The steady hum of the truck's engine rumbled softly beneath Aren's body, lulling him out of unconsciousness like the thrum of distant thunder.
His eyelids fluttered open slowly, the harsh desert sunlight bleeding in through the canvas canopy and throwing soft, flickering shadows across the interior. He blinked until his vision sharpened—metal walls, crates, a rattling canister in the corner—and something warm pressed against his chest.
He looked down.
The white wolf pup was curled up tightly against him, sleeping soundly. Its tiny chest rose and fell in sync with his, fur soft as cloud-wool and unmarred by the chaos they had all survived.
Aren's head throbbed gently, but it wasn't pain. More like a heaviness behind his eyes—residual fatigue.
We made it out…
He shifted to sit up, careful not to disturb the pup. Muscles protested, joints cracked, and his ribs still remembered the sting of Gin's blade. But he was alive. Whole.
And the armor…
What the hell was that thing?
It hadn't been forged, or summoned, or even called in the same way as his emblems. It had surged over him like a second skin—alive, almost sentient. Smooth, jet-black plating like flowing metal, thin yet unbreakable. And beneath it, black fire writhed like molten veins, glowing faintly between the plates with every move he made.
He could still feel it, lingering at the edge of his senses. Like a power not entirely gone. Not entirely his.
[You're awake, Your Majesty.]
Val's voice chimed cleanly in his head, familiar and measured.
[Vitals are stable. No trace of residual poison. Your natural resistance to toxins has increased significantly. Cellular readings indicate adaptive response patterns across the board.]
"So I'm not dying," he muttered, rubbing his face with one hand.
[Correct. You are, by all definitions, 'in one piece.']
He let his hand drop and glanced toward the front of the truck.
Kana sat in the driver's seat, eyes scanning the winding road ahead. Her armor was scratched, but intact. Her spear rested beside her, within arm's reach. Next to her, in the passenger seat, Bufo leaned back comfortably, his arms folded behind his head and a wide grin stretched across his face.
"Well, well," Bufo said, twisting in his seat when he noticed Aren stirring. "Sleeping beauty rises from the dead."
"I was just resting my eyes," Aren replied dryly.
Kana smirked, flicking a glance at him through the rearview mirror. "You were out cold for hours. We thought the pup might've eaten you."
Aren looked down again at the little wolf still curled against him. "If that's how I go, I accept it."
"Dramatic," Bufo said. "But fair."
They laughed. It felt easy. Real. And yet, just beneath it, the tension hadn't fully left the air.
A few more minutes passed in silence before Kana finally spoke again.
"What happened back there?" she asked quietly, her eyes still on the road. "That wasn't just a regular fight. You used… something. A second emblem."
Aren's expression shifted slightly, and he looked back out the window.
"I did," he admitted. "The situation called for it."
Kana frowned. "That emblem—the cobra—it wasn't one you showed before."
"It wasn't."
She glanced at him again, this time more directly. "You can use two?"
Aren met her gaze, calm and careful. "I've been… experimenting."
That wasn't a lie. Not exactly.
He didn't mention the stolen emblem. He didn't say that it had belonged to Flint. Or that his body shouldn't have been able to withstand two at once. And he definitely didn't bring up the voice—the Dark Dragon whose power had surged over him like a waking storm.
Some things weren't ready for the light.
Kana narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing more.
Bufo leaned back, his grin returning. "Well, whatever the hell you used, it worked. You took down Gin—the head of the Dune Reapers. That's no small feat."
His voice grew more serious as he continued.
"That bastard got me with a crossbow bolt. Poisoned. Burned like fire in my veins. I was fading fast. If you hadn't stepped in…"
He let the thought hang there for a second.
Then he turned, locking eyes with Aren.
"You saved me. No hesitation. That's not something I take lightly."
Aren inclined his head. "I couldn't let you die. You'd leave too much junk in the truck."
Bufo snorted. "Fair."
Then, with a quiet breath, he added, "You've done more than enough to prove yourself. I've seen seasoned Stravans fall to less than what you fought last night."
He shifted to face forward again, resting his feet on the dash.
"I'm endorsing you," he said simply. "As far as I'm concerned, you've passed any test the association could throw at you. Killing Gin is equivalent to a top-tier mission anyway."
Aren blinked. "Are you sure they are going to just accept it?"
"I think they will have to trust our words. There is a process for it but it doesn't mean I ignore reality," Bufo said, shrugging. "Sometimes the system needs a slap to the face. And I plan on being the one to deliver it—with your name on it."
Kana chuckled. "They're not going to believe a single word of this."
"Let them come verify the corpse," Bufo said, stretching. "Oh wait—he's in two pieces."
Laughter rolled through the cabin again, lighter this time.
Aren leaned back, his body still sore, the pup still pressed to him. The wind swept through the cracked window, carrying the dry scent of sand and sage.
But beneath it all… something stirred inside him.
The cobra. The bear. The black flames.
And deeper still—resting in the shadows of his soul—the echo of that other voice. The Dark Dragon.
What are you? Aren wondered.
But he didn't speak it aloud.
Not yet.
The city came into view just as the sun began its lazy descent behind the dunes, dyeing the horizon with soft streaks of orange and rose. Varnstead—dusty, worn, and quietly alive—emerged like an old memory from the sand, its squat stone buildings and crooked rooftops softened by the twilight. As the battered truck rumbled into the outskirts, the familiar sound of children laughing and people chatting over open cookfires greeted them like a breath of fresh air.
They didn't need to say anything.
The moment the truck rolled into the main square, people stopped what they were doing. Pots clanged, chairs scraped the ground, conversations fell quiet. Eyes turned toward the returning group: Bufo sitting stiffly in the front seat, still bandaged but very much alive. Kana at the wheel, wind-tossed and solemn. And in the back, seated beside a crate of gear, Aren—coated in the dust of battle, with a white wolf pup nestled in his lap.
Gasps and whispers rose quickly.
"The Stravan and Aren…?"
"They're back!"
"They did it… they actually did it."
Children ran ahead, calling names, and within minutes, half the village had gathered near the square's center. The scent of warm bread and earth mingled with the cool desert wind as people stepped forward—not with cheers, but reverent silence. Aren stepped down from the back of the truck carefully, the pup cradled gently in his arms.
The pup blinked at the crowd, blinking sleepily. Its little ears twitched at the rising murmurs.
"He is the last one of his pack" Aren said, raising his voice. "I decided to spare him. And from now on he will be my responsibility if you will allow me."
The villagers exchanged looks, some shaking their heads. One older man came forward, adjusting his shawl.
"To raise one of those is not going to be easy," he said. "But you are full of surprises, so I think we can trust you on this one too."
Aren looked down at the pup. It yawned, tiny pink tongue flicking out. Without thinking, he smiled.
"Then I guess I'll look after him."
He paused, scratching gently behind one fuzzy ear.
"…Cael. That'll be your name."
The pup yipped, then buried its nose against Aren's coat.
Laughter rippled through the villagers now, soft and relieved. A few clapped each other on the back. Others stepped up to Bufo and Kana, offering water, cloths, and heartfelt thanks. Somewhere nearby, a young girl started clapping. The rhythm caught on. Within minutes, it had become a proper welcome.
Among the crowd, Mrs. Clara pushed through with a tray of wrapped bread. Her apron was still dusted with flour, and her cheeks flushed with worry and relief.
"You're safe," she breathed, nearly in tears. Her eyes dropped to the sword at Aren's hip—the same sword she had given him hours ago. "And… that blade. It served you well?"
Aren nodded. "Better than well. It saved me more than once."
She reached out and gently laid a hand on the hilt, her touch light. "Then it found its place. Thank you for bringing it back alive."
As the crowd began to disperse and food was passed around, Bufo and Kana moved to one of the shaded corners of the square. There, beside an old workbench, they pulled out the battered metal case and unfolded the radio transmitter. It was compact but functional—designed for long-distance signals.
Kana adjusted the frequency dial, her movements calm but precise. Bufo leaned toward the microphone, clearing his throat before speaking.
"This is Bufo," he began, voice firm. "Reporting from a mission posted in this area. Threat neutralized. The leader of the Dune Reapers—Gin—is confirmed dead. Mission completed."
He glanced toward Aren, then added with quiet weight, "We're submitting a formal endorsement. Aren, civilian candidate. Recommend immediate review for enlistment in the Stravan Association."
Kana looked at Bufo, and he nodded.
"You did what most trained soldiers couldn't," she said to Aren. "The people are alive because of it."
Later that evening, under a sky scattered with stars, Aren sat on the edge of the town square with Cael nestled at his feet. The pup had been fed warm milk from a small bowl—provided by one of the villagers—and now curled up beside his boot, fast asleep. Aren gently stroked the soft fur behind his neck, lost in thought.
He remembered the armor—its impossible smoothness, that almost living texture like metal woven with instinct. And within it, the flowing black fire… It hadn't felt heavy or foreign. It felt like a second skin.
A gift from something ancient.
"You're quiet tonight," he murmured aloud.
Val's voice responded immediately, clear and calm in his head.
[I ran a scan while I was recharging. Your resistance has grown exponentially. Whatever that armor was… it pushed you far beyond normal thresholds.]
Aren gave a slight nod but said nothing more.
The celebration began in earnest around him. Lanterns lit. Baked goods passed around. Someone brought out a stringed instrument, and soon enough, the town square came alive with music and laughter.
But Aren stood, brushing off his coat. He stepped away from the firelight and ducked around the corner of a stone alley, the noise fading behind him.
He closed his eyes.
And drifted inward.
In an instant, he stood once again within the spiritual chamber—the realm of swirling ash, quiet emblems, and floating canvases. The floor pulsed beneath his feet, alive with the same quiet energy as always. But this time, something welcomed him. Something waiting.
The voice came like thunder clothed in velvet.
"You've returned."
Aren turned.
The Dark Dragon lay coiled in the distance, vast and patient. Its black scales shimmered like a storm under moonlight. Aren approached slowly.
"Your Eminence, I didn't think you'd actually save me," he said.
"You were worth saving," the dragon replied. "Though you walked the blade's edge, your will was unshaken. To use two emblems at once—unthinkable for most. But your body moved past limits without fear."
"That armor… what is it?"
"A gift," the dragon said, lowering its head slightly. "A living forge of my own creation. No steel. No iron. It is shaped by flame and soul. You've only scratched its surface. In time, its full power will answer your call."
Aren stepped past the dragon, toward the room with canvases. There were the two that he painted the last time. But tonight, only one glowed.
The snake.
The original cobra emblem—once clean, sharp, poised—was no longer as he had remembered it. Its lines trembled faintly. Its shape wavered.
He approached.
Something new pulsed beneath the surface.
He lifted his hand, summoning the brush that touched the canvas lightly. The ink shimmered. One line curved, then split. The tail widened. The hood flared.
And then—another head emerged, opposite the first.
Two snakes now coiled in harmony—one bright green, the other dark as ash.
Twin fangs. Twin wills.
One emblem.
Aren stepped back, breath caught.
The dragon's voice rumbled behind him.
"You destroyed Gin's magic in that final strike. But your soul took what remained and reforged it. What was two, is now one."
"So… it's evolved?"
"No." The dragon's eyes flared. "The mamba's magic was destroyed, but your soul absorbed what it needed. You created something new. You are not just a vessel, Aren. You are becoming a forge."
Aren looked at the new emblem, both awed and uncertain. Then he turned to the dragon and gave a slow nod.
"Thank you. For your help back there."
The Dark Dragon made no sound but dipped its massive head once.
Aren closed his eyes—and returned to the waking world.
He was back in his room.
The lantern on the wall flickered low. Cael was curled in a ball at the foot of the bed, gently snoring. Aren exhaled slowly and stepped toward the mattress. The weight of exhaustion settled into his muscles at last.
He slid beneath the thin blanket, resting one hand lightly on Cael's back.
Sleep found him quickly.
And this time, it was deep, dreamless, and warm.