"In the abyss, even hope has a heartbeat."
The cell was cold. It always was.
Midarion had long since forgotten what warmth felt like. The chill clawed through his bones, clinging to his skin like a second layer of prison garb. Stone walls devoured every sound—except the rattle of chains and the distant cries of other children, echoing from the bowels of Project HELION. Even silence had teeth here.
He sat on the narrow cot, back hunched, eyes tracing the same cracks in the ceiling he had studied a thousand times. Those fractures were his constellations, his stories written in stone—but none ever shifted, none ever answered the questions that burned in his heart.
The days bled into one another until time itself lost meaning—until even his heartbeat felt like another experiment. Morning, night—both marked only by the flicker of lights in the corridor. Sometimes, he would count the heartbeats between the drips of water from the ceiling, trying to remember what the world beyond the walls sounded like. Laughter. Wind. The whisper of trees.
Once, long ago, he had known another life.
He remembered his father—stern yet kind—a Sentinel of the Astraelis kingdom whose armor once gleamed like captured sunlight. A man who carried the weight of duty with quiet dignity and laughed loudly despite it. He had died when Midarion was too young to comprehend sacrifice, leaving echoes of bravery that haunted every memory.
His mother lingered longer in his thoughts, soft and warm, framed by long hair, but her face had been shadowed by grief. Until the night she too was taken—sudden, cruel, unexplained.
And that same night, his twin sisters vanished. The forest had returned them lifeless the next day, silent warnings carved into the world. Since then, their voices had followed him in dreams, whispering accusations and mourning. He no longer dared speak their names aloud.
All that remained was the cell, the steel doors, the blinding lights, and the gloved hands of Doctor Renzo—hands as cold as death itself.
Four years. Four long years inside HELION'S lab. Experiments. Needles. Pain. Becoming less human while somehow becoming more, though no one had ever explained to him into what.
Tonight, nothing should have changed. The scraping of boots. The clang of iron trays. The drip-drip of leaking pipes.
And yet—
Midarion froze. A subtle vibration in the air reached him before sound ever did. Something not meant for him.
A whisper.
He pressed his ear against a narrow vent slit. Stale air trickled past his face, carrying words that made his stomach turn.
Doctor Renzo's voice, calm and precise—the kind that could make a lie feel like law: "Our spies confirmed that the Order is asking questions, with the full cooperation of the king, who believes this kingdom has nothing to hide. The threads are unraveling. We've bought decades of silence with gold and lies, and forged the best soldiers ever. But this time… they're too close."
A deeper voice, rough with authority, responded: "Then there is no choice. Transfer those who met expectations… and ensure the failed subjects are removed from record. No survivors—not even the guards. Every trace must vanish before dawn."
Renzo's measured reply followed."…As you command."
For a heartbeat, he thought he'd misheard. But no—those words had weight, the kind that crushed the air out of lungs. Dispose. Erase. As if they were stains, not children.
His hands trembled uncontrollably. He wanted to scream, to pound the walls, to warn the others—but fear chained him harder than iron. Only one thought cut through the haze: Run.
Midarion's blood ran cold.
Dispose. No survivors.
The words reverberated in his mind, louder than the pounding of his heart. His mouth went dry. For the first time in years, raw fear seized him. He staggered back from the wall, clutching his chest.
They were going to kill them. Every child. Every experiment. Every "failed" creation.
Him.
Unless he escaped.
And fate—or sheer luck—gave him his chance.
He pressed his forehead against the cold wall. Somewhere, a child coughed until it turned into a scream. Another voice begged. The air itself trembled with despair. And he realized then—none of them were meant to survive. Not the strong. Not the gifted. Just the useful.
Sirens wailed, shrill and merciless. Crimson lights pulsed across the corridors. Locks snapped open with metallic clatters, and the facility erupted into chaos. Guards shouted. Children screamed. Gas hissed from ruptured pipes, flooding the halls with acrid haze.
The corridor exploded into madness. Red lights bathed everything in blood. Boots thundered, alarms wailed, and the metallic scent of ozone stung his throat. Shadows darted past, screaming names he didn't know. Smoke poured from ruptured vents, curling like spirits released from cages. Somewhere, a child's voice cut through the din, shrill and fading into silence. Every instinct in him screamed—move, move now.
Midarion bolted, bare feet slapping cold stone. The halls twisted around him, shadows and steel closing in like a predator.
A small figure rounded a corner—almost colliding with him.
A girl. No older than eight. Silver hair, grime-streaked face, eyes violet and fierce even as they trembled, clinging to him.
"Don't leave me!" she cried, fingers latching onto his wrist like chains.
Midarion froze. Trust was poison here. Companionship a trap. But the terror in her gaze mirrored his own, sharp and raw.
"…Fine," he muttered, voice cracking. "Stay close."
Her grip tightened. Silent agreement. He didn't need her name yet. Names meant attachments, and attachments were dangerous here.
They darted through twisting corridors, avoiding panicked guards and fleeing captives. The metallic scent of blood and gas thickened the air. The facility groaned, as if alive, sensing the end of its dominion.
Then—a low, guttural growl echoed from behind a sealed iron door. Too deep, too primal, to belong to any human.
Curiosity—or fate—pulled him. His hand pressed against the rusted lock.
It gave way.
The door creaked open, revealing a chamber bathed in sickly, flickering light. Chains rattled, echoing through the haze.
And there she was.
A dragon.
Silver scales dulled with sickness, wings broken and bound. Each shallow breath drew in the poisoned air, yet her eyes glowed with centuries of sorrow and the weight of skies long forgotten.
The air in the chamber shimmered with a pressure unlike anything he had felt before. It wasn't just fear—it was reverence. The dragon's gaze met his, and in that instant he felt something ancient brush against his soul. Memories that weren't his—skies of silver flame, mountains splitting under song, the heartbeat of the stars. The creature's pain was immense, yet beneath it pulsed an unyielding will: protect.
The girl beside him whispered, voice cracking: "A… a dragon…?"
The dragon did not speak. She could not. But her intent was clear. With a trembling, exhausted claw, she nudged a tiny shape toward them.
A hatchling. Fragile, small, its scales catching the faint light like morning dew.
The girl gasped. Midarion's heart clenched as the hatchling stumbled, instinctively pressing against his chest.
"No way…" he whispered, tightening his arms. "She… she wants me to take him?"
The mother dragon's sacrifice came swiftly. She drew a final, ragged breath of poisoned air, her body convulsing in agony until silence fell. One last motion—a nudge, a guiding push—then she lay still, her duty complete.
When her eyes dimmed, it felt like the last light of the world had gone out.
Midarion stood trembling, clutching the hatchling as tears blurred his vision. Crying was forbidden here. Crying was weakness. And yet he could not stop.
The girl tugged on his sleeve. "We have to go."
Legs heavy as lead, he obeyed. Hatchling pressed against his chest, they slipped into the vents, crawling through suffocating fumes and narrow shafts until—
Light.
A faint glow ahead, like salvation itself.
But salvation proved fleeting.
Two guards blocked the exit, blades gleaming in the dimness.
One sneered. "End of the line, rats."
The other grinned, raising his sword. Steel caught the flashing red lights.
The girl's grip tightened on Midarion's arm. The hatchling whimpered.
Midarion's breath came in ragged bursts. Years of chains and confinement pressed down upon him. He had escaped only to face death in a hallway like a cornered animal.
No. Not like this. Not with her hand trembling in his. Not with the hatchling's heartbeat against his chest."
The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat. The guards' laughter echoed like distorted thunder, far away yet inescapable. The hatchling whimpered against his chest, trembling with instinctive fear. The girl's small hand clung to him, her nails digging into his skin. His own pulse roared in his ears, drowning out every thought but one—I won't die here. Not in a cage. Not forgotten.
The guards advanced.
And then—
A hum stirred in his veins, hot and alive.
The moment before the strike, something within him broke open.