a narrow tunnel that sloped upward, evidently part of an older structure that predated the dungeon itself. The ceiling continued to crumble around them, water pouring through widening cracks.

  ‘Almost there,’ Tavalor assured them, navigating the tunnel with uncanny certainty. ‘The old sewers connect to this section. They'll lead us out near the docks.’

  The tunnel eventually opened into a larger drainage channel. The air grew less stale, hints of the city above filtering down through grates and pipes. Just as the final sections of the dungeon collapsed behind them, they emerged through a maintenance hatch into a narrow alley in the dockyards district.

  The sudden transition from mortal danger to the mundane sounds of the city was jarring. Gulls cried overhead, merchants shouted their wares along the nearby promenade, and the constant lapping of water against the canals created a soothing backdrop to their ragged breathing.

  ‘We made it,’ Luneth said, disbelief evident in her voice.

  Emberfist stared at Tavalor, questions burning in her eyes. ‘What happened down there? With the Watcher? With you?’

  Tavalor met her gaze steadily. ‘I'll explain everything. But not here. Not now.’

  Kethar nodded in understanding. ‘The city will be buzzing soon enough. Whatever happened down there, the ripples are just beginning.’

  ***

  The aftermath spread through Vallenport like whispers in a still night. Within hours, the city was alive with rumours and speculation. Something had happened beneath the canals—a magical explosion, perhaps, or an ancient ward failing. The waters in certain districts had temporarily receded, then surged back with unusual force. Several buildings near the south docks reported structural damage.

  The Adventurers Guild was flooded with would-be heroes seeking information and opportunity. The Mages Guild closed its doors entirely, its senior members locked in emergency conclave. The nobles retreated to their estates, barricading themselves behind magical wards and armed guards.

  Three days after the incident, Emberfist, Luneth, and Tavalor met in a private room at The Ember's Edge, a tavern far from prying eyes and eager ears. Kethar had departed for the northern territories, carrying copies of the ancient knowledge they had discovered, determined to prepare his people for what might come.

  ‘The city's still in an uproar,’ Luneth reported, sliding into her seat. ‘The Moonwardens are everywhere, questioning anyone who might have witnessed... anything.’

  ‘Let them question,’ Emberfist replied, her voice low. ‘They won't find what they're looking for.’

  Tavalor remained silent, his eyes distant. After their escape, he had finally shared a portion of the truth with them—his unusual connection to ancient magic, his ability to counteract the Watcher's power, the strange energy that had allowed him to defeat a being that should have been beyond his power.

  He hadn’t revealed his true draconic nature, but had told them enough. His companions had taken these partial revelations with surprising calm, though their perception of him had irrevocably changed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Emberfist asked him directly. ‘After... everything.’

  Tavalor flexed his fingers, studying them as if they belonged to someone else. ‘Strange. Like I'm holding something back that wants to break free. The power I had to use... it changed something in me.’

  ‘Whatever happened down there,’ Luneth said firmly, ‘stays between us. You saved our lives. That's what matters.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a stranger—a small, elderly gnome with a weather-beaten face and knowing eyes. He approached their table without invitation, settling into the empty chair as if he belonged there.

  ‘Dorian Crestfall,’ he introduced himself, ignoring their startled expressions. ‘Or rather, that's what most people call me. I believe we have a mutual friend.’

  Emberfist's hands drifted toward her gauntlets. ‘I don't recall us having many friends.’

  The gnome smiled, the expression transforming his wizened face. ‘I heard about the incident beneath the canals. Quite remarkable, by all accounts. A magical confrontation of extraordinary power, yet surprisingly few witnesses.’

  The three exchanged glances, tension evident in their postures.

  ‘What do you want?’ Tavalor asked quietly.

  The gnome waved his hand, forming a barrier.

  ‘To help,’ Crestfall replied simply. ‘What happened beneath Vallenport was just the beginning. The Watcher you defeated was merely an aspect, a fragment of the whole. The others will come now, drawn by the disruption. And they will not be as unprepared as the first.’

  Luneth leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘How do you know about the Watcher?’

  Crestfall's smile widened. ‘Let's just say I've been monitoring the Watchers' activities for a very long time. They believe themselves to be the shepherds of this world, the guardians of order. But their order comes at a price—the suppression of magic's true nature, the imprisonment of those who might challenge their system.’

  He produced a small, glowing crystal from his pocket, placing it on the table. Within its depths, images swirled—a map of some kind, showing lands far beyond Vallenport's boundaries.

  ‘Titanos,’ Crestfall said, tapping the crystal. ‘Not just a new continent, but a return of the old world. The Giants are coming back.’

  ‘Why tell us?’ Emberfist asked, suspicion evident in her tone.

  ‘Because I believe in balance,’ Crestfall replied. ‘The Watchers brought order, yes, but at the cost of freedom. The Giants bring chaos, but with it, creation. Both are necessary. Both are dangerous in excess.’

  He stood, his small frame somehow commanding attention despite his stature. ‘You've seen the truth beneath the surface now. You know what's at stake. When the time comes—and it will come soon—the world will need those who understand both sides of this ancient conflict.’

  With that, Crestfall departed, leaving the crystal on the table between them. The three stared at it, then at each other, the weight of unseen events pressing down upon them.

  ‘So,’ Luneth said eventually, breaking the silence. ‘Titanos.’

  Emberfist's lips curved into a smile that held equal parts excitement and trepidation. ‘Sounds like an adventure.’

  Tavalor remained quiet, his thoughts turning to what the Watcher had said before escaping. The others will come. The system will be preserved. Whatever he truly was—dragon or something more—he had revealed himself as a threat to the established order, and that made him a target.

  ‘We'll need to be prepared,’ he said finally.

  Outside the tavern, rain began to fall on Vallenport's canals, washing away the last visible signs of the dungeon's collapse. But beneath the surface, changes were spreading—wild magic seeping into structured channels, ancient forces stirring after millennia of slumber.

  And somewhere in the shadows between worlds, a golden form was reforming, preparing to deliver a message: A dragon lived.