Yet here he was, belly scraping rough ground, fingers splayed for balance, cloak dragging behind him like a rebellious cat.
He flicked a small rock aside with a sigh. “You know,” he whispered, “there’s a certain indignity to this.”
Thessaly gave a faint smile beside him. “You’d rather walk upright and be shot?”
“Depends on the size of the arrows,” Alistair muttered.
Ahead of them, Brimma moved with surprising grace for someone her size, even in her gnarled old gnome body. Her staff was slung across her back, hands free as she crawled.
The wasteland stretched around them, flat, broken earth scattered with bone fragments and jagged stone. Even in the darkness, hiding was difficult. Too open. Too exposed.
Buddy was somewhere behind them, padding silently, covering their rear. The bond between them hummed faintly fierce and protective.
Alistair trusted him to give warning if anything came from behind.
For now, they were waiting.
Kael had gone ahead.
With his new gear and that irritatingly useful ability he’d gained from bonding with a spirit guide, the elf was now by far their best scout.
Light-footed, near invisible in the dark.
And they needed eyes badly.
Alistair glanced up. Still nothing. Still too quiet.
Brimma whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” Thessaly said softly. “It’s too quiet.”
Alistair shifted. “We expected chaos. Champions tearing each other apart by now.”
“A feeding frenzy,” Brimma agreed. “Over dragon bones? There should be screams echoing from here to the gods.”
Thessaly turned to Alistair. “Can you feel Kael?”
Alistair blinked. Right, the Soulbond.
He closed his eyes for a moment, reaching inward.
The connections were there, three threads woven into the fabric of him now.
He could feel them pulsing, flaring brightly somewhere deep inside. Blinding suns tugging at the edges of his awareness.
Carefully, he reached toward them.
The first thread pulsed strong, steady, warm. Thessaly.
The second was colder, sharper. Brimma. He could almost feel the weight of her gaze through it.
The third flared brighter now, moving. Closer. Fast.
Kael.
Alistair opened his eyes. “He’s coming.”
Brimma nodded. “Good.”
Minutes passed. The three of them stayed low, unmoving, eyes scanning the open field.
Finally a flicker of motion.
Kael emerged from the shadows, crouching low, bow slung across his back. His cloak shimmered faintly, blending with the darkness.
Alistair shifted to meet him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, catching the frown on the elf’s face.
Kael crouched beside them. “It’s weird,” he said quietly. “I scouted close to the dragon’s remains.”
He glanced around, then continued. “There are champions, sure. But not fighting. I mean skirmishes, a few little clashes. But no full battles. No big groups trying to claim the bones.”
Alistair frowned. “How few?”
Kael’s eyes narrowed. “Too few. For something this big? Way too few.”
Brimma’s voice was sharp. “What about the dragon?”
Kael’s eyes flashed. “Oh. It’s… it’s unbelievable.”
He shook his head. “There’s a whole dragon there. Full skeleton. Glowing. Beautiful. Just… sitting there. Ready for the taking.”
Thessaly spoke next, voice calm. “Then why hasn’t anyone claimed the bones?”
Kael opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned deeper.
“No idea,” he said finally. “And that’s what worries me.”
Alistair exhaled slowly.
“Right,” he murmured. “So… a prize too good to be true, unguarded, and half the champions missing.”
He glanced at Brimma. “Care to wager how badly this is about to go?”
She smirked. “Even I’m not that foolish.”
Alistair smiled thinly.
“Then we tread carefully,” he said. “And we stay ready.”
He flexed his fingers once, blades loose at his side.
They moved.
Low, slow, careful.
Alistair led the way, crawling ahead across broken stone and ash-streaked ground.
The others followed in a staggered line, Brimma next, Thessaly flanking slightly left, Kael keeping rear guard.
Buddy padded a few meters behind, silent now, molten eyes flicking left and right.
Ahead, the wasteland opened wider, an unnatural clearing stretching for hundreds of meters.
And in the center…
Alistair’s breath caught.
The Crystal Dragon lay sprawled across the earth, a full skeleton, massive and gleaming.
Bones the color of frozen starlight.
Glowing faintly from within, crystal veins pulsing like a heartbeat.
The ribcage alone rose higher than a fortress wall.
Shards of pure light laced the spine, trailing to a skull crowned with jagged horns of translucent sapphire.
It looked like something torn from the gods’ own vaults.
Kael slithered up beside him. “Told you.”
Alistair could only nod. “By all the damned stars…”
They paused taking it in.
Scattered around the dragon’s remains, figures moved, Champions, cautious, watching each other more than the prize.
Alistair counted quickly.
Two groups of five near the far flank. Three solitary champions edging closer from the east. Another cluster huddled near the shattered tail.
Too few. Far too few.
Brimma whispered, “This is wrong.”
“No argument here,” Alistair murmured.
Thessaly crawled forward. “Why aren’t they attacking?”
Alistair smirked thinly. “Either they’re smarter than us… or dumber.”
He scanned again.
No guards. No wards. No divine traps, at least none visible.
Just the dragon.
Waiting.
Kael whispered, “They’re watching each other. No one wants to be first.”
Alistair flexed his fingers. “The first one who tries becomes everyone else’s target.”
Brimma whispered, “less than two hours left.”
Kael nodded. “Give or take.”
Alistair looked up, sky darkening, stars faint now behind a thin veil of cloud.
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“Clock’s ticking,” he said softly.
He studied the field again.
No alliances forming. No obvious leaders. Just wary, scattered groups circling the prize.
He exhaled.
“Well,” he said lightly. “The good news? The bones are still there.”
Thessaly raised a brow. “And the bad news?”
Alistair grinned. “We might have to kill half the Arena to get them.”
Buddy growled, deep and eager.
Brimma’s eyes narrowed. “You would enjoy that.”
“Only a little,” Alistair said innocently.
He shifted forward, settling into position.
“Alright,” he whispered. “Eyes open. We wait. We watch. When the moment comes...”
His smile sharpened.
“... we take the first bite.”
Alistair shifted, eyes fixed on the field.
Champions circled. No one moved first. Everyone smelled the same stink of a trap.
He let the silence drag a moment longer, then spoke, voice low but clear. “Alright. Time to think like survivors, not idiots.”
Kael leaned in. “We’re already ahead of half this lot, then.”
Alistair smirked. “Let’s keep it that way.”
He tapped a claw against the ground, fast and rhythmic. His mind was racing. “There’s no alliance here. No big rush. Which means everyone’s waiting for someone else to die first.”
Brimma grunted. “Obvious.”
“But useful,” Alistair countered. “If we move too soon, we paint a target on our backs. If we move too late, we get caught in the bloodbath.”
Thessaly’s voice was calm, steady. “So we stay with the middle wave.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at each of them. “Slow. Measured. We move when they do.”
Brimma scowled. “And if none of them move?”
Alistair’s smile was sharp. “Then we outlast the fools who lose patience.”
Kael’s gaze flicked back to the scattered groups. “They’re already twitchy.”
Alistair followed his glance. Saw champions walk slowly towards the target, the Crystal Dragon.
And across every face: the same confusion. The same wary calculation.
They didn’t understand why the prize sat untouched.
Neither did he.
“Something’s wrong,” Brimma whispered.
“Understatement of the century,” Alistair replied. His voice was light, but tension coiled tight beneath it.
He flexed his fingers once. The Redcrystal Sword rested light at his hip. His mana pulsed steady through the bond. He felt Buddy behind them, a slow, patient heat.
“Here’s the play,” Alistair said. “We move slow. Small shifts. Don’t be the first. Stay alert. If someone triggers a trap, we react, not charge.”
Brimma gave a grudging nod. “Reasonable. For a vampire.”
“Why, thank you.” He glanced at Kael. “You cover angles. If anyone looks twitchy, sing out.”
Kael’s mouth twitched. “Already watching.”
Thessaly’s voice came soft but sure. “And when we reach it?”
Alistair’s grin flashed. “Then we see what the gods want to kill us with.”
He shifted forward, crawling ahead inch by inch.
The others followed.
They weren’t the only ones.
Across the field, other groups mirrored their movements, edging forward reluctantly, blades drawn, eyes wary. Each one slow, deliberate. Testing the ground. Expecting death.
Alistair’s gaze swept across the closest group, a quartet of champions moving with that same careful grace. Their leader, a broad-shouldered orc with braided hair, looked just as wary as he felt.
They locked eyes across the distance.
Both nodded once.
Both moved on.
It wasn’t a truce. It was shared dread.
The dragon loomed larger with each meter. The crystalline bones pulsed faintly, cold starlight trapped in bone. A silent promise of power. Or doom.
And still, no one dared touch it.
Until one champion broke the rhythm.
Alistair froze mid-crawl, eyes narrowing.
A tall figure in gleaming emerald robes rose from the far side. Some kind of mage, human or high elf, hard to tell. They raised a staff, whispered something Alistair couldn’t hear.
Then...
Flash.
A burst of warped light twisted space. The champion vanished then reappeared instantly atop the dragon’s spine.
Kael swore under his breath.
Alistair’s pulse jumped. He tensed, ready to phase if needed.
The mage knelt and reached out, fingers brushing one glowing rib. They gripped hard and pulled.
Nothing.
No spark. No shift. No shattering of crystal.
The bone didn’t budge.
The mage tried again. Harder this time. A shimmer of magic flared around their hands.
Still nothing.
Alistair’s blood went cold. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Thessaly’s voice came like a blade of ice. “It’s a trap.”
Alistair swallowed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “And they just triggered it.”
That’s when the air changed.
The world seemed to shiver.
A sharp chime rang through the arena, bright, clear, mocking.
And high above them, bathed in shimmering gold, the Herald appeared.
“CHAMPIONS!” he boomed, voice rolling like thunder. “WELCOME… WELCOME.”
Alistair’s froze.
Shit. Here we go.
The Herald drifted higher, golden wings outstretched, voice echoing through the unnatural silence.
“Ah, champions,” he said, tone dripping with amusement. “I must say… disappointing.”
A wave of nervous murmurs swept across the scattered groups. No one moved. No one dared.
The Herald spun lazily in midair, arms wide. “Look at you, circling like rats around a feast you fear to touch.”
A few champions shouted back, voices sharp, bitter. Complaints about the missing crowds, the lack of expected bloodshed.
The Herald tsked, shaking his head dramatically.
“Such complaining!” he mocked. “I know, I know, you came here for war, for spectacle, for the grand Arena of the gods to overflow with crimson joy.”
He cupped a hand to his ear, grinning. “And instead… what did you get?”
He gestured grandly at the empty air, the wary champions crouching in the dirt.
“A sermon to Ebrathos, God of Stoic Reflection,” the Herald said, voice dry as ash. “Sad. Underwhelming.”
Alistair blinked. Ebrathos?
He didn’t know the name but judging by the Herald’s tone, neither did half the Pantheon.
The Herald turned toward the heavens, one palm raised, expression sheepish.
“No offense, my guy,” he called upward. “You know I love your work. Just… maybe next time bring a war god to this sort of thing.”
Alistair froze. He followed the Herald’s gaze...
And felt his gut tighten.
The gods were here.
Again.
Not all. Not the full court of divine monstrosities he’d seen before, but enough. Dozens of shapes filled the highest seats, flickering between forms. Some solid, some fluid, some little more than concepts given light.
They weren’t cheering.
They weren’t laughing.
They looked… pissed.
And disappointed.
Frost-wrapped archons of ice sat unmoving beside serpent-bodied deities. A burning crowned figure pulsed dimly, no longer blazing with joy. An elegant goddess of moons and rivers simply stared down at the field with narrowed, bored eyes.
Alistair swallowed. Great. Nothing more dangerous than a bored god.
The Herald clapped twice, sound echoing like thunder.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the divine tension. “Since our little event has failed to deliver the proper bloodbath…”
He grinned wickedly.
“...I thought a little entertainment might be in order.”
He spun midair, wings flaring.
“Champions, allow me to present… the Sylvaleen Choir, Voices of the Forgotten Court!”
The name rang through the air like a bell struck deep within the bones of the world.
Alistair barely had time to process it, before the sky above the arena split open in a slow, graceful ripple.
A beam of soft white-gold light poured downward, shimmering like liquid.
From that light, they descended.
Five women.
No wings. No sorcery. No movement of limbs.
They glided, as if drifting through water unseen.
Their hair flowed like woven silver and starlight. Skin flawless, radiant. Each wore robes of deep azure and white-gold, laced with faintly shifting runes.
And their eyes, gods, their eyes.
Liquid pools of moonlight and shadow, ancient and knowing.
The crowd stilled. Even the gods leaned forward, intrigued despite themselves.
The five descended in perfect harmony of motion, slow and serene, until they gathered around the Herald in a loose circle.
He welcomed them with open arms, sliding one arm around the waist of the nearest woman on either side.
“Ahh, my lovely stars,” he purred, hugging them both. “Mortals prepare yourselves.”
His voice rose again, booming.
“For a recital… like none you have ever heard!”
Alistair’s jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed at him that this was wrong.
Deadly wrong.
But it was too late.
A single note escaped one of the women, a pure, crystalline tone that seemed to slice through the air.
It rang clear and high, vibrating in Alistair’s bones.
He flinched. His fangs ached. His fingers twitched involuntarily against the hilt of his sword.
Then a second voice joined, deeper, richer, weaving beneath the first like silk wrapping steel.
A third followed, haunting, breathy, sliding between tones in ways that made the air itself ripple.
A fourth, soft, low, resonant as a war drum heard through a sea of mist.
A fifth, light and piercing, wrapping the others in a shimmering cocoon of sound.
The five voices merged into a single symphony.
No instruments. No lyrics. Just raw, transcendent sound.
Alistair gasped, ears ringing. Blood welled from his left ear in a slow, hot trickle.
[ALERT: Status Effect Incoming]
A sharp ping hit his interface, barely visible through the shimmering haze creeping into his vision.
[System Notification]
You are listening to the Song of the Sylvaleen Choir.
Effects:
- Temporary Paralysis (Duration: Active during song)
- Minor Internal Bleeding (Ears, nose)
- Focused Entrancement (Mind partially dominated, unable to resist sound)
- Mental Instability (Upon song’s end: induced Madness state)
- Purpose Override: When song ends, all affected champions will experience a singular compulsion: Reach the Dragon Bones.
All alliances, bonds, and friendships will be overridden for the duration of this compulsion. No quarter will be given. No alliances will hold.
Warning: Cannot be resisted. Prepare accordingly.
Alistair’s breath hitched. Shit.
His limbs wouldn’t respond. Every muscle frozen in place, caught in the shimmering web of sound.
Across the field, champions froze where they knelt or crouched. Eyes wide. Some wept. Some bled. One human screamed in agony before falling limp, eyes rolled back.
No one moved. No one fought.
Every mind locked on that impossible, perfect sound.
Alistair fought for focus, teeth grinding. Come on, move, anything...
But nothing answered.
Buddy’s presence flickered faintly at the edge of his mind, anguished, confused, the bond trembling under the weight of the song.
Alistair swallowed hard. A trap. Of course it was a trap. Not the dragon. Not a ward. The song itself.
And when it ended... Madness.
No alliances. No caution. No planning.
Just raw, violent purpose. Get to the bones. Kill anything in your way.
His fingers twitched, blood now running freely from both ears.
The song soared higher, impossibly complex. Five voices now woven into something that felt more than mortal. More than divine.
Alistair’s mind blurred. His thoughts frayed.
Only one cold, distant thread remained, an instinct. A single desperate clarity:
Survive.
Brace. Prepare. Kill.
And then...
The fifth voice climbed higher. The song began to peak.
Somewhere in the frozen part of him that still clung to reason, Alistair knew: the end was near.
And when it came, all hell would break loose.
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