The lodge was quiet, except for Kairos's breathing, shallow and rough, like air scraping through a tight pipe. The fire in his chest churned, restless, pissed off at how slow it was working.
Every breath reminded him how weak this body was, how much it held him back. Aerion's frail shell was a prison, and Kairos hated it.
But he didn't have time to be angry. He'd spent centuries sharpening his mind, learning patience.
That was what he needed now, focus, not rage. His eyes, glowing gold where Aerion's blue used to be, flicked to his bandaged arm.
He zeroed in, willing the fire inside to move, slow and controlled, toward his shoulder.
The torn muscle there burned as it knit together, fibers pulling tight under the heat. It wasn't fast, but it was working.
He shifted the fire to his collarbone, cracked and throbbing. Gritting his teeth, he forced the bone fragments to shift, grinding them into place.
The pain was sharp, like a knife twisting, but Kairos barely blinked. Pain was just a test, a way to gauge this body's limits.
Weak. Needs work, he thought, cold and clinical, as he kept pushing the bone together.
Next, he checked his feet. He unwrapped the bandages, wincing at the smell, rotten, sour, like something dying. The cuts were black, swollen, oozing pus.
He grabbed the rusty knife he'd found, heating its tip with a touch until it glowed red. Without a pause, he scraped out the dead flesh, pus dripping onto the floor.
His body flinched, muscles twitching, sweat beading on Aerion's forehead. Kairos ignored it, focusing on the task.
When the wounds were clean, he sent a pulse of fire through them, burning out the infection, kickstarting the healing. It hurt like hell, and the body shook from the effort, but the cuts closed, raw but better.
Exhausted, Kairos leaned back against the lodge's wall, dust settling around him. Healing was only half the fight.
Aerion's mind was the other battlefield, and it was a mess, muddy, tangled, full of junk Kairos didn't want. He dove in anyway, gritting his teeth like he was wading through a swamp.
Aerion's memories were a jumble, most of them useless. The Veridian Dominion flickered through, Etheleum, the capital, with its high walls and the Sun Palace where the throne sat. Or used to.
*Was it still there, or had Therion burned it down?*
The thought brought up Aerion's brother, Therion, black-haired, blue-eyed, like Aerion but harder, meaner. The memory hit Kairos with a wave of Aerion's feelings, anger, fear, a kid's hurt at being pushed around.
Kairos snarled, shoving the emotions down, focusing on facts.
Therion had always been a bully, mocking Aerion, shoving him aside. It drove Aerion to hide in the palace library, away from his brother's fists.
Kairos caught a memory of Aerion overhearing Therion's plans, whispers of a coup, deals with nobles who hated their father, shady trades with arms dealers in Vinderburgh. Therion's hands shook sometimes, a tic he hid with gloves. A weakness, maybe, but not enough.
Kairos kept digging, chasing anything useful. Aerion's mind shifted to the Lyceum, flames licking at its walls.
Snatches of conversation Aerion had caught while running surfaced: "…Vaelgard agreed… Iron River Bridge… once Etheleum falls…" and "…Duke Malkor will open the west gate at dawn…"
Malkor, a noble in Therion's pocket. A name to remember, a target to hit.
Then Vaelgard came up, a cold, hilly empire in the north, its army brutal and disciplined.
Emperor Shuman, a giant with small, sharp eyes, ruled it. He wanted more land, but the Ashen Mountains blocked him, so Veridian was his only shot.
The Vaelgardian assassin's thick accent tied it together, they were circling, smelling blood in Veridian's chaos.
Kairos zeroed in on General Theon Strongblood, Vaelgard's border commander.
Young, cold, eagle-eyed, loyal to Shuman but hungry for glory as the "Conqueror of Veridian." He clashed with Commander Urzok, a barbarian leader from Vaelgard's eastern hills, where bear-worshipping tribes had been crushed into submission.
Urzok's people followed orders grudgingly, a spark waiting for a match. Kairos smirked. That was a crack he could widen.
He pushed deeper into Aerion's memories, squeezing out scraps, maps, garrison posts, reports Aerion had skimmed in council meetings, half-asleep. The kid hadn't cared about strategy, too busy with poems or whatever.
Kairos filtered out the emotional baggage, pulling only what mattered: troop movements, supply lines, names. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
Hours passed, sunlight slanting through the broken roof. The lodge was quiet, the swamp outside humming with bugs.
Aerion's body still shook, but the shoulder pain was down to a dull ache. The collarbone was set, fragile but holding.
His feet hurt, but the pus was gone. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, thirst scratched his throat, but Kairos brushed it off. Weakness was temporary.
A plan took shape, rough but clear. Therion and Vaelgard had to pay, and Kairos would make sure they did.
Therion's betrayal, Vaelgard's opportunism, they'd both learn what a dragon could do. The Iron River Bridge and Duke Malkor were his first moves, pieces to knock off the board. Vaelgard's infighting, Strongblood versus Urzok, was a lever to pull.
It'd take time, and this body had to get stronger, faster, tougher.
Kairos opened his eyes, catching dust floating in the fading light. He stood, slow, fighting the stiffness in his joints, the ache in his bones.
At the door, he looked out. Green fog curled over the swamp, hiding the lodge from the world. He twirled the rusty knife in his hand, small, crude, but enough for now.
"Therion," he muttered, voice low, heavy with promise. "Shuman. Wait for me."
The Dragon Emperor was waking up. When he was ready, they'd feel his fire.