The journey north took them back across the sea, then east, to the Eastern Reaches, to the place where the free peoples were gathering, where those who had lost everything were coming together to make their final stand.
This was a land of free peoples—refugees from across Aetheria, from the Western Kingdoms, from the Southern Isles, from everywhere the Plague had touched, everywhere the Church had burned. They lived in fortified camps, training for war, preparing for the end, for the death that they knew was coming. They had lost everything—their homes, their families, their lives—and they had nothing left to lose.
The Dragon Knights and Moonwhisper mages marched together, a small army of the living moving toward the darkness, toward the death that waited. They moved through lands scarred by the Plague, through forests where the trees whispered secrets of things that had died, across rivers that ran black with taint, with the poison of the Plague. Wherever they passed, they fought the dead, leaving nothing but ash in their wake.
On the tenth day, they reached the largest camp—a fortress of wood and stone on a hill, surrounded by thousands of refugees, by thousands of people who had lost everything, who had nothing left to lose.
"The Free Army," Garrick said, his voice carrying the weight of hope, of the last chance for the world. "The last hope for the living. The ones who refused to die hiding, who refused to surrender to the darkness. They've been gathering for months, preparing for the end, for the death that they know is coming. They're waiting for someone to lead them, waiting for a reason to fight again."
They approached the fortress, and the gates opened, the movements of those who knew they were standing before hope, before the last chance for the world. Inside, refugees went about their lives—cooking, cleaning, training for war, preparing for the end. They looked tired, scared, but determined, their eyes carrying the weight of too much loss, of too much grief, but also the weight of hope, of the refusal to die hiding.
A man in armor approached them, his face scarred, his eyes hard, carrying the weight of too many battles, of too much death. "Who are you?"
"I'm Thorne Ashford," Thorne said, and there was power in his voice, power that came from the dragon fire that burned in his veins, from the transformation that was consuming him. "I carry the dragon blood of Ignis, the Black Flame. The last of the Great Dragons. These are the Dragon Knights and the Moonwhisper mages. We're here to unite the living against the Plague. We're here to give you hope, to give you leadership, to give you a reason to fight again."
The man studied them for a long moment, his eyes searching their faces, seeing the dragon fire that burned in Thorne's veins, seeing the silver magic that burned in Lyra's blood, seeing the power that shouldn't exist. Then he nodded, and there was approval in his face, approval that came from too many years of fighting, of knowing what was coming.
"I'm Jarek, commander of the Free Army. We've been waiting for someone to lead us, waiting for a reason to fight again. We've lost everything—our homes, our families, our lives. We've been running from the Plague, from the Church, from the darkness that consumes everything. We've been hiding, but we can't hide anymore. The dead are everywhere, the Plague is spreading, the darkness is gathering. We need to fight. We need to make our final stand."
He gestured for them to follow, his movements carrying the weight of command, of a decision that would change everything. "Come. The council will want to meet you. The leaders of the free peoples, the ones who have been organizing the resistance, the ones who have been preparing for the end. They'll want to know your plan. They'll want to know if we have a chance."
The council was a group of leaders—refugees, soldiers, and mages—who had gathered to plan the defense of the living, to prepare for the end, for the death that they knew was coming. They sat around a table covered in maps, their faces grim, carrying the weight of too much loss, of too much grief, but also the weight of determination, of the refusal to die hiding.
"Tell us your plan," Jarek said, his voice tight with the weight of the situation, of the impossibility of what they were facing.
Thorne looked at the maps, then at the council, seeing the weight of what he was asking, seeing the impossibility of the task ahead. "The Oracle told us that Morthos is raising a Death Dragon army in the north. He's finding the bones of the Great Dragons, calling their fire back from the corners of the world, giving them form again. But they won't be dragons anymore. They'll be undead dragons. Death Dragons. And when he has enough Death Dragons, he'll sweep across Aetheria and destroy everything. The living will become the dead, and the dead will serve him forever. The darkness will consume the world, and nothing will remain."
"How?" one of the council members asked, his voice tight with fear, with the desperate need to believe that there was a way, that something could be done.
"By destroying his phylactery," Thorne said, and there was determination in his voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "The object where his soul