The ground split open, and a claw the size of a house emerged from the darkness, from the bones that had been buried for a thousand years, that should have stayed buried forever.
It was followed by a head—black bone, empty eye sockets burning with green fire that seemed to see through flesh, to see the soul beneath, to see the fear that fed it. Jaws lined with teeth longer than a man, sharper than any sword, carrying the weight of a thousand years, of a hunger that had slept for a millennium and was now waking up. A Death Dragon, and it was enormous, larger than anything should be, larger than anything the world had seen since the Dragon Wars.
Thorne stood frozen as the creature pulled itself from the earth, its movements jerky, unnatural, defying reason, defying life itself. Its wings spread to block out the stars, to eclipse the moon, to cast the world in shadow. It was at least a hundred feet long, its scales made of black bone that gleamed in the darkness, its entire being radiating death and decay, carrying the scent of things that had died long ago, that should have stayed dead.
The Death Dragon roared again, and the sound shook the ground, cracked the sky, made the very air tremble with its power. The dead throughout the desert turned toward Thorne, drawn by their master's call, by the hunger that drove them, by the darkness that had created them.
Thorne raised Dawnbreaker, but he knew it was useless. This was a Great Dragon, even in death. This was a creature that had once ruled the skies, that had once burned kingdoms, that had once been a god in all but name. His sword couldn't kill it. His fire couldn't burn it. The Plague's corruption was too deep, Morthos's twisting too thorough. This was a Death Dragon, and it was beyond him.
Then he saw Lyra.
She was standing on a dune near the fortress, silver light blazing around her like a star, like a beacon in the darkness. She had drawn the dead's attention, thousands of them moving toward her, their empty eyes fixed on her light, their rotting hands reaching for the brightness she carried. But she was holding them back with a barrier of silver magic, a wall of light that the dead couldn't penetrate, that the Plague's corruption couldn't touch.
She saw the Death Dragon too, and her eyes met Thorne's across the distance, carrying the weight of shared fear, of shared horror, of shared knowledge that this was the end, that nothing would survive this.
She raised her hands, and the silver light intensified, forming a spear that shot toward the Thorne, toward the Death Dragon, carrying with it all her hope, all her power, everything she had.
The spear struck the creature's chest, cracking black bone, sending fissures through corruption that had slept for a millennium, but it wasn't enough. The Death Dragon turned its attention to Lyra, green fire gathering in its throat, burning hotter and brighter than anything should burn, carrying the heat of a thousand years, of a hunger that had slept for a millennium.
"No!" Thorne screamed, and the sound tore at his throat, carried the weight of desperation, of a fear that went beyond anything he had ever felt. He ran toward her, his movements desperate, clumsy, his speed nothing compared to the Death Dragon's, his strength nothing compared to the hunger that drove it.
The Death Dragon released its breath—a stream of green fire that turned everything it touched to ash, that burned through flesh and bone, that consumed life and left nothing but death. Lyra's silver barrier shattered, the light consumed by the Plague's corruption, and she fell to her knees, the fire washing over her, burning through her clothes, through her flesh, seeking the life beneath.
Thorne reached her as the fire died, grabbing her and rolling to safety, his movements desperate, his strength fading. Lyra was burned, her silver hair singed, her skin blackened in places, but she was alive. The silver magic had protected her, had saved her from the worst of it, had kept the death from taking her completely.
"Lyra!" Thorne's voice cracked with fear, with the weight of nearly losing her, of nearly letting the darkness take her.
Lyra opened her eyes, purple still burning burning despite her injuries, despite the pain that must have been consuming her. "I'm fine," she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of survival, of refusing to die. "But the dragon..."
The Death Dragon was preparing another blast, green fire gathering in its throat again, burning hotter and brighter, carrying the heat of a thousand years, of a hunger that would not be denied.
"We have to run," Thorne said, helping her up, his movements desperate, his strength fading with every heartbeat. "We can't fight this. We can't stop this. It's too strong. It's beyond us."
"There's nowhere to run," Lyra said, and there was finality in her voice, finality that came from knowing the truth, from seeing what was coming. "It's too fast. It will catch us. It will burn us. It will consume us."
Thorne looked at the Death Dragon, then at the amulet around his neck. Morgana had said it could help him control the dragon blood, could slow the fire's consumption, but she had also said it wasn't a permanent solution, that the fire was too strong, the dragon blood too ancient.
But maybe it could do something else. Maybe, if he poured everything into it, if he gave it all the dragon fire, all the power that burned in his veins, it could respond. It could do something unexpected.
He grabbed the amulet and poured his dragon fire into it, willing it to do something—anything—to save them, to save Lyra, to stop the Death Dragon, to destroy what shouldn't exist.
The amulet responded.
Silver light erupted from it, wrapping around Thorne and Lyra, forming a shield just as the Death Dragon released its fire again. The green fire washed over the shield, but couldn't penetrate it, couldn't burn through the silver light, couldn't consume the power that Morgana had woven into the metal, into the gem.
Then the shield shield expanded, pushing outward, and the Death Dragon roared in pain as the silver light touched its black bones, as the power that shouldn't exist found purchase in corruption that had slept for a millennium.
The silver light was destroying the undead magic that animated the dragon, was burning through the Plague's corruption, was returning the Death Dragon to true death.
Thorne poured more dragon fire into the amulet, giving it everything he had, every drop of power that burned in his veins, every spark of fire that shouldn't exist. The silver light intensified, cracking the Death Dragon's bones, shattering its wings, sending fissures through corruption that had slept for a thousand years.
The creature collapsed, its bones turning to dust, the green fire in its eyes dying, the hunger that had driven it fading into nothing. The Death Dragon was destroyed, returned to true death, the corruption that had animated it burned away.
The desert fell silent, the only sound the wind whistling through ash, the only movement the dust that had once been bones settling on the ground.
Thorne fell to his knees, exhausted, the amulet dark and lifeless in his hand, the power he had poured into it gone, consumed by the act of destruction. Lyra collapsed beside him, her burns smoking in the cold air, her strength gone, her magic spent.
"We did it," Thorne whispered, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of survival, of the impossibility of what they had done. "We killed a Death Dragon. We destroyed something that shouldn't exist."
Lyra laughed weakly, a sound that held no humor, only the weight of survival, of the impossibility of what they had done. "We destroyed a Great Dragon. Even in death. We burned through corruption that had slept for a thousand years. We did the impossible."
She looked at the amulet in Thorne's hand, the metal dark and lifeless, the gem at its center no longer glowing. "What did you do? How did you stop it?"
"I don't know," Thorne said, and there was wonder in his voice, wonder that came from not understanding, from not knowing how he had done what he had done. "I just... poured everything into it. I gave the amulet all the dragon fire, all the power that burns in my veins. And it responded. It did something I didn't expect. It saved us."
He looked toward the fortress, where Morthos still stood on the walls, watching them, sensing them. The Death King hadn't moved, but Thorne could feel his rage across the distance, could feel the hunger that drove him, the darkness that had created him.
"We have to keep moving," Thorne said, forcing himself to stand, his movements desperate, his strength fading. "Before he sends something else after us. Before he sends another Death Dragon. Before he sends the darkness itself."
He helped Lyra up, supporting her weight, her small frame trembling with the effort, with the pain of her burns. "Can you heal yourself?"
Lyra nodded, silver light already beginning to glow around her hands as she pressed them to her burns, the light seeking the corruption, seeking to heal what the Death Dragon's fire had damaged. "It will take time, but I can do it. The silver magic is strong, and the burns are bad, but I can heal. I can survive."
They moved away from the fortress, into the deeper desert, leaving the destroyed Death Dragon behind, leaving the dust that had once been bones settling on the ground. Behind them, the dead began to dig again, continuing their work, continuing the task Morthos had set them, continuing the corruption that would destroy the world.
But they had set Morthos back. The Death Dragon was destroyed, and with it, hours of work, days of effort, a thousand years of corruption burned away.
It wasn't much. It wasn't enough. But it was something. It was a start.
And Thorne knew, with a certainty that went beyond survival, beyond the impossibility of what they had done, that the world had changed forever, that nothing would ever be the same again.