"We should regroup and attack as a team." The man's voice quavered as he gripped his companion's shoulder, eyes darting nervously toward their target.
Ragnar's muzzle curled upward, fangs gleaming beneath his black fur. His golden eyes swept over the scrambling figures below, wings unfurling slightly in amusement. "Amusing... look at these insects scurrying about as if they stand a chance against me." His claws flexed, obsidian scales catching what little light penetrated the gloom.
Ragnar observed the humans with cold contempt as they raised their weapons against him. These fragile creatures, challenging a being of his magnitude—their arrogance both amused and irritated him. Such foolishness had been repeated throughout centuries, always with the same outcome.
The heroes launched their assault, weapons gleaming with enchantments meant to pierce his hide. Their magic crackled against the oppressive atmosphere of the colosseum, but Ragnar remained unmoved on his obsidian throne, golden eyes tracking their movements with predatory focus.
His nostrils flared, taking in their scent—fear masked by determination, the tang of enchanted steel, the musk of adrenaline. How predictable they were in their desperation. The mage among them cast a spell that hurled blue flames toward him, while the archer loosed arrows that whistled through the air like hungry predators.
Ragnar lifted one massive, clawed hand with deliberate slowness. The flames and arrows froze mid-flight, suspended in the thick air before dissipating into wisps of shadow.
"Is this all?" His voice rumbled through the colosseum, each syllable resonating with ancient power. The sound vibrated through stone and bone alike, causing loose pebbles to dance across the arena floor. "Centuries pass, and still your kind brings the same tired tricks to face me."
He rose from his throne, his full height unfurling as his wings stretched outward, blotting out what little light filtered into the arena. The black fur along his spine bristled, and the golden cracks in his horns pulsed with barely contained energy.
The swordswoman charged forward, her blade a blur of enchanted steel. Brave but foolish. Ragnar's tail lashed out with impossible speed, sweeping her legs from beneath her. She crashed to the ground with a satisfying thud.
"Your predecessors at least understood the gravity of challenging me." He stepped forward, each footfall sending tremors through the colosseum floor. "They came with proper reverence. With fear."
The priest among them began a hurried incantation, golden light spilling from his fingertips. Ragnar tilted his head, momentarily curious. This one's magic felt different—older, drawn from a source he hadn't tasted in some time.
With a sudden surge of irritation, Ragnar closed the distance between them in a single bound, his massive form casting the priest in shadow. The human's eyes widened, prayer dying on his lips as Ragnar's claws hovered inches from his throat.
"I smell the old temples on you. Did they not teach you what happened to the last disciples who stood against me?"
Around them, the rest of the party regrouped, weapons raised in trembling hands. Their determination wavered yet held—something Ragnar found marginally more interesting than their predictable attacks.
He inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. How long had it been since worthy adversaries had entered his domain? Too long, perhaps. The endless cycle of challengers had grown tiresome, each generation believing they would succeed where others had failed.
Ragnar's ember eyes blazed brighter, pupils narrowing to slits as he surveyed the gathered heroes. Perhaps he would toy with them a while longer before ending their futile quest. After all, eternity stretched before him—what was a few moments spent entertaining these brief, fragile lives?
"Come then," he growled, stepping back to give them space. The obsidian scales across his chest caught the dim light as he spread his arms wide in mock invitation. "Show me if your courage amounts to anything more than empty posturing."
The would-be heroes attacked in unison, a desperate coordination that might have impressed Ragnar had he not witnessed similar displays countless times before. The mage conjured chains of blazing light that sought to bind him while the warrior charged with an axe humming with ancient runes. Their priest created a circle of protection, chanting words of power that burned the air.
Ragnar didn't bother to move. The chains of light shattered against his fur like glass, dispersing into motes that drifted harmlessly to the ground. The warrior's axe connected with his scaled chest in a blow that would have cleaved a mountain—and simply stopped, vibrating uselessly against his hide. Ragnar flicked one claw, sending the warrior tumbling backward through the air.
"Is this truly the best your lands could muster?" he asked, voice resonating with genuine disappointment.
A flash of movement caught his peripheral vision. The blonde girl—younger than the others—darted forward with remarkable speed. Her sword traced an arc of brilliant blue light that Ragnar hadn't seen in centuries.
His body reacted before his mind fully processed the threat, twisting sideways as the blade whispered past his shoulder, missing by inches. Interesting. The metal of her blade carried enchantments forged in methods he thought lost to time.
Ragnar's golden eyes narrowed, focusing fully on the girl for the first time. "You wield Dawnmetal," he observed, his tone shifting slightly. "I haven't tasted its bite in three ages."
Serenya didn't respond with words but attacked again, her movements flowing like water. The blade didn't simply cut air—it seemed to carve through the very shadows surrounding him. Ragnar found himself taking a half-step backward, then another as she pressed forward.
Her eyes blazed with determination, unfaltering even under his gaze. Something in her intensity pulled at ancient memories within him—memories of another warrior, another time.
"You fight differently from your companions," Ragnar said, deflecting her blade with a casual swipe of his claws. Yet there was nothing casual about how closely he watched her now. "They fight from fear. You fight from... conviction."
Serenya spun and struck again, her blade trailing light that lingered uncomfortably against Ragnar's vision. This time, he didn't simply avoid—he countered, his massive form moving with surprising grace.
"Tell me, little one," he rumbled as they circled each other, "what conviction drives you to face certain death with such fire?"
"For this world and its people." Her blade flashed toward him, sunlight catching its edge as she lunged forward. The Dawnmetal whistled through air, only to meet his scaled forearm. The impact jarred through her bones as her attack glanced harmlessly away.
Ragnar's lips curled back, revealing gleaming fangs behind his dark fur. Golden eyes studied her with predatory curiosity. "You truly are an... intriguing creature," he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder.
Ragnar's patience evaporated like morning dew under a scorching sun. These self-proclaimed heroes had wasted enough of his time with their pitiful display. Power surged through his veins, ancient and terrible, as he called to the shadows that were his to command.
"Enough games," he growled, his voice carrying the weight of mountains.
The darkness responded eagerly, coalescing around his clawed hands before slithering across the arena floor. The shadows moved with predatory intent, sentient extensions of his will. The burly axe-wielder, still recovering from his earlier fall, saw the approaching darkness too late. He opened his mouth to scream as the shadows engulfed him completely, his silhouette visible for just a moment before disappearing altogether.
The mage frantically traced sigils in the air, light blooming between her fingertips. "Aegis of the—"
Ragnar closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, massive talons slicing through her hastily constructed barrier as if it were gossamer. The sound of bone and flesh yielding beneath his claws was sickeningly familiar. He discarded her broken form without a second glance.
The priest's prayer turned to a strangled gasp as Ragnar's tail whipped around, catching him mid-incantation. The impact sent him flying against the colosseum wall with a wet crack that echoed through the arena.
A throwing knife whistled past Ragnar's ear—the rogue's last desperate attack. The dragon-king turned, almost lazily, fixing the human with a molten gaze. The rogue's eyes widened in terror as Ragnar's massive jaws opened, releasing a focused burst of shadow-flame that consumed him where he stood.
In less than thirty heartbeats, the arena fell silent. Blood pooled across ancient stones, mingling with the remnants of failed magics and broken weapons. The stench of death hung thick in the air, familiar and almost comforting to Ragnar's senses.
Yet one still stood.
Serenya Dawnshield remained on her feet, her blonde hair matted with blood—not her own—and her armor scorched and dented. Her sky-blue eyes blazed with something beyond fear, beyond even the determination he'd noted earlier. Her Dawnmetal blade still gleamed, untarnished by the carnage surrounding them.
Ragnar folded his massive wings behind him, their movement stirring the air like a storm front. He circled her slowly, each step deliberate as he assessed this final challenger. His silence stretched between them, heavy with expectation.
The girl adjusted her grip on the sword, her knuckles white but her stance unwavering. Something about her refusal to break intrigued him—the stubbornness of prey that refused to accept its fate.
Ragnar towered over her, his shadow falling across her face. His golden eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with a predator's calculating interest. He would not speak first. The silence itself was his challenge to her:
Show me why you should live.
The blade flashed, catching Ragnar off guard—not in its speed, but in its effect. A searing pain lanced across his chest as the Dawnmetal cleaved through his obsidian scales. Warm blood, dark and viscous, welled from the wound.
"Water Dragon Stance Seven: Heaven-Splitting Current!"
Her voice rang clear through the arena as her blade traced a perfect arc of golden light. The strike connected with shocking precision, slicing through scales that had turned aside enchanted weapons for millennia. The pain was... novel. Ragnar's golden eyes widened, pupils contracting to thin slits as he felt his own blood trickle down his chest.
Instinct took over. One moment he stood assessing her, the next he materialized before the human girl, moving faster than mortal eyes could track. His claws, honed sharper than any earthly weapon, raked through the air with surgical precision. He severed both her legs at the knees with a single, fluid motion.
The sound of her collapse satisfied something primal within him. Her scream echoed throughout the colosseum, bouncing off ancient stone walls that had absorbed countless such cries before. Blood pooled beneath her fallen form, bright red against the dark floor—yet her fingers still clutched that remarkable sword, knuckles white with determination even as consciousness began to fade from her eyes.
Ragnar knelt beside her, his massive form blocking what little light remained in the arena. He studied her with genuine curiosity, this fragile creature who had accomplished what armies could not.
"Centuries have passed since any being drew my blood," he rumbled, examining the wound on his chest where scales had been cleaved away. The gash wasn't deep, but it burned with unfamiliar magic—the blade had left traces of its power behind. "For this rare achievement, little human, your story will not end here."
Dark energy coalesced around his claws, swirling like liquid shadow before flowing toward Serenya's ruined limbs. The bleeding stopped as the magic enveloped her wounds. Flesh, bone, and sinew began to reconnect—not healing exactly, but suspended in a state between destruction and regeneration. His magic preserved her, halting her march toward death without granting true recovery.
Her eyes, those defiant blue orbs, still burned with hatred and fear even as life ebbed from her body. Such spirit. Such foolish, admirable spirit.
"Sleep," he commanded, pressing one massive talon against her forehead. Her gaze remained defiant for a heartbeat longer before dimming as consciousness fled.
Rising to his full height, Ragnar tasted the air. The scent of death and power hung thick around him, familiar companions throughout his long existence. He extended his consciousness into the shadows, calling forth one of his most loyal servants.
The darkness of the arena floor rippled and parted. A massive serpentine form materialized from the void—the shadow wyrm, its body composed of living darkness, eyes gleaming with the same golden fire as its master's. The creature bowed its head before Ragnar, awaiting command.
"Take her to the prison corridors," Ragnar ordered, gesturing toward Serenya's broken form. "She remains untouched until my return."
The wyrm slithered forward, its body moving with liquid grace. It carefully gathered the unconscious human in its coils, cradling her with surprising gentleness for a creature born of nightmares. With a final, questioning glance at its master, the shadow wyrm sank into the floor, carrying Serenya toward the depths of Somberhold.
Alone in the blood-soaked arena, Ragnar felt the wound on his chest. It still burned—a sensation he had almost forgotten. His form began to change, responding to his will. His already imposing figure expanded, muscles bulging as his wings grew to their full, terrifying span. The obsidian scales covering his body hardened further, becoming a perfect armor against the world.
With a powerful beat of his wings that shook the very foundations of the colosseum, he launched into the air. The ceiling above parted at his approach, stone and shadow yielding to his passage. Against the backdrop of a crimson moon hanging low in the shadow-stained sky, the Harbinger of Destruction vanished into the night, his purpose known only to himself.