The sky darkened before noon.
Not by storm clouds, nor by the smoke that perpetually rose from the eastern fields where orcs and goblins massed, but by something far more terrible. A shape blotted out the sun, wings vast as castle walls, scales darker than obsidian with veins of molten fire cracking through them like glowing rivers.
The Ashwing Dracolisk hovered over the war camp, its wings beating slowly, each gust shattering canvas tents and rattling the timbers of watchtowers. Smoke spilled from its nostrils in ribbons that twisted like living things. Its molten eyes burned down upon the men and women of Deerfell's eastern camp, and for a moment, the war ceased to exist.
No clash of swords.
No shouts of orders.
Only silence.
The kind of silence that comes when mortals glimpse something older, grander, and infinitely more dangerous than themselves.
And behind that silence, awe.
At the beast's back, the crimson-and-gold banner of Elarion streamed in the wind like a defiance against the very heavens. Carried high by the towering figure of Angela, its bold crest declared one truth louder than any roar:
This was no wild monster. This was a weapon of the kingdom.
The soldiers froze at their posts, ballistae left unmanned, bowstrings quivering in the hands of archers who no longer remembered how to draw. Adventurers, those who had swaggered only hours ago after surviving skirmishes, shrank back into shadows, eyes wide and throats dry. The scholars, untouched by mud or blade until now, dropped their scrolls and stared in naked disbelief, whispers tearing through their ranks like wildfire.
And the Five Prodigies, who had never bowed to any foe, could only stare.
"By the Seven Thrones…" Malek breathed, his silver hair ruffling in the gale. His voice, usually sharp and controlled, faltered. "That… that's no dracolisk I've ever seen."
Silas's jaw tightened, emerald sigils flaring faintly across his arms as though trying to assure himself he was not powerless. "Impossible," he muttered. "No beast should look like that. Not at that size."
Elera's lips parted, words failing her for once. Selene simply narrowed her eyes, unreadable, though her clenched fists betrayed her unease. Cassian scoffed under his breath, but the sound was brittle, the laugh of a man staring at a precipice.
The ground shook as the beast descended. Slowly, deliberately, it lowered toward the camp gates, its claws carving gouges into the earth, its wings folding like collapsing towers. The heat of it washed over the soldiers nearest the wall, and they staggered back as though standing before a furnace.
Then, from the beast's back, a man rose. His coat was plain, his hair disheveled, his expression calm despite the chaos below. He looked down at the camp as though weighing it in judgment, then cupped his hands around his mouth and let his voice carry like iron across the silence.
"We are mercenaries!" Loid's shout cracked through the stillness like a bell of war. "We request entry to your camp! We come to lend our strength in the war against the orcs!"
The words rang clear, but the stunned silence remained. No one moved. No soldier lifted the bar on the gate. The weight of the beast kept them rooted to the earth like trees in a storm.
From the wall, a grizzled voice finally answered.
"Let them in!" Commander Zayden barked, his cloak snapping in the wind. His scarred face betrayed neither fear nor awe, only the sharp eyes of a man calculating odds.
Another officer spun on him, pale and furious. "Are you mad?!"
Zayden didn't blink. "That fucking beast is at the very least platinum rank—maybe even mythril. If they meant us harm, we'd already be ash." He jabbed a finger toward the descending dracolisk. "The fact we're standing here debating means they're not here to slaughter us. Open. The. Gates."
The officer clenched his jaw, but he knew Zayden was right. With a growl, he waved at the men on the wall. "Open the gates!"
The wooden barricades groaned as they were hauled aside.
The Ashwing Dracolisk's shadow spilled into the camp, swallowing rows of tents whole. Its claws pressed into the soil just beyond the threshold, leaving smoking craters where earth turned glassy from the heat. Slowly, ponderously, it entered the camp.
And the camp parted.
Soldiers shuffled back. Adventurers clutched weapons but dared not draw them. Scholars pulled their robes close, whispering frantically, their voices trembling as they debated whether this was beast, ancient, or omen. The Five Prodigies stood their ground, but their stillness was forced, a performance held together by pride alone.
At the beast's side, Loid dismounted with practiced ease. Angela followed, her massive greatsword sheathed but her towering form making soldiers hesitate to meet her eyes. Selvara glided down next, silent as falling ash, her silver eyes scanning the crowd with predator's calm.
Isolde remained seated on the dracolisk's back, chin lifted imperiously. When Loid glanced back and said, "Stay with it," she crossed her arms and sniffed.
"Fine. Not because you told me, but because it doesn't suit me to mingle with commoners," she declared, though her fingers curled protectively against the beast's scales.
Loid smirked faintly, then strode toward Zayden.
"I'm Loid," he said simply, his voice even. "Leader of this mercenary group. We've come to offer our blades, spells, and… mounts, to the war effort."
Zayden's gaze swept from Loid to Angela, to Selvara, and finally to the dracolisk that loomed over the camp like a living mountain. He rubbed his chin, sighing through his nose.
"So you're the rumored group of diamond-rankers the Guild spoke of," Zayden said. His eyes narrowed. "But you, Loid… you're not recorded anywhere. Why is that?"
Loid's lips quirked into something between a smirk and a grimace. "It's not against the law to refuse stat inspection. Because of that, I'm not officially ranked. But…" He shrugged lightly, casual in the face of hundreds of staring eyes. "…I can guarantee I'm as strong as my comrades."
A silence followed, thick and weighted. Zayden studied him, then glanced back at the dracolisk, which now lay down at the center of the camp, its molten eyes dimming as it exhaled a plume of smoke. Men flinched at every breath, as though each might be their last.
Finally, Zayden spoke. "Then here's my offer. One hundred gold a day for your group. But you'll always be first to the field, first to clash with the enemy. If your dracolisk—" he gestured grimly toward the beast—"brings down a realm break, two thousand gold will be yours."
Loid considered for only a moment before nodding. "Agreed."
"Good." Zayden's voice carried over the murmurs. "Tomorrow, you strike north-east. An orc-goblin encampment festers there. Your team will raze it."
Loid nodded once more. The matter was settled.
---
That night, the camp did not sleep.
The Ashwing Dracolisk curled itself in the center of the grounds, wings folded, eyes glowing faintly like embers beneath a mountain of stone. Every rise and fall of its breath made the earth shift, tents rustle, and men jolt awake. The beast slept soundly, but the camp did not.
Around scattered fires, soldiers whispered. Some spoke of awe, others of fear. Some called it salvation, others doom. Adventurers swore under their breath, more afraid of being shown up than of dying.
And the Five Prodigies watched.
From the shadows of their pavilion, they gazed upon the beast in silence.
Selene's quiet voice broke it first. "What kind of monster is that? The longer I stare, the heavier my chest feels. Like it's pressing down on me."
Malek's eyes stayed locked on the beast. "I don't know. I've read of dracolisk, fought lesser ones even. But this…" He shook his head. "I would not be surprised if its rider claimed it to be an ancient. It feels… wrong, as if it belongs to another age... as if it doesn't belong in this world."
Elera folded her arms, masking unease with sharp words. "Whatever it is, it isn't tamed. Not truly. Look at the way it sleeps, like it's waiting. Coiled. Hungry."
Cassian smirked thinly. "And yet these mercenaries claim it as their own. Hah. Either they're fools, or gods favor them. I'm not sure which offends me more."
Silas, silent until now, clenched his fists. The emerald sigils on his arms flared faintly in rhythm with his pulse. "They'll find themselves tested. Tomorrow, when they fly into battle, we'll see if they are truly diamond… or just ashes waiting to scatter."
The beast exhaled in its sleep, and the prodigies flinched despite themselves.
---
Dawn came.
The horn of muster blew across the camp, soldiers rising in groggy lines. Adventurers strapped armor with shaking hands. Scholars scurried with scrolls, their eyes still darting toward the looming dracolisk at the camp's heart.
Then the beast stirred.
Its eyes opened, twin furnaces blazing. With a low, resonant growl, it unfurled its wings. The sudden gust ripped banners from poles, sent sparks scattering from campfires, and knocked several men flat on their backs.
Angela, Selvara, and Loid mounted swiftly, the banner already in Angela's hand, snapping like thunder in the morning wind.
Loid shouted up at Isolde. "We're going north-east. Burn it all."
Isolde smirked, golden hair whipping in the gale. "Finally, something worthy of our strength."
The Ashwing Dracolisk crouched, then launched itself skyward, its colossal wings driving down with the force of storms. The camp below staggered as one, shielding eyes from wind and ash.
The Five Prodigies stood at the camp's edge, watching as the beast became a silhouette against the rising sun.
Selene whispered what none dared say aloud. "…If that is truly theirs, then we may no longer be the prodigies of this war."
---
About an hour later, as the horizon unfurled beneath them, the goblin camp came into view: a sprawl of crude tents and sharpened stakes, reeking of filth and rot. Fires smoked lazily from cook-pits, unaware of the doom descending from above.
Loid stood on the dracolisk's back, pointing his arm toward the camp. His voice cut sharp through the wind.
"Isolde, command it. Tell Ashwing to unleash everything."
Isolde's eyes blazed with pride and excitement. She leaned forward, pressing her palm to the beast's molten scales. "Do it. Show them the fire that ends armies."
The dracolisk's wings locked. Its body tilted into a steep dive, wind shrieking past its jagged form.
And then—
It stopped, hovering over the goblin camp, a living shadow of fire and stone. Its chest swelled. Its molten cracks brightened until its body looked like a furnace given flesh.
The goblins and orcs below screamed in confusion, in terror, in despair.
The Ashwing Dracolisk opened its jaws.
And the world turned to fire.