The journey west took them through lands that had once been beautiful, now scarred by the Plague, stained by the corruption that had once been life.
Forests were dead, their trees gray and leafless, their branches reaching like dead fingers toward a sky that had forgotten them. Rivers were black with taint, with the poison of the Plague, with the corruption that had once been water, that had once carried life. Villages were abandoned, their inhabitants either fled or dead, their buildings empty, their streets silent. The Plague was spreading faster now, and the dead roamed freely, like death itself taking form, taking shape, taking the world.
Thorne's dragon blood grew stronger with each passing day, the fire burning hotter in his veins, the scales beneath his skin growing thicker, more visible. He could feel the transformation taking hold—his skin was harder, his senses sharper, his temper shorter, his humanity fading like embers in a fire that wouldn't stop burning. The amulet Morgana had given him helped, the silver metal pulsing with light, with power that pushed back the darkness, that slowed the fire's consumption, but it was a constant battle to keep his humanity, a war he was losing with every passing day.
Lyra's silver magic also grew stronger, the light burning brighter in her blood, the runes on her wrists glowing with power that shouldn't exist. She could now see not just death, not just the shadows that coiled around people like snakes, showing her how they would die, when they would die. She could see the threads of fate that connected all things, the patterns that bound the world together, the web of causality that made every action matter, that made every choice echo through eternity. She could sense the Plague's spread, could feel the darkness gathering in the North, could feel the wrongness that was coming, the horror that waited.
On the evening of the tenth day, they reached the Western Kingdoms.
Once, this had been a land of rolling hills and fertile valleys, of castles and kings, of knights and ladies, of a world that had been worth saving. Now, it was a battlefield. The Church's armies fought the dead in endless war, holy light burning through rotting flesh, steel shattering bone, and the countryside burned. The Plague consumed everything in its path, and the Church burned what remained, and between them, the world died.
"We need to find the Dragon Knights," Thorne said, looking out over the burning valley, seeing the death that filled it, the corruption that had stained it forever. "The Oracle said they're hiding here. She said they're the last of the Dragon Knights, the last carriers of dragon fire, the last hope for the world."
"How do we find them?" Lyra asked, her voice tight with fear, with the desperate need to believe that they could be found, that they hadn't been destroyed.
"We look for signs," Thorne said, and there was determination in his voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "Dragon fire leaves traces. Even after all these years, even after the Church has hunted them to extinction, the fire leaves marks. The scales leave shadows. The power leaves echoes. I can feel it—I can feel the dragon blood in the air, faint traces from the Dragon Knights who are hiding, from the fire that burns in their veins, waiting to be used."
They rode into the valley, avoiding the main roads where the fighting was heaviest, where the Church's inquisitors hunted dragon-blooded heretics, where the dead roamed freely. Thorne's dragon blood could sense the traces of other dragon blood—faint echoes of fire in the air, remnants of battles fought long ago, shadows of power that had once been great.
As night fell, they found it.
A cave hidden in the side of a mountain, its entrance concealed by illusion magic, by power that had slept for a long time, that had been waiting for someone to find it. Thorne could feel the dragon blood inside—multiple sources, weak but present, the fire of the Dragon Knights who were hiding, who were waiting, who were hoping.
"They're here," Thorne said, dismounting, his movements careful, quiet. "Stay close to me. They might not be friendly. They've been hunted for a long time. They've lost everything. They might not trust anyone."
He approached the cave entrance, and the illusion faded, revealing a dark tunnel that led deep into the mountain, into the heart of the rock, into the place where the Dragon Knights were hiding. He drew Dawnbreaker, black fire trailing from the blade, the power that shouldn't exist responding to his will, feeding on the dragon fire that burned in his veins, and stepped inside.
The tunnel led deep into the mountain, opening into a vast cavern where the Dragon Knights had made their home, where they had hidden from the Church, from the Plague, from the world that had hunted them. In the center of the cavern, a fire burned, and around it sat a dozen men and women in worn armor, their eyes watching Thorne with suspicion, with the weight of too many years of running, of too much loss.
The last of the Dragon Knights.
"Who are you?" one of them demanded, standing and drawing his sword, the blade worn but sharp, the edge carrying the weight of too many battles, of too much death. "How did you find us? The Church has been hunting us for years. The dead have been hunting us for longer. How did you find this place? How did you find us?"
"My name is Thorne Ashford," Thorne said, raising Dawnbreaker, black fire trailing from the blade, the power that shouldn't exist responding to his will, feeding on the dragon fire that burned in his veins. "I carry the dragon blood of Ignis, the Black Flame. The last of the Great Dragons. The Oracle sent me. She said you were hiding here. She said you were the last hope for the world."
The knights exchanged glances, their minds racing with implications they didn't want to face, with the realization that the Church had found them, that the darkness had found them. Then an older man stood, his face scarred, his eyes burning with recognition, with the weight of too many years, of too much memory.
"Ignis," the man said, the name carrying the weight of a thousand years, of a power that had once ruled the skies. "The Black Flame. The last of the Great Dragons. I thought his bloodline had died out. I thought the Church had hunted them all, had burned them all, had destroyed the last carriers of dragon fire. I thought we were alone."
"It almost did," Thorne said, and there was sorrow in his voice, sorrow that came from knowing the truth, from seeing what the Church had done. "The Church hunted them. The Church burned them. The Church destroyed everyone who carried dragon fire, everyone who could have stopped the Plague. But I survived. I ran, and I hid, and I survived. And now I'm here. And I'm the last."
The older man walked to Thorne, studying his face, seeing the dragon fire that burned in his veins, seeing the scales beneath his skin, seeing the transformation that was consuming him. "You have his eyes. The dragon eyes. The eyes that see through flesh, that see the soul beneath. You have his fire. The fire that burns in your veins, that consumes you, that changes you. You are the last of the bloodline. The last carrier of dragon fire. The last hope for the world."
He extended a hand, the gesture carrying the weight of too many years, of too much loss, of too much hope. "I'm Garrick, once Commander of the Dragon Knights. Once the proud defenders of Aetheria, the ones who burned the Plague back the first time. Now, just a survivor. Just a runner. Just a man hiding in a cave, waiting for the end."
Thorne shook his hand, the grip firm, the contact carrying the weight of shared burden, of shared hope. "The Oracle said you could help us. She said you were the last of the Dragon Knights, the last carriers of dragon fire. We're going north, to the Citadel of Night. To destroy Morthos's phylactery and end the Plague. We're going to fight through an army that cannot be killed, that cannot be stopped, and we're going to destroy the source of the darkness, the power that fuels the Plague. We need allies. We need dragon fire. We need you."
Garrick's expression darkened, carrying the weight of too many years, of too much memory, of too much loss. "Morthos. The Death King. The one who nearly destroyed the world a thousand years ago. The one who the last Dragon Lord stopped, or so the legends say. We've fought his armies for years. We've fought the dead, the Death Knights, the corruption that powers the Plague. We've lost good knights, good friends, good people. We've lost everything. And we've never won. The dead are too many. The corruption is too deep. The darkness is too strong."
"This time will be different," Thorne said, and there was determination in his voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "I have the dragon blood. I have the fire of Ignis burning in my veins. Lyra has the silver magic, the light that can see through corruption, that can burn through the Plague's power. And we have the Oracle's guidance. We know where the phylactery is. We know what we have to do. We're going to end this."
He gestured to Lyra, who had followed him into the cavern, her small frame defiant, her silver light beginning to glow around her wrists like captured starlight. "This is Lyra Moonwhisper. Her grandmother was the last Archmage of the Moonwhisper Tower, the greatest sorcerer of the age. The Church burned her, hunted her, destroyed everything she loved. But Lyra survived. She carries the silver magic, the light that can see through corruption, that can burn through the Plague's power. Together, we might have a chance."
The knights looked at Lyra with renewed interest, with the weight of too many years, of too much memory. "The Moonwhisper magic. The silver light. The power that can see through flesh, that can see the threads of fate that bind the world together. We thought that was lost. We thought the Church had destroyed it, had hunted it, had scattered the last carriers of silver magic to the corners of the world."
"It's not lost," Lyra said, and there was determination in her voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "I'm the last of the Moonwhisper line. The last carrier of silver magic. And I'm going to use it to help stop the Plague. I'm going to use it to burn through the corruption, to destroy the darkness, to end this."
Garrick was silent for a long moment, his mind racing with implications he didn't want to face, with the realization that the world had changed, that hope had returned. Then he turned to the other knights, his eyes searching their faces, seeing the fear there, the exhaustion, the despair that the Church had planted in them, that the Plague had watered in them.
"What do you say?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of command, of a decision that would change everything. "Do we fight again? Do we risk everything on the word of a stranger and a girl? Do we leave this cave, leave this hiding place, and march north to face an army that cannot be killed, that cannot be stopped? Do we die for the hope of stopping the Plague, of ending the darkness?"
One by one, the knights stood, their movements carrying the weight of decision, of acceptance, of the refusal to die hiding. "We fight," a woman said, her voice tight with determination, with the weight of too many years of running, of too much loss. "We've been hiding too long. We've been running too long. It's time to end this. It's time to fight back, to burn the Plague back, to destroy the darkness. If we die, we die fighting. If we fall, we fall standing. We won't hide anymore."
"Then it's time," Garrick said, and there was finality in his voice, finality that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. He turned back to Thorne, his eyes searching his face, seeing the dragon fire that burned in his veins, seeing the scales beneath his skin, seeing the transformation that was consuming him. "We'll ride with you. To the Citadel of Night. To the end. We'll fight through Morthos's army, we'll destroy the phylactery, we'll kill Morthos, and we'll end the Plague. Or we'll die trying. But we won't die hiding."
Thorne nodded, and there was gratitude in his voice, gratitude that came from knowing he had been given something he couldn't repay, something that would change everything. "Thank you. For trusting me. For believing. For fighting when there's no hope."
"Don't thank us yet," Garrick said, and there was warning in his voice, warning that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing what came next. "The road north is long, and the dead are many. The Church is hunting, the Plague is spreading, the darkness is gathering. We'll be lucky if any of us survive. We'll be lucky if we reach the Wall of Ice, let alone the Citadel. This is a suicide mission, Thorne. Don't mistake it for anything else."
He looked at Thorne's right eye, which still glowed faintly gold, the last ember of the dragon fire that burned in his veins, that was consuming him. "Your dragon blood is strong. Stronger than any I've seen. Stronger than any the Church has hunted. But be careful. The dragon blood consumes those who can't control it. I've seen good knights become monsters. I've seen friends become enemies. I've seen men burn away everything they were, everything they loved, consumed by the fire that made them strong. Don't let it consume you. Don't let the fire burn away everything you are."
Thorne touched the amulet at his neck, the silver metal warm against his skin, the gem pulsing with light, with power that pushed back the darkness, that slowed the fire's consumption. "I have something that helps. Morgana gave it to me. It's a binding amulet. It helps me control the dragon blood, helps me keep my humanity. It slows the fire's consumption. It won't stop it, but it helps. I won't let the fire consume me. I'll use it, but I won't let it use me."
Garrick nodded, and there was approval in his face, approval that came from too many years of knowing, of understanding. "Good. You'll need it. The fire is strong, and the darkness is stronger. The battle ahead will test everything you are, everything you have. Don't fail us. Don't let the fire consume you."
He turned to the other knights, his voice carrying the weight of command, of a decision that would change everything. "Prepare to ride. We leave at dawn. We go north, to the Wall of Ice, to the Citadel of Night. We fight through Morthos's army, we destroy the phylactery, we kill Morthos, and we end the Plague. Or we die trying. But we won't die hiding."
And Thorne knew, with a certainty that went beyond gratitude, beyond hope, that the world had changed forever, that nothing would ever be the same again.