Lucian sat cross-legged upon a stone at the edge of Agheel Lake. While Moroga busied himself with the colossal labor of skinning the dragon, Lucian mulled over the knowledge he had gleaned from the man's tongue.
From Moroga, he had learned much of Dragon Communion, and of the distant land of Caelid. Most tidings could be set aside. But one, he could not ignore.
A festival was soon to be held in Caelid. The Radahn Festival.
It was not a mere tournament, but a dirge, a funeral prepared for none other than General Radahn, the Starscourge — mightiest of the demigods, peerless in arms, and lauded as the strongest warrior known to the Lands Between. A duel to the death, staged in his honor.
Whoever slew Radahn would be crowned the champion of the festival, and inherit his Great Rune.
Though all knew there could only be one victor, countless warriors marched eagerly to their deaths. For a fighter, even to clash with Radahn and fall was a glory beyond measure. None could resist the call.
Lucian was no exception.
"When the stars have aligned! The festival is nigh!"
So ran the word carried from Redmane Castle. Lucian did not know when such a night would come, but Moroga assured him it would not be long — a month or two at most.
He weighed his road ahead. To detour toward Liurnia of the Lakes would mean missing the festival. Raya Lucaria Academy, the Carian royals… none of it was urgent. But to miss the Radahn Festival would be to forfeit the chance forever.
Lucian would not allow such regret.
He longed to stand before Radahn himself, to measure his strength against the general, to pay his respect in the only way that mattered — blade against blade. Even if, one day, he were to wrest Radahn's Great Rune from its inheritor, it could never make up for the loss of such an encounter.
At once, Lucian resolved to alter his course. First, he would finish his immediate tasks — study sorceries under Sellen — then march to Caelid to await the festival's dawn.
In the meantime, he would visit Sellia, the Town of Sorcery. There, useful magics lay hidden, and its assassins' arts — sorceries forged solely to slay fellow sorcerers, intrigued him. Sellia's link to the eternal city beneath the lands was another mystery worth probing.
Besides, there was still a maiden in Caelid awaiting his rescue.
—
Though Moroga's hand was practiced, the dragon's carcass was vast, and the work arduous. At last, he severed the final strip of flesh from hide and sighed, relief and exhaustion mingling.
Skinning complete. Next came the stripping of meat from bone, the cleansing of the skeleton.
He toiled without complaint. What had begun as a failed hunt had ended with the gift of a dragon's corpse, heart and all. A safer prize than to set out anew. And the dragon heart was what he desired most — each one a step deeper into Communion, each one a path to more strength.
Yet as he worked, doubt wormed into him. Was Communion truly worth so much? Even if he devoured hearts without end, could he ever hope to reach Agheel's might? And even Agheel, who had nearly slain him with but a glance, had been felled like a toy in Lucian's hands.
Was the power he sought truly so feeble?
He shook his head. Such weakness of resolve was unworthy. Strength was strength, so long as it outstripped yesterday's self. To falter merely at the sight of a higher peak was shameful.
The hide came away, mostly whole, though torn where Lucian's blows had marred it. Loose scales were gathered carefully, even those scattered during the fight.
Flesh piled in bloody mounds. Bones jutted, pale and slick, steeped in the lake's waters, while Agheel's blood stained the whole basin pink.
Moroga's blood-drunk steed lowered its head to drink the tainted water, though it dared not touch the corpse itself. Its master had warned it well: these spoils were Lucian's, and to overstep would court his wrath.
When his labors were done, Moroga reported to Lucian, then turned to the smaller drake. He raised his axe, split open the chest, and crawled inside. With deft cuts, he opened channels for the blood to pool.
The corpse became a bath, and he submerged himself wholly in the dragon's blood.
Lucian watched, recalling what Moroga had said of Communion. It was not only hearts that granted strength. To bathe in dragon's blood hardened the flesh, tempered the skin. To feast upon dragon's meat likewise strengthened the body, even sprouting scales in time.
Gradually, the body changed. First the blood — boiling, thickening, turning to dragon's ichor. Then came power. Scales for armor. Fire for shield. The scarlet barrier that had saved Moroga earlier was nothing but his own blood's strength made manifest.
Lucian gazed at the heaps of flesh, pondering. Even without Communion, mere meat could bolster strength. Soldiers who partook would become formidable, able to stand equal to rival hosts. With such a force, Stormveil's armies would be unmatched.
And yet…
The price. The more they fed, the less human they became. Bloodlust. Scale. Madness.
Lucian resolved not to force the choice. Let his men decide. If they sought strength, he would not stop them. Power always demanded a price. In the Lands Between, where only strength could ensure survival, few would hesitate.
He himself might have walked that path, had he no Wind Spirit Moon Shadow to temper him.
Stormveil's carts arrived, laden for transport. Lucian gave orders, and the materials were loaded. Then, he withdrew into a Site of Grace.
Armor would need designs. He could not draw, but Melina could. Her maps alone proved her deft hand.
"Melina," he called, and her form shimmered into being, her face faintly puzzled.
"Can you help me draft designs for armor?"
She tilted her head. "Me? But I have never drawn such things. I may not do it well."
Lucian smiled. "It's fine. I trust you."
She nodded, took up quill and parchment.
"Then describe it to me. I'll try my best to capture it, and you can suggest changes afterward."
He described the armor he envisioned — a memory from another story, another world.
A Nameless King, once hailed as Dragonhunter, and God of War, who felled countless ancient dragons, undefeated in battle. His armor, forged from dragon bone and scale, was his badge of honor.
That was what Lucian desired to forge. A set befitting his station as Lord of Stormveil. Agheel's hide would serve, until one day he might fashion a greater suit from the scales of ancients — even of the Dragonlord himself.
After all, even the mightiest smithing stones—Somber Ancient Dragon Smithing Stones—were but the scales of dragonlords. Armor made from their true bodies would surpass anything ever known.
—
The Roundtable Hold was alive with noise when Lucian arrived.
A stench of blood and the weight of a lingering will filled the hall. When others came to see, they found him standing over heaps of dragonhide, bloody bone, and a horn large as a man.
He had brought only a portion — too vast was the whole, enough to fill an entire chamber. Even so, it stunned Hewg, a Smithing Master, when Lucian dragged such spoils into his forge.
Dragon scales were no rarity for a lord such as him. But to slay a wyrm outright, and one of such age and might — that was another matter.
"Master Hewg," Lucian asked plainly, "can these be forged into armor?"
The smith ran a hand over scale and hide, nodding in admiration. "Fine stuff. Stronger than most will ever see. Yes, it can make mighty armor."
"Will you meld it into your Storm Knight's set?"
Lucian first nodded, then shook his head. "Yes… but also, no. I wish another suit as well. A new one. Mine alone."
Hewg raised his brows. "And how large?"
"Large enough for a body three or four meters tall."
In recent days, Lucian had collected more Rune Arcs. Only four or five, but enough to fill his Great Rune further. His attributes had risen—seven points across the board—and his potential size had grown as well. At full strength, he estimated his frame might reach four meters in height.
Hewg blinked. Such a giant's armor… but then, Lucian was already a Great Rune bearer. To stand like a demigod was only fitting.
Yet the smith frowned.
"It can be done. But difficult. Armor like this is best forged whole, not in pieces. And for one of your size… my frame is too small. I craft weapons better than armor. Still, if no one else can, I will do what I can."
Lucian thought for a moment. Then he nodded.
He decided; the giant smith Iji, sworn to Ranni, was the one for the task. A giant's hands would know how to shape such armor.
"For armor, I will seek out Smithing Master Iji. His frame and skill will suit the task. As for the weapon—" He pointed to the horn. "I want you to forge it into a Swordspear."
The ancient horn was unyielding, its edge already sharp. Lucian meant to shape it into a Dragonslayer Swordspear, modeled after the weapon of the Nameless King. A colossal armament, vast even among colossi, to match a form that touched the heights of demigods.
With Hewg for the weapon, and Iji for the armor, Lucian would claim for himself a set of arms to be remembered in the annals of the Lands Between.