The guild hall was quieter than usual when Oberon stepped inside. The usual clatter of armor, the barked orders, the laughter of adventurers — all of it felt muted, as though the building itself were holding its breath. The air smelled faintly of parchment, steel, and the lingering smoke of the morning hearth.

  Oberon moved slowly, still feeling the aftershocks of the ritual. His limbs were heavy, his senses sharper than they should have been. Every footstep echoed too loudly. Every whisper felt too close. The world had not yet settled around him.

  He approached the counter, expecting the usual bored clerk or the guildmaster’s stern gaze.

  Instead, Avrid was waiting for him.

  The Draken stood in his humanoid form, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His blue eyes tracked Oberon the moment he entered — not with suspicion, but with a quiet, heavy concern.

  “You look worse than when you left,” Avrid said, voice low and rumbling.

  Oberon managed a tired exhale. “I feel worse.”

  Avrid pushed off the counter and approached him. Even in humanoid form, he moved with a predator’s grace — silent, deliberate, controlled. “Roselia told me what happened. The ritual. The visions. The… storm inside your head.”

  Oberon stiffened. “She told you?”

  “She tells me everything,” Avrid replied. “Especially when it concerns someone she trusts.”

  Oberon looked away, unsure how to respond to that.

  Avrid studied him for a long moment. “You’re not just exhausted. Something is pulling at you. Something old.”

  Oberon swallowed. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “I do,” Avrid said quietly. “Or at least… I have a theory.”

  He gestured toward the door. “Walk with me.”

  Oberon followed him outside. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. The village was waking — merchants opening stalls, adventurers preparing for quests, Drakens in humanoid form moving through the streets with quiet purpose.

  As they walked, Oberon noticed Avrid’s posture stiffen slightly, as though bracing himself.

  “Before we go any farther,” Avrid said, “there is something you must understand about us. About Drakens.”

  Oberon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Avrid exhaled slowly. “Our transformations. They are not… natural. Not smooth. Not painless.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

  “Every time we shift forms, our bones break and rebuild. Our muscles tear and reform. Our organs rearrange. It is not magic — it is biology forced to obey ancient instinct.”

  Oberon felt a chill. “Then why do it?”

  “Because we must,” Avrid said simply. “Because our blood demands it.”

  He lifted his hand, letting the light catch the faint scales along his knuckles.

  “There is a bit of human in every Draken,” he said. “And a bit of Draken in every human who lived near the Great Ones. We are not one species — we are two, fused together long ago.”

  Oberon blinked. “So there are no… pure dragons?”

  Avrid shook his head.

  “There has never been a true dragon,” he said. “Not once. Not in all of history.”

  He continued walking, his voice growing quieter.

  “The Great Ones were not dragons. They were forces — storms, mountains, rivers, fire, memory. When they created the Twelve, they used their own essence… and the first humans… and the first beasts. The result was us.”

  He tapped his chest.

  “Hybrids. All of us.”

  Oberon absorbed that in silence.

  Avrid continued, “The more human blood a Draken carries, the more painful the transformation. The more unstable the form. The shorter the time they can hold it.”

  He looked down at his hands.

  “That is why my transformations hurt so much. My blood leans human.”

  Oberon’s eyes widened. “And Roselia?”

  “Roselia carries far more Draken blood,” Avrid said. “Her lineage is closer to the Queen. Her body was made for power. Her transformations are smooth because her blood remembers what mine has forgotten.”

  He stopped at a clearing where the ground sloped upward toward the mountain ridges.

  “Roselia is resting,” Avrid said. “She needs time to recover from the ritual. But you… you need answers.”

  Oberon hesitated. “Where are we going?”

  Avrid shifted — bones cracking, muscles stretching, scales rippling across his skin. The transformation was violent, painful, and raw. Oberon heard the grinding of bone, the tearing of muscle, the guttural growl Avrid couldn’t suppress.

  When it was done, the black?and?blue Draken stood before him, breathing heavily.

  He lowered his head so Oberon could climb on.

  “There is a shrine,” Avrid said. “Older than kingdoms. Older than Drakens as we know them. It holds the memories of the Great Ones.”

  Oberon felt a chill run down his spine. “And you think it will help me?”

  “I think,” Avrid said, “that the mountain is already speaking to you. It is time you learned why.”

  Oberon climbed onto his back, gripping the base of Avrid’s horns.

  The Draken spread his wings, catching the rising wind.

  “Hold on,” Avrid rumbled.

  And with a powerful leap, they took to the sky.

  The flight carried them deeper into the mountains, where the air grew thinner and colder, and the forests gave way to jagged stone ridges that rose like the ribs of some ancient creature buried beneath the earth. Avrid flew lower now, gliding between towering cliffs streaked with veins of silver and obsidian. The wind whistled through narrow passes, carrying with it the scent of cold stone and distant storms.

  Oberon felt the shift in the air long before Avrid spoke. The vibrations beneath him changed — the mountain’s hum deepened, resonating through his armor and into his bones. It wasn’t the same hum he felt during battle. This one was older. Slower. Heavy with memory.

  “We are close,” Avrid said, his voice rumbling through his chest.

  They descended into a valley carved by time and wind, its floor covered in moss and scattered stones. At the far end stood a structure half-swallowed by the mountain — a massive archway of black stone, cracked and weathered, yet still imposing. Vines clung to its surface, weaving through ancient carvings that spiraled across the stone like frozen lightning.

  Oberon slid from Avrid’s back, boots sinking into the soft moss. The air here felt different — colder, but not unpleasant. It carried a weight, a presence, as though the valley itself were watching.

  “What is this place?” Oberon asked quietly.

  Avrid folded his wings and stepped forward, his claws sinking into the earth with each deliberate movement. “A shrine,” he said. “One of the oldest. Built long before kingdoms rose. Long before humans learned to write. This is where the first Drakens carved their history.”

  Oberon approached the archway, running his fingers along the grooves in the stone. The carvings were deep, etched with a precision that felt impossible for claws alone. They depicted swirling shapes, serpentine figures, and towering forms with wings that stretched across the entire arch.

  “These are the Great Ones,” Avrid said, coming to stand beside him. “The first of our kind. They shaped the mountains, carved the rivers, and breathed fire into the world. Their bodies were vast — larger than any Draken alive today. Their wings could blot out the sun.”

  Oberon traced the outline of one of the figures. “No one knows what they looked like?”

  “Not exactly,” Avrid replied. “These carvings are interpretations. Memories passed down through generations. The Great Ones were… beyond form. Beyond shape. They were the embodiment of the world’s first breath.”

  He stepped beneath the archway, motioning for Oberon to follow. Inside, the shrine opened into a cavern lit by shafts of pale light filtering through cracks in the ceiling. The walls were covered in murals — spirals of color, ancient symbols, and depictions of Drakens in various forms.

  Oberon felt the air shift again. The hum grew stronger.

  Avrid noticed. “You feel it.”

  “Yes,” Oberon said. “It’s like the mountain is… speaking.”

  Avrid nodded. “This place is alive with memory. The Great Ones left echoes of themselves here. Their breath shaped the stone. Their fire carved the walls. Their deaths fed the earth.”

  He moved toward a mural depicting twelve Drakens arranged in a circle, each one painted in a different color — red, gold, violet, blue, green, black, white, bronze, silver, crimson, jade, and ash.

  “These are the Twelve,” Avrid said. “The Pillars. The first children of the Great Ones. Each embodied a sin — not as corruption, but as power. Pride. Wrath. Greed. Lust. And so on.”

  Oberon’s gaze lingered on the violet figure. “Roselia’s ancestor.”

  “Yes,” Avrid said softly. “The Queen. Lust. The most powerful of the Twelve. Her bloodline is rare. Coveted. Feared.”

  He turned to face Oberon fully. “And that is why Allīas wants her. Not for who she is. For what she represents.”

  Oberon clenched his jaw. “He said she was the last chance for perfection.”

  Avrid snorted. “Perfection is a myth. A story told by those who fear imperfection. The Queen was powerful, yes. But she was also flawed. All the Twelve were. That is what made them real.”

  He walked deeper into the cavern, stopping before a mural depicting Drakens of various colors intertwined in a swirling pattern.

  “Color,” Avrid said, “is not just appearance. It is lineage. Memory. Emotion. It shapes who we are.”

  He lifted a wing, revealing the black scales along his side. “Black is death. The memory of endings. It marks those who descend from the Great Ones who ruled the night.”

  He tapped the grey scales along his belly. “Grey is the threshold — not between human and Draken, but between life and death. It marks those who carry both the weight of survival and the burden of loss.”

  He lowered his head, letting the light catch the blue streaks along his jaw. “And blue is sorrow. The color of memory. Of feeling too deeply. Of carrying burdens others cannot see.”

  Oberon felt a heaviness settle in his chest. “Avrid… I didn’t know.”

  “Few do,” Avrid said. “Most see only the surface. They see strength or weakness. Power or lack of it. But color is more than that. It is history. It is pain. It is purpose.”

  He turned back to the mural of the Twelve. “Roselia carries red, gold, and violet. Passion. Power. Ancient blood. She was born into a legacy she never asked for.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Oberon swallowed. “She told me some of that.”

  Avrid’s gaze softened. “She trusts you. That is rare.”

  Oberon didn’t respond.

  Avrid continued, “But color is not what determines strength. Blood does. The ratio of human to Draken blood. I am weaker because I have more human blood. My transformations hurt. My body strains. I cannot hold Draken form for long.”

  He paused.

  “Roselia is strong because she has more Draken blood. Her lineage is closer to the Queen. Her body was made for power.”

  Oberon nodded slowly. “And Allīas wants that power.”

  “He wants the bloodline,” Avrid corrected. “Not the person.”

  He stepped toward a smaller mural depicting a Draken wreathed in lightning, its wings crackling with energy.

  “This one,” Avrid said, “is the King of the East.”

  Oberon felt the air shift again — sharper this time, like the crackle before a storm.

  “He sees through clouds,” Avrid said. “Through storms. Through memory. If anyone can help you remember what happened to your comrades… it is him.”

  Oberon stared at the mural, feeling the weight of the moment settle around him.

  “Then we should go to him,” he said quietly.

  Avrid nodded. “We will. But first… there is something else you must see.”

  He turned toward a narrow passage leading deeper into the shrine.

  “Come,” he said. “The day is not over.”

  The passage narrowed as they moved deeper into the shrine, the air growing colder and stiller with each step. The walls here were smoother, less weathered, as though the stone had been shaped not by claws or tools but by something older — pressure, heat, or perhaps the breath of the Great Ones themselves. The faint hum Oberon had felt earlier grew stronger, vibrating through the soles of his boots and into his bones. It wasn’t painful, but it was insistent, like a heartbeat he couldn’t ignore.

  Avrid walked ahead, his claws clicking softly against the stone. His wings brushed the walls occasionally, sending small echoes rippling through the chamber. “This part of the shrine is rarely visited,” he said. “Most Drakens do not come this far. The air is too heavy with memory.”

  Oberon frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “You will feel it soon enough.”

  The passage opened into a circular chamber carved directly into the mountain’s heart. The ceiling rose high above them, disappearing into darkness. The walls were covered in carvings — not murals like before, but deep, spiraling grooves that formed patterns too intricate to be random. They reminded Oberon of the vibrations he felt during battle, the way the mountain seemed to pulse beneath him.

  At the center of the chamber, the stone floor dipped slightly, forming a shallow basin. The grooves in the walls converged toward it, as though the entire chamber were designed to channel something — sound, breath, memory.

  Oberon stepped closer, feeling the hum intensify. “This place… it feels alive.”

  “It is,” Avrid said quietly. “This chamber is called the Echo. It was carved to hold the memories of the Great Ones. Their breath shaped these walls. Their voices linger here.”

  Oberon ran his fingers along one of the grooves. The stone was cold, but beneath the surface he felt a faint vibration — rhythmic, steady, ancient.

  “Roselia has been here,” Avrid said. “Many times. Her ancestor’s lineage resonates strongly with this chamber. It is why she understands our history better than most.”

  Oberon looked up. “And you brought me here because…?”

  Avrid studied him for a long moment, his blue eyes reflecting the faint light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. “Because you feel the mountain,” he said. “You feel its hum. Its breath. Its memory. That is not normal for a human.”

  Oberon swallowed. “I thought it was just instinct.”

  “No,” Avrid said softly. “It is something deeper. Something older. The mountain does not speak to humans. It speaks to Drakens. And yet… it speaks to you.”

  Oberon stepped back, the hum in his bones growing louder. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Avrid admitted. “But I have theories.”

  He moved toward the basin at the center of the chamber, lowering his head until his snout nearly touched the stone. “There are stories,” he said. “Old stories. Stories of humans who lived near the Great Ones. Humans who breathed their fire. Humans who survived their storms. Some say those humans were changed. Touched. Altered by the presence of ancient power.”

  Oberon felt his pulse quicken. “You think I’m one of them?”

  “I think,” Avrid said carefully, “that something in you responds to Draken power. Something in you remembers what it should not.”

  Oberon stared at the spiraling grooves, the way they seemed to pulse faintly with each breath he took. “Roselia said the same thing. She said I fought like a Draken.”

  Avrid nodded. “I saw it too. Your movements. Your awareness. The way you sensed the cultists before they struck. That is not human instinct.”

  Oberon’s hands trembled. “Then what am I?”

  Avrid didn’t answer immediately. He stepped into the basin, letting the vibrations ripple through his claws. The chamber responded — a low, resonant hum that filled the air like a distant chorus.

  “You are Oberon,” Avrid said finally. “And that is enough. But if you wish to understand what else you may be… then you must listen.”

  “Listen to what?”

  “To the Echo.”

  Oberon stepped into the basin beside him. The hum intensified, rising through his boots, his legs, his chest. It wasn’t sound — not exactly. It was memory. Pressure. Breath. The mountain’s pulse.

  Avrid closed his eyes. “Let it speak.”

  Oberon did the same.

  The chamber breathed.

  And for a moment, Oberon felt something vast and ancient brush against the edges of his mind — not a vision, not a voice, but a presence. A memory older than kingdoms. Older than Drakens. Older than the mountain itself.

  He gasped and staggered back, the hum fading as quickly as it had risen.

  Avrid steadied him with a wing. “Easy. The Echo shows only fragments. It does not reveal truth — only possibility.”

  Oberon caught his breath. “What did I just feel?”

  “History,” Avrid said. “And perhaps… a piece of yourself.”

  He stepped out of the basin. “Come. We have learned what we can here. The day is moving, and there is still much to discuss.”

  Oberon followed him back toward the passage, the hum fading behind them like a heartbeat slipping into silence.

  They left the Echo chamber in silence, the hum fading behind them like a heartbeat slipping into memory. The air outside felt lighter, warmer, as though the mountain itself had exhaled. Avrid stretched his wings once they reached the open valley, shaking off the lingering tension from the shrine’s depths. Oberon followed him across the moss?covered ground, still feeling the faint echo of the chamber’s resonance in his bones.

  The sun had risen fully now, casting long beams of gold across the ridges. Birds circled overhead, their cries echoing through the valley. A thin mist clung to the ground, curling around their ankles as they walked.

  “We should rest,” Avrid said. “The Echo takes more from the body than most realize.”

  Oberon nodded. “I feel… strange. Like something brushed against me.”

  “That is normal,” Avrid replied. “The Echo does not speak in words. It speaks in pressure. In instinct. It shows only fragments.”

  They settled beneath a cluster of pines at the valley’s edge. Avrid lowered himself onto the grass, folding his wings neatly. Oberon sat beside him, leaning back against a smooth boulder warmed by the morning sun. For a while, they simply breathed — letting the mountain wind wash over them, letting the silence settle.

  Eventually, Avrid spoke again, but his voice was quieter now, more reflective.

  “You understand now why Roselia carries so much weight,” he said. “Her lineage. Her colors. Her blood. All of it ties her to a history she never asked for.”

  Oberon nodded slowly. “She told me some of it. But hearing it here… seeing it carved into the stone… it feels heavier.”

  “It is,” Avrid said. “And she carries it alone more often than she admits.”

  He shifted slightly, settling more comfortably into the grass. “You asked earlier why the cult obsesses over her. It is not just her power. It is what she represents. A bloodline they believe should shape the future.”

  Oberon frowned. “And they think I’m in the way.”

  “They think you are a threat,” Avrid corrected. “Not because of what you are — but because they cannot explain you.”

  He turned his head, blue eyes steady. “A human who moves like a Draken. A human who feels the mountain. A human who stands beside Roselia without wanting her bloodline. They do not understand that. And what cannot be understood is feared.”

  Oberon looked down at his hands. “I don’t understand it either.”

  “That is precisely why we must seek answers,” Avrid said. “The King of the East sees through storms and memory. If anyone can reveal what happened to your comrades — or what lies within you — it is him.”

  The wind rustled through the pines, carrying the scent of sap and cold stone. After a moment, Avrid rose to his feet.

  “Come,” he said. “There is a stream nearby. We should eat before we continue.”

  They walked until they reached a narrow stream cutting through the rocks. The water was clear and cold, rushing over smooth stones. Avrid lowered his head to drink, while Oberon cupped his hands and brought the water to his lips. It tasted clean, sharp, alive.

  Avrid lifted his head. “We return to Roselia first. She must know what we have learned.”

  Oberon nodded. “She deserves to.”

  Avrid lowered himself again. “Climb on. The day is not yet done.”

  Oberon mounted, gripping the base of Avrid’s horns. The Draken spread his wings, catching the rising wind.

  They took flight.

  And the long day’s breath carried them toward the tavern — and toward the Drakens waiting inside.

  The flight back toward the settlement was quieter than their earlier journey. Avrid’s wingbeats were steady but slower, as though the weight of the shrine still clung to his muscles. The wind carried the scent of pine and distant smoke, and the sun had begun its slow descent behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the valleys. Oberon held on, feeling the air shift around them, feeling the mountain’s hum fade into a softer, more distant pulse.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, the lamps along the streets had begun to glow, their flames flickering in the evening breeze. Avrid landed in a secluded patch of trees just beyond the walls, lowering himself so Oberon could slide off. The Draken exhaled sharply, his wings trembling from the strain of holding his form for so long.

  “You should rest,” Oberon said quietly.

  “I will,” Avrid replied, though his voice carried the tightness of fatigue. “But not yet.”

  He shifted back into his humanoid form with a slow, deliberate breath. The transformation was less violent this time, but still painful — muscles tightening, bones reshaping, scales receding beneath skin. When it was done, Avrid stood hunched for a moment, catching his breath.

  “Come,” he said. “Roselia will want to hear what we found.”

  They slipped through the narrow gap in the wall Avrid had shown him earlier, emerging into the lamplit streets. The village was livelier now — adventurers returning from quests, merchants closing their stalls, children chasing each other through the alleys. But as Oberon and Avrid approached the tavern, the noise shifted. It grew deeper. Heavier. Less human.

  Oberon pushed open the door.

  The sound hit him first — a low rumble of voices, deeper and rougher than the usual tavern chatter. The air was warmer, thicker, carrying the scent of smoke, scales, and something faintly metallic. When he stepped inside, the room fell into a brief, palpable hush.

  There were more Drakens here than he had ever seen in one place.

  Some he recognized from earlier encounters — broad?winged guardians, slender mountain gliders, scaled scholars with long frills. Others were strangers, their colors and shapes unfamiliar. A few sat in humanoid forms, cloaked and hooded, their eyes glowing faintly beneath the fabric. Others remained in their natural bodies, curled around tables or perched on reinforced beams.

  And every one of them turned to look at him.

  Oberon felt the weight of their attention like a physical pressure. Not hostile — not yet — but curious. Measuring. Assessing. Whispering in low, rumbling tones he couldn’t fully understand.

  Avrid stepped beside him, his posture straightening. “Ignore them,” he murmured. “They have heard things.”

  Oberon swallowed. “About me?”

  “About last week,” Avrid said. “And about Roselia.”

  Oberon’s pulse quickened. “What did I do last week?”

  Avrid didn’t answer. Not yet.

  Oberon scanned the room until he found her.

  Roselia sat at a table near the back, her massive form curled around the wooden structure like a protective coil. Her head rested on the table, eyes half?lidded in thought. But the moment she sensed him, her frills lifted, and she turned toward him with a slow, deliberate grace.

  “Oberon,” she said, her voice warm but edged with something tired. “There you are.”

  He climbed onto the table with effort, settling across from her. “We found something,” he said. “At the shrine.”

  Roselia’s eye sharpened. “Tell me.”

  Before he could speak, something brushed his shoulder — light, quick, and unfamiliar. Oberon turned sharply.

  A Draken stood beside him. Smaller than Roselia, but longer in body, with fur along his spine and scales along his limbs. His face was narrow, almost rodent?like, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent.

  “I heard you were speaking of memories, scavenger,” the Draken whispered.

  Oberon stiffened. “Yes. Is it important?”

  The Draken nodded slowly. “Out there, in the clouds…”

  Roselia lifted her head. “You speak of the King of the East?”

  The white Draken nodded. “He sees the places you have been. The storms you have walked through. The memories you have lost.”

  Oberon narrowed his eyes. “And why should we trust you?”

  “Because everyone knows him,” the Draken replied. “He is a Draken of great care. We hold a good relationship. And we are certain he would wish to see you.”

  Oberon glanced at Roselia.

  She shrugged, her wings shifting. “Why not? And if things get hectic, we can always slice a few throats.”

  The white Draken bowed his head. “My name is Xiao.”

  A second Draken approached — black?scaled, quiet, his movements smooth and hesitant. “And I am Tien,” he murmured.

  “He is shy,” Xiao whispered.

  Roselia rose, offering Oberon her foreleg to help him down. “Shall we leave now?”

  Oberon nodded. “No point in waiting.”

  He stepped toward the door, Xiao and Tien following close behind, their scales whispering against the wooden floor. The tavern’s eyes followed them — curious, wary, expectant.

  Outside, the night air was cool and dense, carrying the scent of pine and distant storms.

  Oberon took a breath.

  “Let’s go.”

  And the next journey began.