Morning did not come with light.
It came with pain.
Aldrich woke to it—not suddenly, not violently—but the way a tide returns, inch by inch, reclaiming everything it had left behind. His body lay half-buried in dirt and ash, breath shallow, chest barely rising. Every muscle felt swollen, overworked past failure. His back burned where the sword-scar from the Varkonn still hadn't fully closed. His hands were stiff, fingers reluctant to move.
For a moment, he did not open his eyes.
He listened.
The forest was silent again.
Not the tense silence of waiting prey—but the deep, ancient quiet of something that had accepted the outcome of a night long past.
Then he heard it.
Breathing.
Not close.
Not far.
Measured. Heavy. Present.
Aldrich opened his eyes.
The dragon had not left.
It rested near the ridge, body coiled loosely, head lowered but not touching the ground. One wing lay partially unfurled, the torn membrane stiff with dried blood. Its chest rose and fell slower now, deeper. The wounds Aldrich had carved over three days had changed the creature's posture. It no longer held itself like a ruler of the land.
It held itself like a veteran.
Aldrich rolled onto his side and groaned softly.
His katana lay inches from his hand.
He reached for it.
His arm trembled halfway there.
He forced it down.
The blade slid into his grip, familiar and grounding, the last constant left to him.
He pushed himself up.
Knees first.
Then one foot.
Then both.
His body protested with everything it had left. Muscles seized. Vision blurred. For a brief, dangerous moment, he thought he might pass out again.
He didn't.
He stood.
Across the clearing, the dragon lifted its head.
Slowly.
Not in alarm.
In acknowledgement.
Aldrich straightened his spine, though it sent pain flashing through his ribs. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse but clear.
"Last day," he said.
The dragon did not roar.
It rose.
Not with explosive force—but with weight. Each movement deliberate, controlled, respectful of its own injuries. When it stood fully, its shadow stretched across the clearing, swallowing Aldrich in darkness.
The air thickened.
Not with heat.
With gravity.
This was no longer a test of survival.
This was a decision.
The dragon moved first—but not as it had before.
No reckless charges.
No crushing advances.
It circled.
Aldrich mirrored it.
They moved around the clearing like two old warriors measuring distance, reading breath, watching shoulders and stance. Aldrich adjusted his footing subtly, shifting weight to protect his injured leg. The dragon favored one side now, its torn wing limiting sudden turns.
They had learned each other.
And that knowledge made this moment more dangerous than any before it.
The dragon lunged.
Not forward—
Down.
Its head snapped toward the ground in front of Aldrich, jaws slamming shut where his legs had been. Aldrich jumped back, but the dragon's tail followed instantly, sweeping low.
Aldrich leapt again.
Too slow.
The tail caught him midair and hurled him sideways. He struck the ground hard, rolling twice before stopping. Pain flared white-hot across his back. His vision dimmed.
He forced himself up immediately.
No rest now.
The dragon pressed, claws striking in controlled arcs, forcing Aldrich backward. He parried where he could, dodged where he couldn't, each movement costing him more than the last.
He waited.
For the opening.
The dragon exhaled fire.
Short.
Focused.
Aldrich ran into it.
Not recklessly—precisely.
He cut through the edge again, skin burning, lungs screaming, then launched himself upward using the dragon's own forelimb as a step.
He reached the neck.
Both hands on the hilt.
He drove the blade in.
Deep.
Deeper than before.
The dragon roared—not in fury, but in pain earned honestly. It slammed Aldrich into the ground with its head, crushing him beneath sheer weight.
Something gave.
Aldrich screamed.
Not in fear.
In defiance.
He twisted, rolled, and tore the blade free, blood spraying across his arms and face. He staggered back, barely staying upright.
The dragon recoiled, blood pouring freely now.
They stood apart.
Both breathing hard.
Both wounded beyond what either had endured in centuries—if not lifetimes.
Aldrich planted his feet.
His arms shook violently.
His vision blurred at the edges.
But his grip on the katana did not loosen.
"This is as far as it goes," he said quietly.
The dragon stared at him.
Long.
Then—slowly—it lowered its head.
Not in submission.
In recognition.
Aldrich felt it then.
Not triumph.
Not victory.
Understanding.
He lowered his blade.
The dragon stepped back.
Once.
Twice.
Then it turned and moved toward the ridge, settling once more near the stone, blood marking its path. It did not flee. It did not attack again.
It accepted the outcome.
Aldrich collapsed to one knee, then both.
His body finally gave in, muscles locking, breath ragged and shallow. He leaned on his blade to stay upright, rain beginning to fall softly through the canopy above.
Cool.
Clean.
Washing blood from the earth.
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Not madly.
A tired sound—raw and real.
"Guess…" he breathed, staring at the ground, "we're both still here."
The dragon did not move.
Rain fell harder now.
Aldrich remained kneeling, head bowed, katana planted before him, rain soaking his hair and skin, blood thinning and running into the dirt.
He had not slain the dragon.
But he had crossed the line.
From warrior—
To something forged only once in a generation.
And Hollowdene knew it.
The forest accepted it.