The unnatural cold that clung to the air, as if even the world itself recoiled from what was happening. He remembered the way the sky darkened that day.
He remembered the sound of buildings collapsing and of people crying out for mercy that never came.
And he remembered how helpless he had felt.
All he could do was watch as the dark legions swept through his village like a plague. Creatures not born of nature but of rot and blight and cruel design. His hands had shaken so badly he couldn't even hold the sword properly at that time.
He remembered how he lost his father right before his eyes.
Now, standing on the edge of another battlefield, watching those same horrors march forward with hollow eyes and twisted limbs, something inside Jaenor snapped.
His breath grew sharp.
His fists clenched.
Rage surged through him like wildfire.
These monsters had taken everything—his home and his father, and they made him leave his home.
They had turned him into a fugitive, a survivor, a shadow of the person he might have become. Every step since Frostvale had been soaked in fear, in bitterness, in a fury that he had buried just to keep moving forward.
But now, that fury burned too hot to contain.
In the central market square, a massive figure in crude iron armor was brutally cutting down fleeing civilians.
The orc's axe rose and fell in an erratic manner, each swing claiming lives as easily as a farmer harvesting wheat.
"Jaenor," Baren's voice was tight with urgency and barely controlled fury, "we have to go. Now. Rena and Taeryn are down there somewhere, and if the fortress is engaged..."
The unspoken implication hung in the air between them.
Their friends—the companions who had shared their adventures and watched their backs through countless dangers—were fighting for their lives on two fronts.
While Morgana and her group held the pass against whatever wicked force had allied with the orcs, Rena and Taeryn were somewhere in that burning town, probably cut off and outnumbered.
Jaenor turned to Odessa, his eyes reflecting an inner struggle that tore at his heart.
But the thought of abandoning his friends felt infinitely worse.
"Let me help them," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of battle.
Odessa studied his face for a long moment, reading the conflict written there as clearly as words on a page.
She had known this moment would come eventually—the moment when his loyalty to his friends would clash with the safer path she had mapped out for them.
Part of her wanted to refuse, to use her authority as his mentor to drag him away from this doomed battlefield.
The smart thing, the safe thing, would be to let the town burn and use the chaos to cover their own escape.
But she had not survived years of war and intrigue by ignoring the currents that shaped the world around her. The powers stirring in this battle were significant, and their resolution would echo through the region for years to come.
More importantly, she could see in Jaenor's eyes that forcing him to abandon his friends would break something essential in his spirit—something that might never heal.
After a moment that felt like an eternity, she nodded slowly.
"Go," she said simply.
"But be careful. Whatever force is commanding this assault, it's more dangerous than simple orc cunning. Don't take unnecessary risks."
Relief flooded Jaenor's features like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.
He leaned forward to press a quick, fierce kiss to Odessa's lips—a kiss that tasted of gratitude and promise and the bittersweet knowledge that this might be their last moment of peace for a very long time.
"Baren," he called to his friend, stepping back from Odessa while power began to coil around him like visible heat waves.
"You go to the fortress. Find Rena and Taeryn. I'll handle the situation in town."
Baren nodded grimly, already feeling the familiar tingling sensation that preceded his transformation.
"Don't do anything stupid, Jaenor. That Orc Lord down there could crush you like an insect if you're not careful."
"When have I ever done anything stupid?" Jaenor replied with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Baren's response was a snort of derisive laughter, but there was affection in it. "Do you want the complete list, or just the highlights from this past month?"
Before Jaenor could retort, his friend's form began to shift and expand.
Bones lengthened and thickened, muscles swelled with supernatural strength, and scales erupted across his skin in waves of brilliant orange.
Within moments, where a young man had stood, there was now a dragon—not the massive, ancient wyrm of legend, but still large enough to carry multiple riders, with wings that could span a modest building.
Baren's transformation was always impressive, but tonight, with the firelight playing across his orange scales like molten metal, he looked like something out of the old heroic ballads.
"Try not to get yourself killed while I'm gone," Baren said, his mental voice carrying the same mixture of worry and affection as his spoken words had.
With that, he launched himself into the air with powerful beats of his wings, angling toward the distant fortress where dragon-fire still painted the sky in brilliant, terrible colors.
Jaenor watched his friend disappear into the smoke-hazed distance before turning his attention to his own preparations.
The power that had been building around him suddenly erupted outward in a burst of pure Origin energy that made the air itself shimmer like water. Behind him, he felt the familiar sensation of his wings unfurling—three pairs of them, each one a masterwork of ethereal beauty that seemed to be crafted from solidified starlight and shadow.
The wings tore through the specially modified tunic he wore, the fabric parting along pre-cut seams that Odessa had sewn for him.
Unlike Baren's dragonic transformation, Jaenor's wings were purely manifestations of his unique heritage—visible only when he chose to reveal them, but no less real for their ethereal nature.