Yesterday was the last sunrise the ivory bulwarks of Aderenthyn Citadel beheld, for today, the Blighted Multitude lined the horizon to the east and continued the night. After thousands of years standing resolute, the fortress built by the ancient Gaolyans, the seat of divine kings long gone, home of the dragons thereafter, would soon fall—either by the deluge of otherworldly shadows, leaving not one aileh-laced stone block on another, or by the kindling of the aileh heart node deep beneath, destroying everything.

Everything.

Aderenthyn Citadel itself, the surrounding ruins of the vast city it used to protect, every aileh stream branching throughout the land, sharing the gift of life with those above and below. The whole continent of Tabithala would burn with unquenchable aileh flames.

Everything.

The Blighted Multitude as well.

Hiero, youngest of the Draecontyr—Dragon Titans for the common people, a fitting name, for that was what they were in their most massive forms—stood atop one of the towers spaced along the outermost wall of Aderenthyn Citadel. He held the severed head of an enormous Blighted by its slimy mane. He minded weakening the ember veins webbing his craggy hands not to burn the head.

Hiero absentmindedly swept the ground with his spiked tail. The choice of how everything would end settled heavily on his shoulders.

No. The decision wasn’t thrust upon him.

It was his choice to choose for all others.

A choice that wasn’t a choice—somehow, such framing comforted him if comfort still had a place in the waning days of humanity. No one else would make this choice, for only a few knew of this possibility. Even fewer were aware of Hiero’s intention to take it upon himself.

Same as a man asked by his wife to pick for her a suitable dress for the local lord’s gala, there were choices Hiero would rather not bother himself with. Unfortunately, Hiero was directly affected by this—life and death being important matters, putting it lightly—and didn’t trust others to take the helm.

Hiero gazed at the city beyond the walls to distract himself. With the eyes of an owl king, so large they filled the giant simian skull of the Base of his Melded form, he saw through the darkness as if the sun was in the sky.

Well, the sun should be up there somewhere, he mused. Just covered by the Blight’s clouds.

Most people wouldn’t think it funny, especially given the circumstances, but Hiero couldn’t help chuckling. It came out as guttural grunts. The hardened bones covering his face ground against each other as his cheeks lifted to a smile.

Though there were faint traces of shouting and sporadic explosions, it had mostly quieted.

The war drums of Meghindr that stoked bravery in men’s hearts and steeled minds from the emanations of the Blight during the battle had stopped beating their enchanted notes. No purple balls of flames streaked the air; the magnicannons ceased their volleys, conserving Dust shells for the next attack. The annoying mechanical clanks of the airscrew barges were absent—they must’ve all landed for repairs and refueling. A few griffin riders remained to patrol the blackened sky; the rest soared back to the central keep to rest.

Dozens of the Blighted—remnants of the rebuffed assault—scurried through the rubble of felled buildings outside the fortress, exiting the city with haste. They ran across the plains faster than chosen destriers of the high king’s honor guard, swooping over the fields of greenery before rejoining the mass of shadows that was the Blighted Multitude less than ten miles away from the edge of the Gaolyan’s former capital.

Hiero’s owl king eyes could distinguish blades of grass from that distance but could only see the first few rows of the Blighted’s ranks. Further ahead was utter darkness as if staring into the mouth of… mouth of most creatures, really.

Hiero grunted in amusement, thinking of a contrary example: a dragon about to breathe fire. It would have light down its gullet.

The first battle on the ninth day they had garrisoned Aderenthyn Citadel came to an end.

They had survived—Hiero didn’t want to check who comprised ‘they.’

The lull before the next fight. The part I hate the most, he thought, tossing the hefty head over the parapets ringing the tower’s crown. The owner of the head was scaling the tower when Hiero came upon it. He broke off its curved tusks and repeatedly stabbed its bone-plated face with them before decapitating it—the trusted way of ensuring a Blighted was dead.

Hiero had intended to burn the tusked Blighted with his Cherufe hands but stopped when he recognized the kind of creature it once was.

The headless body remained latched onto the side of the tower, its thick fingers buried into the flat roof as if stakes hammered in, gripping tight in death. Tenacity was the most admirable trait of halkors—great primates as tall as three grown men, living on the titanic trees of the mountains west of Meghindr—for they wouldn’t let go of their enemy’s head even if they lost theirs. Such stubbornness seemingly remained despite the Blight taking over this halkor’s mind and body.

There might be truth to the tales that some light-forsaken could communicate, pleading for help or forgiveness before falling upon their neighbors. Hiero never bothered listening to the Blighted. The same advice he’d give anyone.

Blight—the name gave the impression of a physical disease.

It was understandable for people to think so, for the afflicted would mutate into shadowy monstrous versions of their original selves. That was likely how the name came to be; someone thought it was a spreading plague.

In truth, it was a disease of the mind, the transformations an outward manifestation, a symptom of the lost battle within.

Hiero long suspected the Blight to be involuntary Flesh Molding—or Melding, to be more precise—of dark creatures unknown, powered by a mysterious external force. Also unknown. He wasn’t a biomagus to test his theory. Such experimentation also required catching the Blighted, which was begging to be turned into one of them—the uptight adepts of the Scholla Biologos at Guneh could attest to it.

They were marching with the Multitude now.

Though with the end coming soon, it might be a fruitless exercise to wonder what the Blight was.

Hiero grabbed the right arm of the Blighted halkor with his prehensile foot and pried its hand from the stone. Golden sparkles danced around the cracks. Aileh, sapped from the heart node, healed the mysterious material the Gaolyans used in their constructions, returning it to its unblemished finish.  

The corpse hung on by its other arm. Hiero was about to pull it off and let the body drop to the ground far below, but he hesitated.

It didn’t feel right.

Hiero bent low and scooped the body with the tusks of his Melded form. The body’s immense bulk weighed it down, impaling itself further into his sharp tusks. Hiero felt the strain where his tusks connected to his skull. He flexed his thick neck as he raised the corpse, his back muscles putting in the work, his feet firmly planted on the ground, toes spread wide while balancing the weight.

The halkor was Hiero’s preferred Base—a humanoid Base made Melding easier, adding unfamiliar parts to the familiar and making one cohesive beast.

No halkors lived in the direction whence the Blighted Multitude came, not counting those in captivity. This one could’ve been the pet of an eccentric lord or brought along by a traveling circus, frightened inside its cage with no escape as the Blighted Multitude came, left behind by its owner. Perhaps assimilated with its owner.

Left, right, left, right, Hiero swung the dead halkor above him like a flag—the halkor’s ritual to fallen rivals if they had a good fight. More waves for stronger opponents. Hiero did this each time he hunted the majestic beasts for their Cores as a show of gratitude and respect.

It didn’t matter to the dead beast—or anyone else—but Hiero did it just the same.

Two swings were his usual. He added two more though his opponent barely presented a challenge. This was likely the last time he’d do this.

Then Hiero swayed his head and body forward, flinging the corpse away. The momentum of such a heavy body pulled it free from his tusks. It fell more than a hundred and fifty feet to the heaps of more Blighted dead below.   

A muffled thud and everything was silent again.

Hiero surveyed the stretch of fortifications he was assigned to defend.

Walkways to his right and left were about three feet taller than when the battle began, stacked with bodies he had torn apart employing various forms. Most of the Blighted corpses had either missing or flattened heads. At some points, the fleshy piles reached past the level of the battlements, mangled corpses draping over. Wispy tendrils of smoke, akin to the frail aftermath of a blown candle’s fire, but black instead of silvery, rose from the bodies. The smoke added to the firmament blotting the sun.

The latest wave of Blighted was more numerous than all previous ones combined, with monsters mightier than before and even winged ones joining, heralding the arrival of the main body of the Blighted Multitude as if the rolling black clouds and acrid stench weren’t enough signs.

The Silver Bullets mercenaries… What happened to them? Hiero cocked his head, remembering something important—or should be important, else it wouldn’t have slipped his mind. He forgot about them as the battle escalated.

Seventeen men unclaimed by the Blight, Dustgunners from the Silver Bullets company, should be somewhere here, buried under the Blighted corpses.

They hailed from the nearby city-state of Maryul.

Or was it Sajilis? One of the many places destroyed by the Blight, whichever it was. Hiero listened with only one ear open when the oldest among them, a veteran of many battles and looked the part, told their story.

The Dustgunners regretted their absence when the Multitude marched through their home city, their families and friends no more. At that time, the Silver Bullets company was contracted to fight elsewhere.

As penance according to religion or tradition—Hiero didn’t quite catch which—the seventeen left the renowned mercenary company to answer the arrow of war sent by High King Grammaton.

By royal bloodline, only Grammanian prince-electors could respond to an arrow of war—a call for the Great Houses of Grammanus to unite their armies, all fighting as one. Not lesser princes or any other nobles.

Most certainly not commoners.

However, old man Grammaton foresaw, rightly so, that the weak-minded princes of his loosely held kingdom, several styling themselves independent rulers of their domains, would put themselves and their holdings before the greater good. The Blighted Multitude was the problem of others unless it was right at their doorstep.

Protests of prince-electors aside, the Grammanian high king sent symbolic arrows of war to all of western Tabithala. He turned directly to the people, be they of noble birth or not. And not only his own subjects. Not only humans.

Those willing to fight for a tomorrow gather at Aderenthyn Citadel today, read the call to arms, lest the Blighted Multitude consumes us all. The grouchy king had a way with rousing words when necessary. The call spread wherever his heralds reached.

From quaint villages whose inhabitants had only held axes for chopping wood to the populous capitals of rival countries brimming with warriors once enemies. From the cave cities of the Delves deep under the earth to Saurian war shrines and Core monasteries on mountaintops. From the nomad camps of the Bayerou, unconcerned with outsider affairs, to the Dust forges controlled by the Romo and the mind-gardens of various magi orders.

The seventeen Dustgunners were among the thousands that responded.

They sought a glorious last stand, their leader told Hiero. Something about meeting their loved ones in the beyond with heads held high, fighting not for coin, which they had done their entire lives, but protecting others in memory of loved ones lost. They had to leave the Silver Bullets, for the mercenary company was hired by the Seiran Priestess to protect towns around the Gulf of Carinal, most likely last on the Multitude’s path traversing Tabithala.

Those Dustgunners made a choice and stuck with it. Quite admirable.

If Hiero could give respect to a halkor, how much more his fellow humans? That was if a Draecontyr still numbered among humans. Retrieving the bodies of the seventeen and burying them in soil, not under diseased flesh, should be sufficient.

Hiero jumped from the tower’s heights down to the walls. Blighted corpses burst open as his feet and tail crushed them, spewing more smoke and inky slime. The piercing smell assaulted him. He coughed at the stench of decay.

Next time, he should use a form without a nose.

Using his tusks, Hiero raked and tossed the bodies he passed off the walls. It reminded him of shoveling snow covering the stone stairs up Mesbeth Core monastery during the short time he trained there.

Where were those men? The last Hiero saw them, they were down to their last pouch of Dust bullets, reloading and firing like clockwork into the Blighted that had invaded the walls.

 And then the shadows swallowed them.

Should I have been more forceful in persuading those men to retreat? Hiero pondered.

The self-repairing Aderenthyn walls couldn’t be easily breached, certainly not by the monsters that attacked, powerful they may be. The Blighted Titans hadn’t taken to the battlefield yet. Neither were there any siege towers to bypass the fortifications.

What the Blighted Multitude did have were thousands and thousands of bodies.

The thousands threw themselves against the wall. Those behind trampled and climbed over those in front. Higher and higher the mound rose, turning into the towering ramps of Blighted bodies. Upon reaching the top of the walls, the monsters dangled lengthy chains of their bodies for others to climb.

Caught unprepared by the new strategy of what they had assumed were mindless monsters, the defenders had to fall back to the next layer of walls.

Yet the seventeen insisted on standing their ground as horns sounded the retreat. It may seem heroic, but to Hiero, it was the opposite. The mercenaries prioritized their penance, not protecting others.

It was selfishness.

Hiero should know. Appearing selfless while being selfish was his forte.

Though it all worked out in the end.

The Dustgunners obtained the deaths they wanted—a luxury for most people. Hiero defended the walls the best he could, undistracted with minding unreasonable death seekers. A win-win scenario.

Even so, Hiero had an inkling that some might take issue with leaving others to certain death.

Hiero looked left. His keen eyes spotted a dash of red in the sea of black.

A bloody human hand amid inhumanity.

One body. Sixteen more to go. Hiero pulled up the hand sticking from under a bulbous clump of tendrils. It was only a hand with half a forearm. The torn sleeve attached had the distinct golden weaving on the gray fabric the Silver Bullets wore.

Did this count as a body? No? Bring the number back to seventeen.

The darkness became darker as a large shadow flitted over Hiero. Gusts of wind and mighty thrusts of leathery wings introduced a welcome excuse to stop his search. Tiskas hovered above, flying in tighter circles as he descended.

The last dragon on Tabithala reminded Hiero of a third choice—flee as far as he could and wait for the Blighted Multitude to reach him. Such an option was always present in any choice.

Leave.

All dragons except one had fled Tabithala in search of the Forgotten Lands as their prospective refuge. Tiskas had his reasons for staying unconnected with survival. He wanted to observe the end, was what he told Hiero.

If the dragons, supposedly wisest above all creatures—though there were exceptions, like Tiskas—considered running away was the right call, perhaps everyone else should follow them. When news spread of the dragons abandoning Aderenthyn Citadel, many fled the continent by boat or airscrew barge.

Unfortunately, most inhabitants of Tabithala didn’t have that option.

Tiskas landed on a spot Hiero had cleared of Blighted corpses. The red dragon’s torso was as long as a halkor’s but much slimmer and lighter to allow flight. On Tiskas chest brightly shone his amber-tinged Core—proof he was a dragon.

Other creatures had Cores inside their bodies. Humans had none.

Only dragons had Cores on the outside.

Dragons and the Draecontyr.

Tiskas’ round eyes with vertical pupils focused on the Core jutting out of Hiero’s chest. Tiskas bowed his horned head. He kept his wings unfurled wide and held them low without touching the ground as if curtsying with a dress—the greeting of a younger dragon to an elder.

But Tiskas wasn’t performing the gesture to Hiero—Tiskas may be a young dragon, but he was more than thrice Hiero’s age. And this greeting was reserved for dragons.

Tiskas was showing reverence to the Core of his father that Hiero possessed.

Supposed reverence.

Tiskas wasn’t famous for respecting anyone. Not his father when he was alive. Not his uncle, the Archdragon Mordaneigh, leader of all dragons—Tiskas staying in Tabithala against the orders of his uncle was proof of that.

Tiskas probably conveyed a message with the gesture, but Hiero didn’t care to play games. 

Retracting his wings to his back, Tiskas sat on his haunches, coiling his long tail lined with crystal shards around his legs. He folded his thin scaly arms across his chest, something not all dragons could do, covering his Core as if to hide it from Hiero. A continuation of the joke that started with the greeting?

Tiskas projected his thoughts to Hiero’s mind, inquiring with a smooth voice that wasn’t a voice, What are you busying yourself with, house usurper?

Hiero opened his fist. Sitting in the middle of his rocky palm was the human hand he found. Its skin blistered from the heat of the Cherufe’s magma-like skin. Thought transference wasn’t possible in this form, so Hiero undid his Melding to talk.

Soothe the mind, release the threads of transformation, undo the pretension, and remember one’s true self—those were the words of Monk Mah-mon. His senior, Grand Monk Balatas, likened undoing Melding to a warrior relaxing his fighting stance.

For Hiero, it was better described as unclenching the buttocks and releasing pent-up air into the world. True relaxation. Admittedly, the words of the Core Monks were more majestic and stirring—Hiero was going to stick with it. Best he kept his epiphanies to himself.

Thick bony plates receded into flesh; muscles and bones returned to their original proportions like stretched rubber released. The smoldering rocks coating his palm smoothened into the rough skin of his human hand, tanned from heavy labor during his early years, then the heat of war, and more wars. The pronounced spine that protruded out his back, continuing into a lengthy spiked tail, shrunk and swooshed into his body.

Several seconds later, the human Hiero stood in front of Tiskas. Hiero wore living enchanted moss fashioned into a skintight garment—the standard attire of Flesh Molders if they didn’t want to end up with torn clothes or naked after each transformation.

Hiero shallowly breathed through his mouth. Smelling the smoke from the Blighted was more revolting as a human. He brushed his dark brown hair away from his eyes—it was getting unruly; he should braid his hair again in the style of Core monasteries—and gazed up at the red dragon.

“House usurper?” Hiero asked, blinking as he adjusted to weak human sight, especially his problematic left eye—it had been a decade since his face got slashed, yet he still hadn’t gotten used to it and the prominent scar left behind. “Dragons have as much claim to this place as humans,” he continued. “Which is none.”

We have lived here for hundreds of years—the foundation of our claim, Tiskas spoke in Hiero’s mind. Most of us may have left, but I remain.

“You know that I know you don’t live here.”

The others are such a bore, said Tiskas, pointedly shaking his head. I ask again, what were you doing? Something interesting, perchance?  

“Looking for brave warriors.” Hiero showed Tiskas the hand of the mercenary Dustgunner. “A group of men held back the abominations that reached the walls so many others could retreat.” There. A fitting story of bravery instead of the truth. His way of showing respect to the dead.

Tiskas nodded. Brave men, indeed.

“I can’t find their bodies except for this hand. They must’ve been eaten or fallen off the walls.”

Foolish for staying, but brave nonetheless.

Tempting it might be to ask if Tiskas was referring to himself, Hiero decided against it. “They chose how to die. And they saved others while dying a warrior’s death. Foolishness? They died honorable men.”

Honor in death? The red dragon exhaled a small puff of white smoke. Was that supposed to be a derisive snort? Honor in life, I understand. In death? How would honor matter to the dead? They are dead.

“People like to think they were honorable before they die.”

An important matter for you, humans. Finding meaning in your short lives. Tiskas bent his long neck to stare at Hiero’s eyes. Do you think the same, enemy of mine? Do you yearn for meaning in your short existence?

Hiero smiled. “You’ve asked me such a question before. Differently phrased, but the same in essence.”

I recall your answer. Tiskas released another puff. How about honor in death? Do share your thoughts on the actuations of the man whose hand you hold.

“Honor in death means nothing to me. Though I admire that these men fulfilled their choice.”

Such a peculiar thing to admire, Tiskas said. Choice of death…

Before the dragon could continue philosophizing, Hiero steered the conversation to more immediate and safer topics. “Are all the ramps destroyed?”

Hiero leaned over battlements. The nearest ramp was roughly three chains-length to his left. He toppled this one himself. The stout mound that remained smoldered.

Further to the west side of the wall were more ramps, though Hiero didn’t have a clear view of them because of the bends in the wall design. The same was the situation with the east spans.

Yes, all of them, said Tiskas. Interesting behavior of these shadow beings. It caught your strategists with their pants down. That’s the human expression, isn’t it? Pants… I might try wearing one if we survive this, for the experience of pulling it down.

“I promise to sew your gigantic pants if we survive.”

My gratitude, Tiskas replied without missing a beat. Returning to what I was saying, such a blatant failure this early doesn’t bode well for the plan to hold the Blighted Multitude.

“You should join the council of war,” Hiero said. “We short-lived creatures could do well with the wisdom of a dragon.”

Alas, I am not wanted there. Nor do I want to be there. I have to be careful lest someone aspires to be a—what do you call it? Draecontyr? Your kings and generals might want to add another Draecontyr to your ranks with the Blighted Multitude in sight.

“You say that… yet you’re here beside me.” The two of them laughed. A dragon’s laughter was raspy croaking. If circumstances were different, Hiero imagined he’d be friends with Tiskas. “If you’re worried about getting attacked,” Hiero pressed in a more serious tone, “Why don’t you leave?”

Are you questioning my honor, human? Tiskas drew himself to full height. His Core glowed, siphoning traces of aileh, the building blocks of life, from the air. Questioning my courage?

Hiero chuckled. “You know that I know those things don’t matter to you. I’m genuinely curious. Why don’t you fly away and leave us lesser beings to our fates?”

Simple. Very simple, my enemy. This seems like a fun place to wait for fun things to happen. Don’t you agree?

Hiero grinned. Tiskas gave this response many times before. “You have a very peculiar definition of—hear that?”

Muffled scratching. Tiskas and Hiero faced the inner part of the wall. Something was climbing up. It could be one of the Blighted.

“Hayrosh! Arwsh yowgh thersh?” called a garbled voice. A half-human, half-insect head poked up the other side of the battlements. Thick hairy legs followed, pulling a misshapen body onto the wall.

“Misha, you should return to human first before talking,” Hiero lectured the young Flesh Molder, who had a penchant for using Cores of creatures with more than four limbs. “At least have a working mouth. Basic manners, like swallowing your food before speaking.”

“Shrworry… So-sorry. There we go.” Misha’s head had reformed though the rest of his body was still a disorganized mess. “Sorry, Hiero, uh, sir. High King Grammaton calls for council. More reinforcements have arrived, including Prince Germaine and his army, an entourage of magi from Fulguren mind-garden, more Romo with magnicannons, and the Silver Bullets!

Silver Bullets? Reinforcements were welcome, but why did it have to be them? And right after their friends died. Hiero would need to repeat the made-up selfless-sacrifice story of the seventeen.

“Also, also, also,” Misha excitedly continued. “You won’t believe this, sir. Draecontyr Lucas Cairon has arrived!”

“The pompous silver-haired grakker crawled out of his golden hole?” Hiero said. Someone else he also didn’t want to see. Hiero nodded at Tiskas. “Do you want to join the council? They won’t say no to me.”

Tiskas shook his head as he spread his wings. I can’t fit in your cramped tents to join the discussions, my enemy. And it frankly sounds such a bore. More interesting things await me elsewhere. And he ascended the skies.

Misha didn’t return to his human self. He was Molding again. “Sir, I’m off to find thesh owthersh Dreacontershs…” The insect human descended the walls and disappeared from view.

All alone, Hiero stared at the hand in his hand.

He threw it away.