The forest was dark, closing around Aerion like a trap. Moonlight slipped through the trees, just enough to show the roots that kept catching his feet.
He stumbled, branches tearing at his tunic, the fabric already ripped from his escape. His gasps were loud in the quiet, his breath puffing out in the cold night air.
His bare feet, torn up from running, left bloody smears on the moss.
Keep moving. Don't stop.
The words pounded in his head, matching his racing heart. Somewhere behind him, dogs barked, sharp, hungry sounds that sent a shiver down his spine. Therion's men or Vaelgard's soldiers, he didn't care anymore.
They all wanted him dead, and that was enough to keep his legs moving, even as they screamed for rest.
Aerion wasn't built for this. He'd spent his life in libraries, not battlefields. The Lyceum Arcana was supposed to be safe, a place to study, to hide from his brother's ambition and his father's expectations.
Now his father was dead, Therion was a traitor, and the Lyceum was probably burning. The memory of Thaddeus, standing calm as assassins charged, twisted in his gut.
He'd died for Aerion to escape, and Aerion was wasting it, tripping over every stick.
He burst into a small clearing, legs wobbling. A creek ran through it, its water black under the stars.
He dropped to his knees at the edge, hands shaking as he scooped up water to drink. The cold stung his cuts, but he barely noticed.
His reflection stared back in the moonlight, a gaunt, filthy face, cheeks hollow, eyes wide with fear. He didn't know this guy.
Where was the prince who'd hummed his mother's songs while sketching star charts?
A twig snapped, sharp and close.
Aerion's heart stopped for a beat. He froze, water dripping from his hands, and turned slowly.
A man leaned against a tree at the clearing's edge, arms crossed. Moonlight caught the axe and dagger at his belt, their blades glinting.
His face was half-covered by a mask, scars crisscrossing the exposed skin. One scar, thick and jagged, ran from his lip to his ear, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer.
"Prince Aerion Veridian," the man said, stepping forward with a slow, cocky stride. His Vaelgardian accent was heavy, each word clipped. "Or whatever's left of you."
Aerion scrambled backward, his hands slipping in the mud. "I don't want trouble," he said, voice cracking, raw from running. "This is a mistake, I'm no threat to Vaelgard—"
The axe flew, cutting him off. It slammed into his shoulder, the blade biting deep. Pain exploded, white-hot, stealing his breath.
He fell back into the creek, water splashing around him, cold but useless against the agony. His hands clawed at the axe, fingers slick with blood, but every move sent fresh pain tearing through him. He couldn't pull it out, couldn't think.
The Vaelgardian stood over him, tall and unbothered. He yanked the axe free with a quick tug, like it was nothing. Blood gushed, mixing with the water, turning it red.
"Trouble?" the man said, chuckling low. He tilted the axe, studying the blood on it like it was just another day's work. "This ain't personal, kid. Just a contract."
He swung again, slower, aiming for Aerion's collarbone. The blade hit with a crack, bone splintering.
Blood flooded Aerion's mouth, choking him as he coughed. The world dimmed, his vision narrowing to a blurry tunnel. The assassin's face faded, his voice faint.
"…should've stayed at that fancy school…"
Darkness rolled in, heavy and final.
Then, something sparked in Aerion's chest, a hot, angry flare, like a fire kicking to life. It spread fast, burning through his shattered bones, his torn muscles.
The pain didn't vanish, it shifted, becoming something sharper, stronger. His fingers twitched, nails growing long, hard, sharp, not human.
His lungs, barely holding on, sucked in air with a sudden, desperate gasp.
A voice filled his head, deep and old, like it came from the earth itself. "Pathetic."
Aerion tried to scream, but his throat only rasped, thick with blood. His tongue felt wrong, too big, his mouth bitter with metal.
"A prince who runs like a rat," the voice said, sharp with disgust. "This body's too good for you."
The fire roared hotter, filling every vein, every nerve. His eyes burned, like they were melting in his skull. He couldn't see straight, everything was too bright, too vivid, the world lit up in strange colors.
The Vaelgardian backed up, his smug look gone. "What in the hells…" he muttered, fumbling for his dagger, eyes wide.
Aerion stood, shaky but upright, blood still pooling at his feet. His wounds were closing, flesh knitting together, like it was being stitched by invisible hands.
His toenails, claws now, dug into the muddy bank, the water hissing where they touched, steam curling up. He breathed, and sparks flicked from his mouth, the air thick with a sharp, sulfur stink.
The assassin lunged, dagger flashing toward Aerion's throat. Aerion's hand moved faster than he thought possible, catching the blade an inch from his skin. The steel glowed red, then melted, dripping to the ground in a sizzling puddle.
"Contract?" Aerion said, but it wasn't his voice. It was deeper, heavier, like a crowd speaking at once, each word laced with scorn. The idea of killing for money was a bad joke.
The Vaelgardian screamed, a raw, terrified sound that echoed through the trees. It didn't last.
The air filled with the hiss of burning flesh, the crunch of bones breaking. When it stopped, the clearing was quiet again, the assassin gone, reduced to ash and ruin.
Aerion was no more. The body was his, but the thing inside wasn't. Kairos, the Dragon Emperor, flexed his new hands, feeling the heat pulsing under the skin, like a furnace trapped in flesh.
Aerion's memories, his mother's lullaby, the Lyceum's dusty shelves, Thaddeus's calm voice, flickered in his mind. Kairos crushed them, shoving them into a dark corner, useless baggage in his new home.
He stood still, letting the body settle. It was weak, frail, nothing like the form he'd once had.
Six hundred years he'd waited, locked in silence, searching for a vessel. This boy, this scared, bookish prince, was it.
Not ideal, but it'd do. Kairos could mold it, break it, rebuild it into something worthy.
The horizon was turning pink, dawn creeping in. Somewhere out there, Therion was probably gloating on his stolen throne, thinking he'd won.
Vaelgard's armies were likely moving, sharpening their blades for Veridian's chaos. Kairos didn't care who came first. They'd all learn soon enough.
He looked up at the fading stars, Aerion's face twisting into a cold smirk. "Let them come," he said, the voice still wrong, too big for the boy's throat.
Six hundred years was a long wait. A few more days wouldn't matter.
When he was ready, Therion, Vaelgard, the whole damn world would feel what a dragon's wrath could do.
Kairos stepped over the assassin's remains, not sparing him a glance. The forest stretched ahead, dark and tangled, but it didn't scare him.