The wind howled across the ridges of Emberreach, carrying ash and the scent of sulfur. From Ironmark’s tallest tower, Inigo stood silent, scanning the distant jagged horizon. Crimson streaks painted the clouds like the blood of a waking god. His binoculars fogged faintly with breath.
Something had changed. The air felt tighter. Heavier.
Behind him, the sound of armored boots echoed on the stone steps.
Marshal Cedric joined him, a black fur cloak wrapped over his chainmail. His helm hung at his hip, and his brow was furrowed.
"Our scouts report tremors near the gorge," Cedric said. "Sporadic, but increasing. They say... it stirs."
Inigo lowered the binoculars. "She’s preparing. She knows something’s coming."
Cedric studied him. "And you’re still set on this? You plan to face it alone?"
"I have something the dragon’s never seen before."
Cedric raised a brow. "A spell? Some relic?"
The Marshal exhaled slowly. He didn’t ask further. He’d learned not to.
Instead, he gestured toward the chapel. "The Flamekeeper requests your presence. She’s waiting with your companion."
The chapel’s interior was still and warm, lit by oil lanterns and the orange glow of a coal basin. Lyra stood near the priestess, already armored and prepared, bow slung across her back, fingers dusted with soot.
"You come to face not just a beast," the old priestess said, voice like dry wood, "but a wrath older than memory. A trial by fire."
"I’m not here for riddles," Inigo replied.
"Then heed only the flame." She gestured to the basin. "Touch it."
He stepped forward. The heat licked his skin, but the coals did not burn. Instead, they pulsed—once, then again—like a slow heartbeat.
The priestess’s eyes glimmered. "Your flame is foreign, but fierce. Guided by will, not faith."
Lyra stepped up. "Will you bless us?"
The priestess nodded, whispering words in the ancient tongue. The coals flashed gold, casting strange shadows on the walls.
"When the sky screams," she intoned, "may your will not falter."
Ironmark’s plaza was a buzz of tension by late morning. Civilians lingered along rooftops and alleys, watching as soldiers hauled crates of arrows, oil jars, and barricade wood into the bunkers.
Near the barracks, Lyra tightened the straps of her shoulder guard. Inigo approached, checking the fit of his webbing harness, his M4 slung tight across his chest.
"You’re ready?" she asked.
She studied his face. "You’ll use it, then. The thing you hide."
He nodded. "The dragon takes flight, I take her down."
She sighed. "Just... don’t lose yourself in it."
Inigo met her eyes. "I won’t."
Marshal Cedric strode up behind them. "If you plan to act, do it soon. She’s waking."
An hour later, just outside Ironmark, a hidden crater lay still—its jagged ridges forming a basin of blackened stone and ash.
At its center, camouflaged beneath thick netting and enchanted canvas, rested the Apache.
The town’s soldiers, a small squad selected personally by Cedric, stood at a distance. All had sworn silence.
But as Inigo stepped forward and began removing the canvas, the whispers started.
"What... is that?" a young soldier muttered.
"It’s made of black iron... but I see no horses, no wheels..."
Another pointed at the rotor blades. "Wings? Are those wings? No—they spin."
A low clatter echoed as the protective coverings came off, revealing sleek metal, the nose of the machine, and its weapons mounted beneath stubby pylons.
A veteran knight stepped forward in disbelief. "That’s no siege weapon. It’s not even elven work."
"No," said Cedric quietly. "It’s his."
Inigo climbed into the cockpit, lowered the canopy, and began the ignition sequence.
The turbine hissed. Then came the growl. The rotor began to spin.
"By the Saints..." someone whispered. "It lives."
The rotor speed increased, stirring ash into the air, lifting pebbles from the crater floor. The wind howled like a coming storm.
As the Apache began to rise, hovering above the crater’s edge, the onlookers took a step back, shielding their faces.
A soldier dropped to his knees. "Is he summoning a dragon of his own!?"
"No," Cedric answered, a faint smirk on his lips. "That is his steed."
The Apache ascended fully now, its hull glinting in the pale sunlight. As it banked and turned, Lyra stood alone at the ridge’s edge, wind whipping her cloak.
Inside, Inigo tapped the comms. Static buzzed.
Then: "Heading for the gorge."
Across the ridges, the Emberreach Gorge steamed and cracked. Volcanic vents spewed bursts of molten gas as clouds of ash spiraled into the sky.
From his cockpit, Inigo saw the ruin below—half-swallowed by slag and broken stone. The skeletal remains of the old dragon lay scattered around the Black Cradle.
A flicker of movement in the soot. The old ribcage collapsed inward.
She burst from the earth with a roar that tore the wind apart.
Wings of fire unfurled. Her scales burned brighter than a forge. Her maw spewed jets of flame across the gorge.
Inigo didn’t hesitate.
He pulled the stick, bringing the Apache into a wide orbit. Targeting HUD tracked her as she circled—ascending, ascending, seeking the wind.
The dragon’s head jerked in his direction. Her wings shifted. She surged higher.
Below, Ironmark’s bells rang in alarm.
Citizens gasped and pointed skyward as the red dragon broke into view.
And then they saw it—the metal bird trailing behind her, shrieking like thunder.
The Apache soared past the chapel’s spire. Even the Flamekeeper stepped out to witness.
Inigo activated the cannon.
"Let’s see if you bleed."
The shells struck her flank—sparks and flame erupting. The dragon twisted in the air, howling in fury.
No kill. But a message.
And Inigo screamed back.
The shells struck her flank—sparks and flame erupting. The dragon twisted in the air, howling in fury.
No kill. But a message.
And Inigo screamed back.
As the dragon banked sharply, flames trailing from her wings, Inigo circled wide, reading her movements. He could feel the heat even through the reinforced canopy. Her roar echoed through the canyons like a death sentence.
Far below, the people of Ironmark watched with bated breath—watching a battle that belonged to gods and monsters.
And somewhere in the chapel, the Flamekeeper whispered a prayer not from scripture, but from fear.
This was no longer a hunt.