Elara and Drakarion's Shared POV
Flying toward the Dragon's Graveyard, we had our first real argument as a fused being.
We should go back, Elara's consciousness insisted. Warn the human cities. Tell them what's coming.
Warn the same humans who imprisoned me for three centuries? My dragon nature bristled with bitter anger. Let them face the consequences of their actions.
Not everyone participated in your imprisonment! There are innocent people—children—who will die if we don't—
INNOCENT? Our shared body faltered mid-flight as my rage surged through our combined consciousness. Where were these "innocents" when they built their empire on dragon blood? When they harvested my power to fuel their armies? When they murdered my entire family?
The twelve dragons flying behind us exchanged nervous glances. They could feel our internal conflict through the pack bonds.
That wasn't their fault, Elara argued, her compassion pushing back against my fury. Most humans don't even know about the dragon harvesting. The empire kept it secret. You can't blame everyone for what the magisters did.
Can't I? I poured three hundred years of agony into our shared consciousness. They benefited from my suffering. They used magic stolen from my broken body. They're complicit whether they knew or not.
That's not fair—
FAIR? Our wings beat harder, faster, driven by rage. Nothing about this is fair! I was betrayed by humans I tried to help! Chained and tortured for CENTURIES! And now you want me to save them?
I want US to save them, Elara corrected gently. Because we're not just you anymore. We're not just me. We're both. And I believe—no, I KNOW—that mercy is stronger than vengeance.
Our body suddenly stopped mid-flight, hovering in place as our two consciousnesses wrestled for control.
You believe wrong, I said coldly.
Do I? Elara's presence grew stronger in our shared mind. Tell me, Drakarion—in three hundred years of rage and hatred, did it make your suffering any easier? Did your anger break your chains? Or did it just make you more miserable?
The question hit like a physical blow. Through our fusion, she could feel my answer even before I thought it: No. The rage had changed nothing. Made nothing better. If anything, it had made the torture worse—given my captors satisfaction seeing me broken.
That's different, I protested weakly.
How?
Because— I struggled to articulate it. Because rage was all I had left. Without it, I was just... empty. Defeated.
Our shared consciousness flooded with Elara's compassion—not pity, but understanding so profound it made our chest ache.
You weren't defeated, Drakarion. You were surviving. And survival doesn't require rage. It requires hope. She paused, then added softly: Let me give you the hope you lost. And you give me the strength I need. That's what being fused means—balancing each other.
Something inside our merged soul shifted. Cracked. Like ice beginning to thaw.
I don't know how to let go of the anger, I admitted. It's been part of me for so long.
Then don't let go completely. Just... share the burden. Let me carry some of it. Her presence wrapped around my consciousness like a warm embrace. You've been alone with your pain for three centuries. You're not alone anymore.
We hung there in the sky, our pack of twelve waiting patiently, while our two consciousnesses learned to truly coexist for the first time.
Okay, I said finally. We warn the humans. But if they attack us—
Then we defend ourselves, Elara agreed. I'm not asking you to be a martyr. Just to give them a chance.
One chance.
That's all I'm asking.
We resumed flying, but something fundamental had changed. We weren't fighting each other anymore. We were working together.
One of the freed dragons—a younger female named Lysa—flew closer. "Is everything alright? You stopped so suddenly."
"We're fine," we answered, our voice carrying both masculine and feminine tones harmoniously now instead of clashing. "Just... adjusting to being two minds in one body."
"That must be difficult," Lysa said sympathetically.
"It is," we admitted. "Every decision requires negotiation. Every emotion affects both of us. When Drakarion's angry, I feel it like my own rage. When I'm sad, he carries that grief."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." We smiled—a strange sensation with dragon features but human warmth. "But also beautiful. We're never alone. Never isolated. Whatever we face, we face together."
Through our pack bond, we felt Lysa's wistful longing. "That sounds wonderful, actually. Being fused with someone you love."
The word "love" echoed through our shared consciousness. We'd admitted it to each other before the fusion, but living it—feeling it constantly through our merged souls—was different. Overwhelming. Perfect.
I do love you, Elara's consciousness whispered to mine privately.
I love you too, I answered. Even when you make me warn humans I'd rather let burn.
Especially then, she replied with mental laughter.
We flew in comfortable silence for several minutes before one of the older dragons spoke up: "We're approaching the Dragon's Graveyard border. Be prepared—the old magic is strong here. It can show you visions of the past. Not everyone handles it well."
"Visions?" we asked.
"Memories embedded in the land itself," he explained. "This is where the final battle of the Dragon Purge happened. Where most of our kind died. The magic here remembers everything."
As if summoned by his words, the air around us suddenly shimmered.
And we saw them.
Hundreds of dragons filling the sky, fighting desperately against human armies below. Dragon fire met stolen dragon magic in devastating explosions. The sky itself seemed to burn.
We watched—forced to watch—as dragon after dragon fell. As families were torn apart. As parents died protecting their children, and those children were captured and chained.
Through our fusion, Drakarion's memories aligned with the visions. I was there, his consciousness whispered, heavy with grief. I watched this happen. I tried to save them. I failed.
And through the same fusion, I felt Elara's horror and shame. This is what my empire did. What humans did. Gods, I'm so sorry.
You weren't born yet. It's not your fault.
But I benefited from it. Used magic powered by this massacre. I'm complicit whether I meant to be or not.
The vision shifted, showing the aftermath. The battlefield covered in dragon corpses. Human soldiers harvesting scales, claws, blood—taking everything they could from the dead.
And in the center of it all, a massive obsidian throne stood empty, abandoned, its power dormant.
The Dragon Throne.
The vision faded, leaving us shaking in mid-flight.
"That's what's at stake," the older dragon said grimly. "If someone evil claims that Throne, they could command us to do the same thing to humans. Create a new purge, but in reverse."
"We won't let that happen," we said firmly.
"Can you stop it?" Lysa asked. "The Throne's power is absolute. If they've already claimed it—"
"Then we challenge them," we interrupted. "Dragon law says anyone can challenge the Throne's occupant. Trial by combat. Winner takes the crown."
"That law hasn't been invoked in over five hundred years," another dragon protested. "And you're injured. Still recovering. If you fight someone who's already absorbed the Throne's power—"
"We'll lose," we admitted. "Probably. But we have to try."
Through our pack bonds, we felt their fear for us. Their loyalty. Their desperate wish that there was another way.
There wasn't.
We crossed into the Dragon's Graveyard proper.
The land was dead. Scorched black from ancient fires. Nothing grew here. Nothing lived here except ghosts and memories.
And in the distance, rising from the devastation like a monument to genocide, was the Ancient Court.
Massive stone pillars carved with dragon script. Platforms floating in mid-air, held aloft by old magic. And at the center, on the highest platform, the Dragon Throne itself—black obsidian inlaid with silver and gold, pulsing with power.
Someone was sitting on it.
We couldn't make out details from this distance, but we could feel their presence. Their power. Their absolute authority radiating through the magical bonds that connected all dragons.
That power feels familiar, Drakarion's consciousness noted. But wrong. Corrupted somehow.
Can you tell who it is?
Not yet. We need to get closer.
We flew toward the Ancient Court, our pack following nervously. As we approached, the figure on the Throne stood up.
They were massive—even larger than Drakarion had been before our fusion. Their scales were deep crimson, almost black, and their eyes glowed with red fire instead of the golden warmth dragon eyes should have.
But their face...
No, I breathed in shock. It can't be.
It's not possible, Elara's consciousness agreed, equally stunned. They're dead. We watched them die.
Because sitting on the Dragon Throne, wearing a crown of dark magic and a smile of cruel triumph, was someone we'd both seen die just hours ago.
The corrupted magistrate.
But different now. Transformed completely. His human body was gone, replaced by a massive dragon form that looked both magnificent and wrong. Like someone had built a dragon from memory but gotten all the details slightly off.
"Welcome, Last Flame," he called out, his voice echoing across the dead land. "Or should I say—Last Flames? I heard you performed a soul fusion. How romantic." His laugh was like grinding stone. "Did you really think that vial of dragon blood I drank was suicide? No, no, no. It was transformation."
We stared in horror as understanding dawned.
"You used the explosion as cover," we said. "While we were containing the blast, you shed your human body and let the dragon blood remake you completely. You became a dragon."
"Not just any dragon." He sat back down on the Throne, and power rippled outward, making every dragon present flinch. "A dragon with royal blood—stolen from you during your imprisonment, processed and concentrated over decades. Just waiting for the right moment to use it."
Through our fusion, Drakarion's rage and Elara's horror combined into something cold and dangerous.
"That Throne doesn't belong to you," we said.
"Doesn't it?" He gestured around at the dead land. "I claimed it. I sit upon it. And through it, I command every dragon alive." His red eyes fixed on our pack. "Including your little followers. Watch."
He raised one clawed hand.
And through the pack bonds, we felt it—compulsion magic flowing from the Throne, trying to seize control of our twelve dragons. Trying to force them to obey him instead of us.
Lysa screamed, fighting the compulsion. The others struggled, their bodies starting to move against their will.
"STOP!" we roared, pouring our own power through the pack bonds, fighting his control.
For a moment, it was a stalemate. Our power versus the Throne's authority. Our love and loyalty versus his stolen command.
Then he smiled and pushed harder.
Our dragons fell from the sky, their minds overwhelmed, their bodies no longer their own. They landed at his feet and bowed, their eyes empty of free will.
"You see?" the false king said pleasantly. "The Throne's power is absolute. Every dragon must obey. Including—" His compulsion magic slammed into us like a physical blow. "—you."
We felt it trying to take hold. Trying to override our consciousness. Trying to make us bow.
Fight it! Elara urged.
I am! But Drakarion's part of our consciousness was struggling. The compulsion was specifically designed to affect dragon minds, and despite our fusion, half of us was still fully dragon.
We started to descend against our will. Started to land. Started to bow.
NO! Elara's human consciousness pushed back hard, using her immunity to dragon-specific magic as leverage. We are NOT bowing to that monster!
Our descent stopped. We hung in the air, trembling, fighting the Throne's command with everything we had.
The false king's smile vanished. "How are you resisting? No dragon can resist the Throne's direct command!"
"We're not just dragon," we gasped out. "We're human too. And the human half of us doesn't answer to your stolen authority."
His eyes narrowed. "Then I'll simply increase the pressure until the dragon half of you overwhelms the human part."
The compulsion intensified. Our dragon nature screamed at us to submit. To obey. To bow before the rightful king.
But our human nature—Elara's consciousness—refused.
Drakarion, she said urgently. I have an idea. But you're not going to like it.
Tell me.
We separate. Temporarily. Split back into two beings.
That's impossible! Soul fusion is permanent!
Usually, yes. But we're unique. We fused by choice, not by accident. If we chose to temporarily separate—
The Throne's compulsion would fully affect my dragon form, I realized. But your human form would be free.
Exactly. I could fight him while you're under compulsion. Then once he's defeated, we refuse together.
That's insane. You're a Lifeweaver, not a warrior. You can't fight a dragon empowered by the Throne!
Do you have a better idea?
Through our shared consciousness, we both knew the answer: No.
How do we even separate? I asked.
The same way we fused. We make the choice. We open ourselves to the possibility. And we trust.
The compulsion was getting stronger. We were descending again, unable to stop ourselves.
Okay, I agreed. Let's try it. On three?
On three.
We counted together: One. Two. Three.
We opened our consciousness and made the choice: separate.
Our fused form exploded in silver and gold light.
When the light faded, two beings stood where one had been: Drakarion in his full dragon form, landing hard and immediately bowing under the Throne's compulsion.
And Elara—human again, her body reformed from pure light—standing free and defiant.
The false king stared in shock. "That's—that's impossible! Soul fusion can't be undone!"
"Apparently it can," Elara said, her hands already glowing with power. "When you choose it together."
She looked at Drakarion, who was frozen in a bow, his eyes filled with rage and helplessness as the Throne's magic controlled him.
I'll fix this, she promised through their bond, which remained intact despite their separation. I'll get you free. I swear.
I know you will, he answered, his consciousness still connected to hers even though their bodies were separate. I believe in you, little Lifeweaver.
Elara turned to face the false king, power crackling around her small human form.
"You wanted a fight?" she called out. "You've got one. But fair warning—I'm not the helpless girl you tortured in your facility anymore."
The false king laughed and rose from the Throne, his massive dragon form looming over her.
"You're a human. Alone. Against a dragon empowered by the ancient Throne. This will take seconds."
"Then let's get started," Elara said calmly.
She raised her hands, and silver light blazed so bright it rivaled the sun.
The false king charged.
And the battle for the Dragon Throne—and the fate of two worlds—began.