I sat on the bed, cross-legged. I placed the egg in my lap, my left hand resting on its cold, obsidian shell. I held Draken in my right, its hilt cold as the void.
I didn't try to wield the sword's power. I didn't try to command it.
That had been my mistake during the first awakening.
This time, I would guide it. I built a bridge in my mind: from the sword, through my own mana core—acting as a filter, a conduit—and out through my left hand into the egg.
I connected the circuit.
"Wake up."
The response was instantaneous and violent.
It wasn't a gentle flow. It was a flood.
"...FOOLISH CHILD..." Drakerlor's ancient, booming voice roared in my mind, not as a whisper, but as a telepathic shockwave. "YOU DARE DRAW UPON MY—... WHAT IS THIS? A PEBBLE? NO... A... KIN? AN ECHO...?"
A torrent of pure, black-violet energy erupted from Draken. It wasn't my mana; it was a deluge of ancient, draconic, abyssal power.
