Hiero had been called many names since he set out, a fledgling self-taught Flesh Molder. Early monikers related to the scar across his left eye. Thought by many to be the remnant of a sword slash suffered in battle, the scar fueled a reputation of a cold-blooded warrior—a doubly wrong belief that Hiero didn’t bother to correct.

“Titan of Lapanshar Plains?” Hiero wistfully echoed the words of Sinra-Jul.

Lapanshar, roughly meaning ‘fields of life’ in Gaolyan—an ironic name given the thousands who found their ends there.

Hiero joined Olash Vitor, a Draecontyr of great renown, aiding the Lapan-shegu enclave to wrest their lesser heart node back from the Lapan-shani kingdom. Only four years passed, yet the battle seemed distant, as did everything else before the Blight took root.

Hundreds of roaring warriors trailed his hulking form as he plowed again and again into enemy earthworks manned by terrified thousands. The thunderous rumble of Dust artillery, spells rending the earth, quaking footfalls of the many colossal Melded, the screams of those he trampled, those he incinerated—everything rolled into a blur.

“I’m not worthy of being called such.” Hiero dipped his head, accepting the outward praise that wasn’t—an evident payback for the earlier slight. The Escriman high lord was notoriously petty. But Sinra-Jul didn’t know Hiero was waiting to be handed the council’s undivided attention, and Sinra-Jul would be a piece in the play.

“Kepe kumapag, false humility.” Sinra-Jul flicked a heavy hand as he sat, the plain metal rings on his fingers catching golden shimmers. “Let us dispense with such rubbish. You have well earned the title for defeating—not only that—killing two Draecontyrs with enormous odds stacked against you. Toperes, my utmost respect.”

“I take no pride in it,” Hiero truthfully replied.

If the Mother Core could turn back time, he wouldn’t have killed Escarra and his eldest son, Melchor, Draecontyrs of the Lapan-shani. The muddy recollections of the battle contrasted with the vivid images of its end.

Rage consumed Hiero after Olash Vitor died. He buried his teeth, as long as a man was tall, deep into Melchor’s neck, spear-like claws digging out the draconic Core on his enemy’s chest as revenge. Escarra undid his Melding, shrinking from a tower to a man, doubtless to plead for his son’s life. The father’s reptilian slit pupils returned to his hazel human eyes, widening in horror as Hiero bathed him with the harshest flames.

Hiero may claim not to care for honor, but it remained an unsavory memory even if it led to victory. In repelling the expansionist Lapan-shani, he cemented his place in history, a history that’d be no more if the Blighted Multitude conquered all.

“Three Draecontyr lost, and armies of both the Lapan-shegu and Lapan-shani decimated,” Hiero continued. “What came after? The Lapan-shani king deposed by his son because of the defeat. Civil war, strife, their country weakened. If only the battle didn’t happen, the Lapan might have had the strength to face the Blighted Multitude that came two years after.

“All those deaths, and for what? Only a handful of the Lapan people survived. Theirs is now a land claimed by shadows. If we had three more Draecontyr, things might have gone differently.”

“Amnagida… Never-ending war.” Sinra-Jul shrugged his broad shoulders affixed with pauldrons displaying the Escriman lion. “As Tabither fought Athala, so we fight each other. It is a way of life on Tabithala, as you very well know, Draecontyr.”

“If only it weren’t so,” Grammaton said. “Then perhaps the East wouldn’t have fallen so easily, fragmented with death in front of their noses. Let us of the West suffer not the same mistake, though Tabither is said to be quick to anger.”

“You ask my thoughts, Lord Sinra-Jul?” Hiero said before the conversation escaped his grasp. He clasped his arms behind him and strode to the head of the table. People parted with a bow as he passed.

“It will be most welcome,” said Sinra-Jul, flint-eyed with haughtiness lacing his voice.

“A raging flood comes.” Hiero calculatedly stood five steps from Grammaton and Sinra-Jul, diagonal to the right of the table. The two, in their bulky and heavy armor, had to turn to look at him. “We cannot make a dam in time—we must accept this fact. If only we had prepared earlier…” As he trailed his words, he glanced at Grammaton.

The high king closed his eyes, mouthing a quick prayer to those dead.

A shard of rare anger stabbed Hiero’s heart. He had to sacrifice so many before the West moved. He even baited one of the Blighted through the sewers of Krysonia, infecting the small city-state. Everyone inside the walls was claimed by the Blight, including the ruling merchant lord and his wife, Grammaton’s most favored granddaughter. Only when news of one of his family turning into an abomination arrived did the old king finally agree to meet with Hiero.

Hiero breathed deeply to calm himself before he spoke, “But this isn’t the time for regrets or blaming.” He kept his cheeks from contorting into a sneer. “The flood is near. We build ships and make sure each stays afloat through the waves. I agree with your plan, Lord Sinra-Jul, for these outposts—ships in the seas of darkness.”

“Ships in the seas of darkness?” Sinra-Jul nodded, muttering more to himself than to Hiero. “That rings majestic in the ears.”

“It’s impossible to defend the outer wall if the whole mass bears on us. But we also can’t yield it. Concentrating our force on points is the best option, given our resources. Rally around the magi and the magnicannons. Let the other walls handle the weakened and depleted rest.”

“Ships and sieves—an unorthodox strategy for a strange enemy.”

Hiero lowered his head again. “That is so, Lord Sinra-Jul.”

“Draecontyr Hiero agrees with me!” Sinra-Jul declared, carrying himself broadly as he surveyed the hall.

“But if it is enough?” Hiero said. Sinra-Jul stiffened, his head snapping right. “It can never be enough.”

Grammaton angled his brow.

“Moa gid nai! It is what it is!” Sinra-Jul said, his words mingling with laughter. He leaned on the table to address Lady Elizalde. “That is your answer. It can never be enough. On the other hand, if the Dust bombards maintain as they are, the walls will be overrun again. The agnat might reach them next time; no assurance wherever those magnicannons are placed.”

The Romo Lady laced her fingers on the table, her back straight against the rest of her chair. She didn’t answer; her cheeks tensed from the side of her veil.

“It can never be enough,” Hiero repeated. “However, we can strengthen these outposts further…”

Eyes were on him. Even Lady Elizalde turned, tilting her head in interest. Sinra-Jul folded his arms across his chest while Grammaton gazed at Hiero with optimism, expecting another plan to save them. The high king wouldn’t be too pleased with the coming suggestion.

“…by having all Draecontyrs defend the outer walls,” Hiero finished.

That set the hall into whispering.

“Lapanshar Plains saw the most Draecontyr treading the same battlefield,” said Hiero. “Five of us, but not on the same side. With Lucas Cairon here, eight Draecontyrs are now inside Aderenthyn Citadel. No alliance in history can boast such might. Same as keeping the magnicannons safe would lead to losing them anyway, all of the Draecontyrs should be on the outer walls or outside of it.”

“Are you saying we should deal with these mound-ramp things?” asked the slight Felliri, combing messy strands of graying hair away from her otherwise stately face.

She was the more senior of the two Draecontyr of Grammanus, guarding the high king for nearly twenty years. Stubbornly protective, she was one of the obstacles in convincing Grammaton to defend Aderenthyn. She had looked bored and uninterested in the council, slumping in her chair beside Gail, almost melting into it, until Hiero’s suggestion came.

“If these mound-ramp things are as tall as the outer walls,” Felliri said, “then Melding non-draconic Cores won’t do the trick. We need to World Meld.”

“You’re right,” Hiero replied. “I have toppled a few in my Scaled Titan form.”

“Unsustainable, this plan of yours,” she drawled. “The air may be rich with aileh—” she drew in the surrounding energies, causing several magi to murmur “—but we can’t continue World Melding, burning through our Cores. If you haven’t noticed, the dragons are gone.”

“Except for the smart-mouthed one flying around,” a war prince threw in.

It drew a few laughs and some frowns.

There were heated discussions in past councils about what to do with Tiskas. Opinion was divided, with a majority admiring his aid to the enemies of his race. Most warriors who answered Grammaton’s war arrow were honorable, sometimes to a fault, that they wouldn’t betray Tiskas for his valuable Core.

But circumstances change. And circumstances change people. I’ll have to tell Tiskas to make himself scarcer.

Silver brows furrowed, Felliri pushed through the unwelcome disruption. “Who knows how long this siege will last? See it as the armies of the East descending upon us. More than that, if you think about it. The countless people and beasts the Blighted Multitude has consumed ballooned those numbers severalfold! Our draconic Cores can’t last long if we use them now.”

Speak for yourself, Hiero thought. He had five draconic Cores. He tried to recall if he had heard of Felliri or Javan, the other Draecontyr of Grammanus, dragon-hunting recently.

Felliri’s concern was very telling. She violated the number one rule of the Draecontyr: never expose how much of your dragon Core remains to enemy or friend. Not even a hint. Olash Vitor hammered that lesson into Hiero, firmly following it even as his dragon Core fizzled out in Lapanshar Plains.

“I’m not saying we topple the Blighted mounds ourselves,” Hiero clarified. “Rather, we help defend the outposts Lord Sinra-Jul proposed. We have kept three Draecontyr in the central keep as reserve each time the enemy attacked—a waste of strength. The soldiers wouldn't have been forced to retreat if we were all present on the outer walls.”

“We can’t turn into Scaled Titan every single—"

“Meld other forms,” Hiero said. “I agree we should conserve our draconic Cores, those we can no longer replenish. But we have plenty of other Cores available. Let the magnicannons and magi formations do their jobs. We protect them.”

“Imagine the strength of our defenses with eight Draecontyrs,” Sinra-Jul eagerly said, all wide smiles at how his proposal evolved. Doubtless, he’d claim credit and consistently remind everyone in the coming days. “The Lady of the Dust forges would surely be at peace knowing Scaled Titans guard their masterpieces.”

Lady Elizalde raised her gloved hand, displaying the gear on it. “If that is so, I withdraw all opposition. Use the works of the forges as you see fit.”

“Haphazard not to keep a few Draecontyrs in reserve!” burst Felleri, the minute wrinkles on her face more prominent as she got angrier. Her low Grammus became less understandable. “Sound tactics require keeping reserves—”

“Doesn’t apply to Draecontyr,” Hiero said. “Five days, the fighting raged on the flat lands of Lapanshar. Five days, I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I’m sure you have fought for days on end without rest in your long service for Grammanus.”

“You bet I have! How about plugging holes? A Draecontyr defending the north cannot be simultaneously defending the south. Even with eight, the outer walls span too long.”

“We have several layers of defenses—more walls, gates, and towers. Lines of soldiers, capable and honorable warriors all. Sieves, as Lord Sinra-Jul called it. I trust them, and so should you.”

“I may have arrived late,” said Lucas Cairon in flowing low Grammus, his sharp voice joining the conversation before Felliri could retort, “but whoever is in charge of assigning posts, kindly place me on the walls facing due east. I will meet the enemy head-on and let none pass. This I swear on the name of House Cairon.”

Thank you, silver-haired grakker. Hiero grinned at Lucas. The Hametite’s pomposity came at the right time, even if it wasn’t his intention to buttress Hiero.

“I’ll join in defending the walls as well.” Rebecca Ravenstone’s alien words tinkled like wind chimes. She swooped to the side of Lucas as she spoke, doing a little playful curtsy.

She garnered a smattering of applause. People may not have understood her words, but they could tell what she meant.

Rebecca was staying with the other Biosyn magi, healing the many injured, studying worthwhile Blighted samples, and stamping out any infection within the Citadel. Her skills as an Adept Gardener made her very valuable as support to the war effort, but her Draecontyr side could contribute so much more.

“We are not alone in this, Felliri,” Hiero said. “It’ll also benefit us if we stay close to our allies. We may be Scaled Titans, but alone we will be overwhelmed, like cattle consumed by borer ants.”

“Surely we can spare two to guard the entrance to the heart node?” Felliri readily dropped her other points. She craned her neck. “Ask the magi. They will agree—”

“The heart node or High King Grammaton?”

“I am pact bound to protect the high king.” She shifted uneasily in her chair. “At the same time, protecting the heart node is a priority.”

“Many guards are stationed in the tunnels,” Hiero said. “More protect the Grammanus high king. You and Javan can do more by destroying as many Blighted monsters as you can.”

“I will bleed pale before I leave the high king’s side!” Felliri slammed her scale-covered fist on the table, denting its rough surface. Gail, to her right, flinched, sprinkled with wood splinters. “Neither will Javan,” She pointed across the table at her disciple.

Hiero observed Felliri’s scales. He could never forget that specific shade of teal.

When he still slaved away for that grakker of a Biosyn magus, their caravan would visit the Grammanus capital five to six times a year. Once, there was a huge festival, some royal birthday celebration; Hiero couldn’t recall for whom. Towering over the sea of people in the central plaza was Felliri’s Scaled Titan form—Hiero’s first sight of a Draecontyr.

She’s using the same Core after all these years? Perhaps there was no need to force her away from the heart node. But better be safe.

Hiero bowed to Sinra-Jul. “Aman-Lura fights on the walls, doesn’t he?”

The lone Draecontyr of Escrimatur should be somewhere in this hall. Hiero spotted the sandy-haired and eternally vexed Aman-Lura when they filed in but had lost track of him since.

There he was, by the other end. Sinra-Jul might’ve told him to stay away to not steal attention. Likelier, Aman-Lura wanted to be rid of his arrogant master and have a moment’s peace.

“If Aman-Lura fights,” Hiero said, “why not Felliri and Javan?”

The lips of the Escriman high lord quivered. He gave Grammaton a wily sidelong glance. Sinra-Jul recognized the pedestal Hiero pushed to him.

“Aman-Lura does not stay near me—I have the Leon Lawaque as my guard. Our Draecontyr stands in front of the walls before the Escriman soldiers. On several occasions, I also fight on the walls myself. We Escrimans embody the bravery of the lion! We do not—”

“Grammanus will do the same,” old man Grammaton said before Sinra-Jul’s grandstanding spiraled out of hand. “While I can no longer fight like old times, my good friend—” he patted Sinra-Jul’s shoulder, metal clanging on metal “—I will send both our Draecontyrs forward.”

“Your highness!” Felliri exclaimed. “Our duty—"

“We all have the duty not to let the Blighted Multitude pass Aderenthyn!” Grammaton used his powerful voice to bury her objections, stopping further embarrassment to the crown. “Felliri and Javan, you two will stand with the other Draecontyrs. Let us move to the assignments on the walls. Gail, if you please…”

My work here is done. Hiero stepped to the side. He bent his head, hiding a satisfied grin as he weaved through the people, walking away from the table.

Everything went so smoothly that it was as if all the cards were turned up.

Were Tabither and Athala blessing him? He wasn’t one to believe in the old gods, but he would like to think this was a sign that divine providence—if there was any—approved of his decision, lighting his way.

He should take the time to thank Sinra-Jul before… everything ends.

Without the self-important Escriman high lord, Hiero would’ve been forced to insinuate that High King Grammaton kept his Draecontyrs back to preserve his forces while others wasted theirs. Some might’ve considered the same but thought it improper to raise. Part of Hiero suspected the old king planned it so, expecting to rise victorious against the Blighted and weaken any threats from rivals for when the dust settled.

But Hiero didn’t want to sow divisiveness with unity strained. And having the old king angry at him would be an unnecessary obstacle of his own making.

With Felliri and Javan stationed on the outer walls, far from the central keep of Aderenthyn Citadel, no one could stand in Hiero’s way should he choose to ignite the primary aileh heart node of Tabithala—in some ways, its living heart.

Hiero couldn’t say it was inevitable or that others influenced him or fate forced his hand. He couldn’t blame the gods, old or new. It was a choice.

His choice.

It was a long walk to the end of the hall.

The high king’s attendants offered him meat and wine. He politely rejected, muttering that he was in a hurry about a certain something. They bowed and retreated to the sides, disappearing behind the crystalline pillars and statues.

“Are you retiring from the meeting, sire?” asked a Grammanus guard by the double doors that stretched halfway to the soaring ceilings. Without the posted guards, Hiero could scarcely tell the door from the walls because of the shimmering material on both.

Hiero gave him a friendly smile. “Want to have some rest before the next fight.”

The guard pushed the door with an effortless stretch of an arm. It easily opened, astounding for its immense size, as if flipping the page of a book. Hiero saluted the guard, giving encouraging words as he stepped out. It was best that he befriended everyone who could become an enemy.

In the hallway outside, made of bluish stone blocks that mercifully didn’t sparkle, a red-haired man swathed in a cloak bearing a red griffin was waiting—Alluverius, half-brother of Gail.

Hiero was about to talk to Alluverius when he heard a call behind him.  

“Draecontyr Hiero!” Hurried footsteps, rugged soles on heavy feet. “A moment, if you have spare.”

Hiero closed his eyes so no one could see him rolling them in exasperation. He might not be good at remembering names, but he could recognize the voice, having heard it once. The leader of the Silver Bullets, Brol… something that sounded Verdant, had earlier asked to meet with him after the council of war—a conversation Hiero wanted to avoid.

Was this fate’s price for his success with the Grammanus Draecontyr?  

Hiero beckoned for the mercenary to follow him to the hallway. The guard saluted both of them before closing the door, ending the assault of the blasted shimmers.

The mercenary was a hulk of a man; it wouldn’t be surprising if he had Romo blood, though his appearance, especially his bronzed skin, was human. His dark brown hair—untied and roughly cut to show mourning—fell on his shoulders, contrasting with the uniform of their company—a light gray coat with blue trimmings buttoned with silver down his right flank.  

“Alluverius, this is the leader of the Silver Bullets,” Hiero said.

“Bollaghan of Verdant Hills.” Alluverius thumped his fist on his chest. “The brilliant exploits of the Silver Bullets are known to me. The Mother Core blesses us to have you and your men join the defense of the Citadel.”

“Red hair and those features?” Bollaghan nodded in return. “You must be the famed son of the fair princess of Edicta. I hear your Core swordsmanship is most impressive. I hope to witness it as brothers-in-arms.”

“I’ll just have a short chat with Bollaghan here,” Hiero said to Alluverius, mentally thanking him for mentioning the mercenary’s name.

The leader of the Silver Bullets didn’t have anything serious to discuss, simply wanting to know the last moments of seventeen of his men who lost their lives fighting the Blighted.

Hiero was prepared with his story: everyone was caught off-guard when the Blighted formed mounds to scale the walls. With the first line overrun, the retreat was sounded. The brave seventeen became the rear guard for their wall section as the rest backed to the towers and evacuated over the drawbridges.   

“I was far but witnessed their bravery with my Melded eyes of an owl king,” said Hiero. “If I was nearer and not occupied with knocking down the fleshy siege towers of the Blight, I might’ve reached them in time.”

“Is that why you pushed for all Draecontyrs to join the fight?” Bollaghan asked.

No, but I’ll adopt that. “We could lessen the casualties by a fair amount,” Hiero said. “I may have known your men for only—”

“Brothers. They are my brothers, all of them.” A tear rolled onto his side beard. “The whole company is one big family. That’s why it pained me so when my brothers left. More pain knowing we were too late to see them again.”

“I’ve known them briefly, but I’m assured of their courage. He—they told me that they came here for penance.” Hiero couldn’t recall the name of the captain of the seventeen. He hoped he wasn’t saying anything incorrect or disrespectful.

“That was their goal. A rite of contrition by selfless sacrifice… as mandated by Alatha.”

“They have fulfilled it.” Hiero offered a hand to Bollaghan.

Pacing his inhale, the picture of a red dragon formed in his mind. A mighty challenge, his first dragon kill—the father of Tiskas. He tapped into his primary draconic Core but wasn’t World Melding; he didn’t siphon aileh from the surroundings. It might spook Bollaghan, and his gesture would come off as abrasive than respectful.

Red dots covered Hiero’s arm as if numerous pinpricks drew blood. The ruby droplets solidified and interlocked, forming a gauntlet of scales that covered his enlarging hand. Nails turned black, lengthened, and curved into claws. He angled his hand down so the black claws wouldn’t point at Bollaghan.

The Silver Bullet mercenary regarded the Melded hand. “I am honored,” he said as he took it, giving it a firm shake.

Hiero exhaled and relaxed his mind. Like melting wax, the scales turned liquid, seeping into the pores of his skin. His hand shrunk back to its normal size.

Bollaghan returned to the council, the tall doors closing behind him without sound.

The two of them alone in the corridor, Hiero nodded at Alluverius. “You’re smiling. Good news?”

Alluverius nodded. “I found your former master, Biosyn magus Mitho.”