The world returned to Zeke in fragments—heat, the copper taste of blood, the weight of smoke pressing on his lungs. He opened his eyes to find the valley drenched in firelight, not the red flames of men's torches but the endless black blaze of the dragon. Half its body was free of the portal now, wings vast as storm clouds beating against the air. Every strike of those wings sent men and goblins tumbling alike, broken under winds that smelled of brimstone.
Zeke staggered to his feet. His body screamed with pain, yet the mark on his chest pulsed steady, dragging him upright. The dragon's gaze fell upon him again, and the battlefield melted away. The screams, the clash of steel, even Seraphine's voice calling orders—they all dimmed to silence. There was only him and the beast.
You are mine, the voice thundered in his skull. Through you, my fire may walk in flesh. Through you, I shall rule where I cannot tread. Accept me, and you will live. Reject me, and you will burn with the rest.
Zeke's knees trembled. The dragon's words were not temptation in the way of a man offering gold. They came like a tide, pressing against his soul, promising power vast enough to tear mountains apart. He saw flashes in his mind—himself riding across endless plains unbroken, men bowing in fear, the world itself bending beneath his shadow. And beyond it all, one simple promise: a way home.
The trail you lost can be found again, the voice whispered, softer now, almost gentle. The faces you left behind, the land you dreamed of returning to—it can be yours. Take my fire into your heart, and I will carry you back across the void. Say yes, rider, and the world is yours to keep.
Zeke's breath caught. For a moment, the ache of years weighed on him heavier than wounds or war. He thought of the open sky back home, of the crack of hooves on dry earth, of a sun that burned clean and gold instead of red with blood. He thought of freedom. For the first time since this cursed night began, his grip on his knife wavered.
Seraphine saw it. Across the battlefield, through smoke and ruin, she saw him falter, saw the dragon's shadow fall full upon him. She cut her way through the press of enemies, her armor scorched, her face streaked with sweat and blood, until she reached his side. She grabbed his arm, her grip iron, her eyes blazing.
"Don't listen," she shouted over the roar, though the dragon's voice nearly drowned her out. "Zeke! Look at me!"
He turned, barely able to hold her gaze. The light in his chest burned hotter, as if the dragon's offer fanned the fire. "He says… he can send me home," Zeke rasped, voice cracked. "Everything I lost… he says I can get it back."
Seraphine's grip tightened. She shook him once, hard enough to jar sense back into his skull. "At what price? To carry his fire into our world? To trade your soul for his chains? That's not freedom, Zeke. That's slavery dressed in gold."
The dragon's voice pressed harder, sharper. She is nothing. Her words are dust. Think, rider. You are wasted among them. Take me, and all doors open.
Seraphine pressed closer, her forehead nearly against his. Her voice was fierce but steady. "You told us to fight, no matter the odds. You told us not to crawl in the dirt. If you give in now, every man and woman who bled tonight will bleed for nothing. You'll damn us all just to chase a ghost."
Zeke's chest heaved. The mark pulsed, the dragon's will tearing at him, promising power and home in equal measure. For a heartbeat he wavered, caught between fire and honor. His fingers flexed on the knife. He could say yes, and the pain would end. He could go back.
Then he looked at Seraphine. Her eyes burned not with temptation, but with faith—faith in him, in the oath they had sworn. And he remembered his own words: death knows our names.
Zeke spat blood into the dirt and growled, "I ain't anybody's damn messenger. Not yours, not ever."
The dragon's roar split the night, louder than thunder, louder than the world breaking. Fire exploded from its jaws, not in a wide breath but a single lance that struck at Zeke. Seraphine pulled him down, both of them rolling through ash and bone as the ground where they had stood turned to glass.
The beast reared back, its fury shaking the sky. Then you are nothing. Less than nothing. You are mine to break, mine to burn.
The mark on Zeke's chest flared white-hot, but now it did not pull him closer to the dragon. It burned as though in rebellion, answering defiance with its own. The dragon hissed, smoke pouring from its teeth. Its eyes narrowed, not with indifference but with a terrible focus.
Then hear me, rider. You are no servant, no vessel. You are prey. My prey.
The words seared into Zeke's mind, an oath forged in fire. He gasped, the weight of it nearly crushing him. Around them the battle raged, men and goblins screaming, Seraphine dragging him to his feet, but none of it mattered next to the promise the beast had made.
The dragon had marked him. Not as an ally. Not as a chosen vessel. But as its personal enemy.
Its roar shook the valley again, a sound of hunger and fury, and the portal tore wider still. Flames rolled outward, blotting out the stars, as the black dragon vowed its wrath.
And Zeke knew the fight was no longer for survival alone. It was a duel written into the bones of the world, between a cowboy who had nothing left but grit, and a beast older than fire itself.
The night ended not in silence but in the promise of war.