The earth was splitting.
The air itself had become a scream.
Slyvia stood alone at the edge of Paradise High's devastated garden—the only spot not consumed by flames. Everything else was a scorched wasteland, a hellscape of twisted metal, ash-choked wind, and burned bodies. The cries of the wounded echoed from cracked earth and broken stone, but above all that, there was one sound that reigned supreme—
The roar of the dragon.
The one above her was not just any dragon. Its wingspan eclipsed the moonlight, scales glistening like obsidian soaked in blood. Each flap of its wings summoned a cyclone. And in that moment, Slyvia knew it—this was the apex predator. This dragon could kill a city, a continent, perhaps the world.
And it was charging her.
The wind howled like a beast unchained. Her skin peeled from her arms as the heat reached intolerable levels. Blood dripped from her nose, her ears. She was burning from the inside, her veins surging with power no human was ever meant to wield.
Yet she didn't stop chanting.
The ancient language—spoken only by her ancestors, long lost to time—tore from her throat like broken glass. Her voice cracked, yet she screamed louder. The magic inside her was unraveling. The energy she was drawing from the dragon was too much.
But she couldn't stop.
The skies split again as she cast the black spell. Her body lifted slightly off the ground, a swirling vortex of energy circling her like a typhoon. Her hair floated around her like she was underwater. Lightning struck at random, a strobe of divine violence.
Then the dragon roared—and the sound alone cracked the garden wall.
And then it hit.
A wave of pure force.
A torrent of fire, black and red, washed toward her. Slyvia raised her hands, screaming out the spell's final words—but her shield shattered instantly. The impact launched her backward like a ragdoll. Her body crashed through a shattered pillar. Something cracked—ribs. Blood burst from her mouth as she hit the ground hard.
She tried to rise—but her legs gave out.
Everything was a blur. Her vision was swimming in red and white. Her arm dangled limp at her side, bones likely broken. Blood poured freely from her nose, her ears, her scalp. The world was slipping away.
And yet—she still tried to rise.
Her hand reached forward.
"No… not yet…" she gasped. "Not… until I tame it… not until I—"
A shadow moved.
Her blood-soaked eyes blinked. She wasn't alone.
From the smoke stepped a figure, cloaked in darkness, walking as if the fire itself parted for them. The grass around their feet withered. Even the dragon paused, letting out a snarl that shook the atmosphere. Slyvia trembled.
The figure began speaking in a language she had never heard—guttural, ancient, a dialect lost before the world's first empires rose.
The dragon shuddered.
Its body seized mid-air.
Its wings snapped downward as it let out a soul-piercing scream. The wind from it knocked trees flat. Slyvia covered her ears, crying out, blood gushing from every pore on her face now. The voice—whoever they were—was controlling it.
Then Slyvia's eyes widened.
Through the smoke, she saw the speaker step into the dim light of a burning streetlamp. It was Rose.
But this wasn't the same Rose who had once trembled at the idea of dragons. This Rose walked like royalty, shoulders back, eyes glowing faintly. Her hand extended forward in command.
"What… the hell…" Slyvia whispered, unable to move.
Then, high above them—on the back of the largest dragon—the skeletal figure screeched. Its green eyes widened as if realizing something. It tried to control the beast beneath it.
But it was too late.
The dragon turned its head upward and released a thunderous snarl, its mouth glowing with deep purple fire. The skeletal rider—Zandros—tried to flee, casting a sigil in the air with his broken staff.
The dragon's answer?
A direct blast of flame.
It engulfed Zandros in a violent inferno, so hot the air snapped and sizzled. The undead sorcerer let out a scream—a horrible, ear-splitting wail—and then crumbled to ash mid-air, his charred bones falling like burnt leaves.
Slyvia's mouth dropped open.
"What… just happened…?"
The dragon circled, slowly lowering itself, and then flapped once—twice—and landed with an earth-shaking thud. Dust and ash lifted into the air. The beast folded its wings and lowered its massive horned head.
Then it did something terrifying—
It stepped toward Rose.
And bowed.
The monster—the devourer of cities, the killer of gods—bowed its massive head to her like a knight to his queen. The other dragons circled above, their flight paths chaotic, confused.
Slyvia tried to speak, but her voice was gone. Her body refused to move.
Then something even stranger happened.
The beast extended one of its massive wings outward—open, waiting, almost like an invitation.
Rose didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, placing one hand on the dragon's snout. A low growl echoed from its throat, but it wasn't a threat. It was… satisfaction.
With a single leap, Rose climbed its body, mounting the dragon like it was instinct.
The dragon lifted its head and released a full-bodied roar—louder than any before. It echoed through the ruined city, sending a message to all:
A new rider has risen.
Slyvia's vision blurred again. She collapsed to the ground, blood pooling beneath her.
She could barely whisper, "She was never clueless... She was definitely hiding something, gosh! why does it seems everyone is hiding some secrets?…"
And just before the blackness took her, she heard Rose's voice—calm, commanding—as she spoke once more in that ancient tongue.
The dragon snorted in reply.
Then, with one massive push of its wings, it launched into the sky—carrying its queen into the firelit heavens.
Slyvia passed out with one final thought echoing in her skull:
Rose has some explaining to do.