Kharvathar tried to beat his wings, but they were gone. The realization made him swing his right arm violently through the air toward the great columns.
"Aaarrr!" A tremendous gust of wind erupted, so forceful that it shattered the crossbows, hurled men backward, cracked the massive wall fifty meters away, and swept away everything in its path.
"Arrraa!" Kharvathar spun to his left, where more archers stood, and swept his arm in the same motion—fingers spread wide, as though still reaching with claws he no longer possessed. The pressure wave struck harder on that side, unleashing even greater destruction.
"Wait, Setarek!" Uras'Diptsur pushed past the soldiers who had just raised their shields with difficulty, still reeling from the residual force of Kharvathar's attack—even though it had not been aimed at them. Uras'Diptsur saw that Setarek was about to charge, but it would be futile. The sword had failed once; he would only die in vain.
"Get out of here, Father! Soldiers, take the king to the underground chambers—now!" The Son of the Setting Sun shouted, glancing back to see his father approaching recklessly. He failed to notice that Kharvathar had closed the distance and now stood mere meters away, arm raised, ready to kill. Kharvathar's face was terrifyingly solemn.
"Wait—please, don't do this! Don't!" Uras'Diptsur slipped on the edge of the crater, shouting at the creature, praying to the gods that it would understand. The pharaoh had noticed the unique trait the demon now displayed. Setarek, meanwhile, could not move—afraid that any motion would provoke an immediate attack. He gripped the sword low and firm, resolved in that instant: if he were to die, he would drive it into the creature's chest and take it with him. He prayed the gods would make it work this time.
"Hmrrm…?" Kharvathar lifted his gaze toward the dark-skinned man running toward him, shouting. His ears rang, but he processed the human's words quickly—understanding them, for somehow his mind now comprehended the language.
"Wait for what, human?" he said in near-fluent Nasndern. Setarek's eyes widened, as did Uras'Diptsur's, who halted nearby. The air was hot and stifling at the impact site; the pharaonic king panted from the run.
"You… spoke—" The pharaoh stood stunned. For such a creature to speak was madness. Ishara, the elf, meanwhile slipped through the gaps in the destruction on the left side, forty meters from the confrontation—only to come face-to-face with a black-haired elf from the White Sands.
Kharvathar regarded the man who had questioned him with a mixture of hardening resolve and curiosity.
"Was it you who did this to me? Who forced me into this form?" he asked in perfect speech, though his voice still carried the raw inexperience of one unused to words. His yellow eyes seemed to burn with animalistic hatred.
"No!" Uras reacted swiftly, swallowing hard. As he had suspected from the moment he saw the creature fall, none of this was ordinary. The being did not know what had happened to it—and Uras sensed its inner conflict.
"I do not know what you mean. Are you speaking of yourself?" Uras managed to say, seeking confirmation while staring at Kharvathar. Of all the creatures in his people's legends, nothing had ever filled him with greater dread than standing this close to the thing before him. Setarek remained rooted in place nearby, still afraid to move. Kharvathar seemed to ignore him. Uras drew a deep breath and continued: "In my dream, it was a great dragon th—"
"Dream?" Kharvathar interrupted. A strong wind swept through the area; more clouds veiled the sun overhead. "Dreams… that is the name. I, too, had dreams!" Kharvathar understood. "Tell me, human…"
It was the perfect moment. Setarek judged that Kharvathar was distracted—that instant of dialogue represented a lowered guard. Now or never. His body moved on instinct. The Son of the Setting Sun thrust the blade forward with both hands, channeling all his strength toward the creature's chest.
It was futile.
The iron sang through the air with the hollow echo of failure. Kharvathar had evaded with such blinding speed that even Setarek's eyes—mere centimeters away in the clear daylight—failed to track the motion. For Kharvathar, it had been pure reflex.
The fallen dragon seized the warrior's arm and twisted.
"Aaaaaar!" The prince groaned, releasing the sword. His legs buckled; his body sagged downward, amplifying the agony as Kharvathar kept the broken arm raised.
"Wait—no!" Uras'Diptsur surged forward with a cry. "Dreams, yes! Your dreams and thoughts. You think now, don't you?" Uras halted at a fissure created by the fall, near a cluster of fallen arrows.
Kharvathar had placed his other hand around the pharaoh's son's throat. "Kill him now. Kill them all. Do not listen. This is what you exist for." The voice in his mind urged. Kharvathar shook his head, irritated.
"I live to kill!" the dragon roared, releasing the broken arm and hoisting Setarek by the neck. Setarek thrashed weakly. The nearby soldiers, seeing their prince in such a state, advanced. Uras had no time left.
"Release him, and I will help you return to what you were!" the pharaoh shouted. Kharvathar looked at him. "Do not kill him. You think now—you did not think before. You can choose not to do this!" Uras added, then turned and bellowed at the soldiers not to advance or fire.
"Not do this." The dragon-human repeated. Setarek had already lost consciousness; Kharvathar flung him toward his father. "Not kill?" he asked. And the voice returned in his mind: "You were born to kill. It is your fate. It is what you are. Kill them all. Do not listen. Burn everything."
"I came to kill all of you," Kharvathar reaffirmed.
He walked toward the man cradling his unconscious son. Uras had confirmed Setarek still breathed, but he did not know how much longer any of them would.
"You do not feel as you once did. You have changed." Uras rose, facing the being that approached him step by step. He felt death drawing near, slow and deliberate. "You 'awakened'—and then you were transformed into something you were not. You feel strange."
"You did this to me," Kharvathar said, struggling to contain the primal fury while drawing on his newfound capacity for thought.
"We possess no such power. We would perish in your flames. Now I understand—the gods did this!" Uras feared the words even as he spoke them. "It was… a gift from the sun."
"The… gods?" Kharvathar halted. The word awakened deep Meanings in his mind, painful in their intensity. Uras saw the discomfort cross his face and pressed on:
"You are no longer merely an animal. You are a being that thinks, and can choose not to kill."
Kharvathar stopped and stared at him in silence. The world seemed to spin, strange and incomplete. He felt the sun straining his eyes, the cracked earth, the thick air. The voice within urged him to tear the man apart and feast on his flesh—but his consciousness told him to listen.