Echo of the Dragon God

Crack!

A brownish wooden pendant split in the woman's hands. Her face, once the picture of tranquility and peace, twisted into horror and despair.

"Mrs. Thalienne, is everything alright? I heard a crack."

A faint, elderly voice called from below, muffled by thick branches and leaves. It was the same forest where Dravion had hatched—yet far from where he was now.

The young-looking elf stared at the broken pendant she had shared with her youngest son. If the pendant stayed whole, it meant he was safe. But if it broke... That thought alone nearly stopped her heart.

"Dravion…" A sob escaped her lips. "My baby… my boy…"

Her voice echoed through the village, woven into the trees. Almost instantly, the large, pointed ears of those scattered across the branches and forest floor perked up. Then they moved quickly, rushing toward the source of the sound.

"What happened?!"

A panicked, breathless voice cut through the forest as a man leapt up the trees like an agile predator. He was an elf too, one of them. This was their tribe. Likely the same one the Dragon God had torn through after hatching.

He rushed to the woman, pulled her into his arms with trembling care. But when his eyes fell on the pendant in her hands, his breath stopped.

He reached into his pocket with shaking fingers and pulled out two more.

Cracked.

Just like hers.

"No... No! Dravion... Kaenira... Sarevyn..." His voice cracked, each name stabbing out like a blade. "My children... NO! Who dares?!"

His rage flared; one could feel how wild and unrestrained it was. For an elf to lose control like this was nearly unheard of. One could only imagine the pain it took.

He turned, face dark, voice cold.

"Gather the strongest fighters." He paused. His eyes revealed a burning thirst for blood. "We must hunt whatever killed our children... We'll trace their steps... Move! Now!"

An angry mob didn't need to be told twice. Weapons were snatched up, armor thrown on. Maybe thirty elves in total—not many, but every one of them was elite.

Meanwhile, Dravion was still devouring the inside of his eggshell, oblivious to the storm he had unleashed.

But let's return to the present.

He stood awkwardly on two feet, staring at his own body. It felt strange and wrong. He wasn't meant to move like this… and yet, somehow, it came naturally. Like he'd done it before.

But his memories were foggy. Clouded pieces that wouldn't fall into place.

He didn't marvel at his strength. He didn't feel awe. It didn't feel special. If only he remembered who he truly was, he'd understand why.

"Follow my voice..."

The whisper returned, drifting through his mind like wind through leaves. This time, it came from the west, where the sun slowly sank behind the horizon.

He stepped forward. But then hesitated.

"Why?" he asked the air. "Why should I follow? Who are you? What do you want from me?"

No answer came back. Only the ripple of space ahead, quivering in the direction he had to go.

His feet moved on their own. Slow. Hesitant. But forward...

Twenty minutes earlier…

"A bloodbath... What kind of monster could've done this?" A trembling voice broke the silence as one of the elven warriors stood over the corpses. Young. All headless. But still identifiable by their markings, their clothes. They were their kin.

The warriors had gathered in the clearing, weapons drawn, but no battle waited, only silence and death.

"Look," someone pointed near the base of a tree. "The earth here... it's fresh. No grass. Something was placed here." The spot where Dravion's egg had once rested. Now, just bare soil.

Sylvaran, father of the fallen, knelt down. He held the smallest body in his arms. His son. His Dravion. Just... headless...

He didn't speak. His eyes were hollow, void of life.

"Sylvaran," one of the warriors said softly. He didn't react or answer. "Sylvaran!" A slap cracked across his cheek.

"Snap out of it!" the warrior barked. "We can mourn after we bring back the head of the thing that did this!" His voice was as solid as steel. He had lost a child as well. But his heart hadn't broken yet; it didn't have time to do so.

Sylvaran blinked. A flicker in his eyes returned. And then a flame.

"Thank you, brother..." He laid his son's corpse down and covered it gently with leaves.

"Spread out. We must track where it left."

"No need," another warrior said, pointing.

A trail of destruction carved through the trees. Trees splintered, brush flattened, the path clear.

"Then let's move. Quickly!"

But then—

RUMBLE!

A deafening explosion cracked through the northern sky. A wave of wind pressure roared past them, shaking the branches, flattening grass. The warriors froze.

Fear crept into their bones. That power… It came from the direction the beast had gone. They ran towards the sound at full speed. Five minutes of sprinting, and then they saw the dreadful view.

The forest was gone.

The sacred northern side was reduced to ash. Trees obliterated. The ancient spring was completely bone dry.

One of them staggered forward, voice weak. "Impossible... That strength... I-It's on the level of a Pulseforged warrior..."

Another shook his head, voice shaking. "No one in our ranks can fight that. We're only Veinkindle... We're dead if we try."

Sylvaran stood at the edge, breathless. The destruction around him reflected the storm inside him.

He craved that power. But his core… his soul… wasn't pure enough. He knew it.

Still—

"No. Even if we're a stage below... even if we die... We'll fight. We must."

"You'll get us all killed!" one of the warriors shouted, backing away. "We need the chief! Only he—!"

"I'll kill you if you run," Sylvaran growled, eyes cold. "Choose: death or battle. You will die, but I will bring back the creature's head to calm our children's souls."

They hesitated.

Then a scout shouted, "Tracks! Heading west!"

Footprints decorated the soil. Bare, but clawed. Inhuman yet humanoid. Dragging slightly—like a child.

They didn't argue for long. Sylvaran was the strongest in the group. If he wanted to kill them, he could. So they followed, preparing themselves for the worst.

They ran at full speed for twenty more minutes—until finally, between the trees, they saw what they were looking for.

A small, childlike figure: Draconic features. Pale skin. Strange posture. Walking slowly through the forest, unaware of the world behind him.

Sylvaran's rage erupted.

"Filthy dragon-kin! So that's who dared to spill the sacred elven blood. DIE!"

He launched forward, blade drawn. And the child turned. Two golden eyes met his charge. Calm. Cold. Unshaken. A gaze of dominance—older than any warrior had a right to carry.

And for just a moment, Sylvaran's heart trembled in fear.