The forest stretched endless under a sky of smoke. Andrew stumbled through it, his once-proud armor cracked and rusted, his blade dulled from battles that had left only scars in his memory. He had fled when Kayla fell, when the corrupted goddess who promised him power was shattered by Andy and Nia's relentless Bond. In that moment, his envy had twisted into something darker: shame.
Now, far from Everhart and far from Solaris, he wandered. Not as knight, not as noble, but as prey hunted by his own thoughts. Each night, he heard echoes of Kayla's last scream, the brilliance of her false divinity tearing apart, and the sight of Andy—his rival, his shadow—standing victorious beside Nia. The image cut him deeper than any sword.
But the forest was not silent.
At dusk, the trees burned with phantom light, fire that did not consume. Whispers coiled through the branches, voices that were not his. They promised strength. They promised vengeance. Andrew's hands trembled as he reached for the ash drifting between the leaves. It clung to his skin like oil, seeping into his veins.
"You lost because you were weak," the voice said, not Kayla's but something older, heavier, resonating with the cry of wings. "But weakness is only another chain to break. Serve, and your chains burn away."
Andrew gasped, clutching his chest. Golden veins, faint like Andy's Dragon blood, flickered across his arms—but darker, threaded with black flame. He fell to his knees, torn between fear and desire.
"I… I won't be second," he whispered hoarsely. "Never again."
The fire within him pulsed, and for a heartbeat, his shadow stretched into the shape of wings.
Far away, in Solaris, every shrine flickered as if acknowledging a new spark. Ashen stirred in his cavern, his molten eyes opening with hunger.
A corrupted thread had been woven.
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