Thirteen noble riders, stripped of banners and metal armor, galloped forward. Flanked by dirt-smeared red crosses and the tattered rags of pagan resistance, they formed a jagged arrowhead around the royal outcast, charging toward the faint green glow of Bjarke’s legendary battle-axe.


    Into the toxic storm of purple haze and splattering metallic sludge, they rode to certain death.


    Trapped within the Serpent Dragon’s venomous ring, their formation shattered into desperate flurries, each rider searching for an impossible path to the glowing green. Rivers of bile and the dragon’s baleful red eyes met them at every turn, daring them to gamble—and lose. More often than not, razor-sharp talons or acidic disintegration sealed their fate before they ever reached their goal.


    But with every failed approach, Id’s fury grew wilder. The ancient demon lashed out at anything that moved, a frenzy of manic indecision that left the smallest of openings.


    Gideon seized it.


    Digging his heels into his Clydesdale’s sides, Gideon steered the lumbering warhorse through the chaos, urging it into a final, desperate sprint along a sliver of untainted ground.


    The acrid stench of the sludge clawed at his nostrils as he raced past the seething pools. The ancient’s relentless hiss spurred him forward, his bare feet gripping the saddle, knees rising and falling with the rhythm of his horse’s gallop. The moat of corruption lay between him and his prize.


    He leaped.


    The corrosive vapor gnawed through his outer armor, searing patches of exposed skin. Expecting a rough landing, he curled into himself, bracing for the acidic plunge.


    But instead of sludge, a torrent of sand erupted beneath him, solidifying into a dirt-laden bridgehead.


    Anneliese’s magic.


    He hit the ground hard, momentum rolling him from hip to shoulder until he collided with the bent shaft of Bjarke’s battle-axe. The blade flared to life, its glow slicing through the gloom.


    The Serpent Dragon shrieked and recoiled, its monstrous form veering upward before it streamlined toward the temple encampment.


    The moment Gideon touched the blade, a jarring hum surged through him. His senses snapped into place as a piercing rush of sound flooded his ears—the shriek of the Serpent Dragon, the scattered cries of horsemen, the relentless hiss of acid eating through the battlefield.


    “I haven’t the heart left to lose anyone else,” Anneliese said, appearing at his side.


    “But we’re not much for choices, are we?” Gideon replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging around him. The axe’s magic had restored more than his hearing; it had anchored him, sharpening his focus.


    The world burned unbearably alive—the sizzle of bile, the creak of leather, the thunder of his own heartbeat. He drew a slow breath, forcing the chaos to settle.


    “If Weddle hadn’t done what he did, and my life had crossed paths with his father—the Grand Master of Pragian—would he have sacrificed me to save Coble? To stop the literal apocalypse?” He exhaled, the answer already written in his bones.


    “No.” His voice was quiet but resolute. “I was born a burden. But at least now, I won’t die one.”


    “Let’s not jump to conclusions that quickly,” Lascivious said, his distorted voice echoing through the axe.


    “Anneliese, give me control. I’ll send him high, drop him through the stronghold, and anchor his exit under the dragon’s underbelly.”


    “I will not relinquish control,” Anneliese snapped.


    “Well, it’s only humanity we’re saving, right?” Lascivious groaned, his tone dripping with impatience.


    “Forget him,” Gideon said. “You’re the Lady of the Rain Cave. Coble trusted you, and I’m not here to prove him wrong. Send me high. Make it count.”


    Without hesitation, he gripped Bjarke’s bent axe and pressed it to his chest. A flash of light enveloped him, and the ground vanished beneath his feet.


    Anneliese teleported him past the pagan stronghold and into the upper troposphere, where the wind struck like a battering ram, spinning him into an uncontrolled descent.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Gideon tightened his body, stretching his limbs as the axe’s vibrations guided him like a compass toward Lascivious. Adjusting his legs, he shifted into a swaying approach, fighting to steady himself into a precarious, straight-line wobble. His target lay ahead—the center of the acidic concentric circles.


    Squinting against the splintering winds, he committed himself fully—suicidally—to Anneliese’s magic.


    “You can’t do this without me,” Lascivious barked, his voice a relentless nag in the shifting realms.


    Anneliese flickered between the magical and physical planes, her presence fracturing into three. Her first self anchored the implosive orb at the toxic moat, holding its energy on the verge of collapse. Another wove through the tunnels of the pagan stronghold, rearranging its unstable corridors as they crumbled and rebuilt with each adjustment. The third teleported rapidly, searching for the perfect point of departure, her thoughts fraying under the immense strain.


    The relentless pressure twisted her mind, and Lascivious’s presence seared through her like a shattered mirror. He lounged on the red leather couch of her imagination, mocking her with a sly grin. His invisible hands swatted at her focus, his voice a ceaseless reminder of her limitations. Old wounds—buried pain and disappointment—gnawed at her resolve.


    “You are not a wizard. This is beyond you,” he sneered.


    Then, another voice—calm, methodical.


    Draconian.


    “Forget doubt. Breathe. Deep and slow. Calm your heart and dull your mind. With every exhale, lay a row of bricks toward me. In and out, row upon row.”


    With renewed focus, she exhaled her panic.


    At the tunnel’s juncture, time seemed to pause. One hand outstretched toward the entry point, the other toward Draconian, Anneliese aligned her fractured selves. Above, Bjarke’s green axe glinted in the sky, drawing ever closer.


    As the stronghold’s shifting corridors locked into place, the world sharpened into third-person clarity.


    Gideon’s pinpoint dive pierced the magical realm. Bjarke’s axe flickered, extinguishing and reigniting in his grasp as he reappeared—his aim narrowed, his target set.


    The flash of green light froze the Serpent Dragon midair, its massive frame twisting in a desperate attempt to evade. But momentum betrayed it.


    Gideon didn’t hesitate.


    He drove the blade into the dragon’s winged elbow.


    The impact snapped the bent shaft from the axe’s head, wrenching it from his grasp and leaving him breathless, weightless, as the strike landed true.


    The Serpent Dragon spiraled, its wing collapsing inward. The green magic devoured the infected limb, twisting and crushing it in a relentless cascade. But the beast refused to yield. Gnashing its fangs, spewing acid, it tore at its own shoulder, severing the corrupted wing before the magic could spread further.


    Gideon’s triumph turned hollow as gravity reclaimed him.


    Flailing helplessly, blood rushed to his head as he plummeted. Anneliese’s magic reached for him, but instead of catching him, she only disturbed the air, making his descent more erratic.


    This is it.


    Resigned, he envisioned his grave—until gaseous claws emerged from the sky.


    A faint outline of fiery wings swept him up, gliding him gently toward safety. The frost-laden ground welcomed him like a cloud, and he laid there, caught between laughter and tears.


    “If I ever…”


    “Kulum,” Anneliese whispered, her gaze locked on the phoenix reborn.


    Its gaseous form ignited, solidifying into fiery brilliance. Warm yellow feathers blazed, red eyes gleamed, and white-tipped blue talons slashed through the air—the falcon of fire, magnificent and renewed.


    The wounded Serpent Dragon writhed in frantic reconstitution. With a half-formed wing and a throat brimming with toxic bile, it strafed the sky like an acidic firehose. But the moment the venom struck the phoenix, it ignited—transformed into fuel for the flames. Each burst of toxic spray backfired, setting the beast ablaze from within.


    Like a comet striking its target, Kulum’s fire tore through the Serpent Dragon’s writhing inner snakes. Burned and brittle, they crumbled, their blackened remains flaking away through the superheated lesions spreading across its neck. The ancient beast convulsed in agony.


    Its scales split, shedding charred serpents that crumbled into the raging inferno. In one final burst of flame, Kulum tore through the dragon’s core. Its blackened remains scattered like ash, blending into the scorched earth.


    As the fire dimmed, so too did Kulum’s spirit, vanishing alongside the vanquished ancient.


    “The prophecy was right,” Anneliese whispered. “He was the chosen one.”


    She scanned the battlefield, her heart pounding, dreading what might rise from the ashes.


    “Don’t beat yourself up too much,” Gideon said softly. “Hell, if it ain’t breathing, I ain’t worrying.”


    “But we didn’t slay the ancient”


    “No,” Gideon admitted. “But we got our pound of flesh. And next time, we’ll take a little more.”


    His gaze lingered on the purple sunset, stirring memories of his sister. Fingering the absent crest on his ring finger, he glanced at Anneliese and added, “Do me a favor, kiddo. Pursue whatever makes life worth living—and damn the rest.”


    <hr>


    As the hours waned, carried off by the evening breeze, the ghosts of fallen warriors returned to their graves.


    The surviving Templars sat slumped among the scattered belongings of their former foes, heads bowed under the crushing weight of shame. Pagan healers moved through the wreckage, dissolving corruption with careful hands. Those who accepted their aid watched the battle-scarred plateau, humbled by the charity of the pagans, painfully aware of their own unworthiness.


    Even Amos found himself aboard a gypsy wagon, his paralyzed body swaddled in layers of pagan garments. Nestled within the cocoon, he fixated on the faint sensation of coarse fabric grazing his big toe—until the inevitable moment when he and Anneliese could no longer avoid crossing paths.


    “It would take more than this to change my convictions,” Amos muttered.


    “It takes a true believer to challenge their own church,” Anneliese replied.


    Amos chuckled bitterly. “Let’s never meet again—unless I have to finish the job.”


    “Rest up, Amos. You’ve done a great deed today.”


    “If only,” he murmured, sinking into the quiet depths of his despair.