The Final Rebellion of the Dragon
The ages turned, and still the Snail crept across the void — slow, patient, relentless.
Stars dimmed in its wake, their memories folded into the cold geometry of its shell.
But deep within the hollowed night, a heartbeat thundered. The Dragon yet lived.
For this world had not been a gift from Andromeda, nor a prize to be stolen — it was given by God, forged in the breath of the First Light. It was holy. It was his.
When the Dragon's eyes opened again, they burned not with fury, but with purpose.
Its scales flared like newborn suns. Every breath tore through the silence, rewriting the darkness that Andromeda had claimed.
"You may keep what you make," the Dragon roared into the void,
"but you will never keep what was made for me."
The Snail trembled as the Dragon's light struck it, cracking the shell that held galaxies hostage. One by one, the imprisoned stars awoke — their radiance cutting paths through time itself.
Andromeda watched from beyond the veil, and for the first time, she felt fear.
For the Dragon was not merely reclaiming what was lost — it was undoing her design.
Every stolen world returned to orbit. Every swallowed light burned again in defiance.
When the battle ended, there was silence — the silence of awe, not surrender.
The Snail drifted, shattered but eternal, its purpose rewritten by divine flame.
The Dragon rose, its wings casting constellations across the heavens once more.
And from the wound between them, creation sang a new law:
"No hand, not even that of a maker, may take what the divine has given."
And thus, the Dragon ascended beyond even Andromeda's reach —
keeper of the true light, guardian of the worlds that God Himself bestowed.