Several days had passed since my arrival at Willow’s End, and I had wasted none of them. Every waking hour was spent mastering my newly acquired spells, combing the library for forgotten knowledge, or harvesting potion ingredients. Willow’s End was rich in resources, but the rare component I needed, Mandragora Root, was far harder to obtain. It grew only in secluded, perilous places, far from well-worn paths.

  To acquire it, I ventured into the depths of the forest, toward a hidden waterfall concealed within Willow’s End. From there, I climbed the steep hills surrounding the cascade and made my way to Aeloria’s Keep, a radiant stone sanctuary hidden among the trees. Steeped in ancient magic, the keep served as a sacred site where druids communed with primordial spirits and safeguarded their most treasured artifacts.

  The deeper I went, the forest itself seemed to change. The air thickened, heavy with Mana that pressed faintly against my skin. Roots coiled beneath my steps, neither obstructing me nor offering a welcome. Even the insects had fallen silent, as if a command had stilled the grove.

  I was searching the western edge of Aeloria’s Keep, carefully parting tangled roots and enchanted flora, when a sudden awareness prickled at the back of my mind.

  Someone was nearby.

  A figure stepped into view, someone who had no business being here.

  A dragonian.

  My muscles tensed instinctively. Dragonians were rare, their kind descended from true dragons, born with strength and combat instincts most races could only cultivate through years of training. Few ever left their ancestral territories in the southern Oros Summit, and fewer still ventured alone.

  The one before me was tall and imposing, his muscular frame encased in battle-worn armor. A spear rested against his shoulder, its shaft etched with dragonian glyphs worn smooth by countless battles.

  But my focus locked onto his right arm, or rather, what marred it.

  A dark, jagged curse mark coiled around his forearm, blackened veins pulsing faintly beneath the scales. Dragon’s Curse.

  He had attempted to conceal it beneath his cloak, but faint pulses of cursed energy leaked through the fabric.

  “You don’t belong here,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart raced.

  He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Brave words for someone so small,” he replied, lowering the spear just enough to point it at me. Amusement rumbled beneath his deep voice.

  “This is sacred ground,” I said. “Trespassers aren’t welcome.”

  He studied me for a moment, then smirked. “And what exactly do you plan to do about it?”

  He advanced a single step, confidence radiating from every movement. “You’ve got courage, I’ll give you that. But you should move aside while I’m still feeling generous.”

  I didn’t hesitate.

  Windstride surged through my veins, the world around me blurring as I launched backward, boots barely brushing the moss-covered stone. In the same motion, I slashed my scepter through the air.

  Wind Cutter.

  A crescent blade of compressed wind screamed toward his head.

  Without effort, he shifted his body just enough for the attack to pass harmlessly by.

  The instant my feet touched the ground, I reached into my pouch. This wasn’t a fight I could afford to hold back.

  [Fleeting Potion used]

  A flick of my wrist, another slash. Then another. Four. Six. Ten. Blades of wind tore through the air in rapid succession, shredding leaves and gouging stone.

  I varied the angles deliberately. High, low, delayed strikes woven between faster bursts, watching how his shoulders moved before each dodge, how his weight shifted a fraction of a second before impact. This wasn’t evasion born of instinct. He was predicting me, reading intent before motion. The realization tightened my grip on the scepter even as I adjusted my rhythm, forcing him to react rather than anticipate.

  The barrage of Wind Cutters struck the ancient trees behind him, scattering leaves before striking the massive bell suspended above Aeloria’s Keep. The impact sent a thunderous gong reverberating through the grove.

  The dragonian clicked his tongue. “Interesting,” he murmured. “But I don’t have time to play.”

  I caught the subtle twitch of his wings.

  He was about to take off.

  “I know where you can find Celestial Draught,” I blurted out.

  That stopped him cold, golden eyes sharp with suspicion. “What did you just say?”

  “Celestial Draught. I know where it is.”

  The ease drained from his posture. He scrutinized me, weighing every word, every breath. “How do you know about Celestial Draught?” he asked quietly. Then his eyes narrowed. “And more importantly, how do you know that I need it?”

  I smirked, inclining my head to let my gaze linger on his cursed arm before meeting his eyes again. “Let me guess,” I said. “Someone from the Jahad family did this to you.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  His body went rigid.

  The shock in his expression was fleeting, but I caught it.

  “How,” he growled, “does a fledgling druid like you know things even most dragonians don’t?”

  The amusement was gone. In its place stood wariness and curiosity.

  The air around us grew colder.

  Pressure crashed down on me without warning. My ears rang, a sharp metallic taste flooding my mouth as my instincts screamed a single command. Run.

  My vision blurred, knees buckling under his presence. I forced a breath and anchored myself to the grove.

  This was my ground. I would not yield here.

  [Willpower exceeds 100. Dragon’s Fear effects have been partially neutralized]

  “I can help you get what you need,” I said evenly.

  He scoffed. “I’m not foolish enough to trust a stranger. Especially a little one like you.”

  “Fair,” I replied with a shrug. “Then let’s make a trade.”

  I could feel it. The moment his curiosity outweighed his disdain. Dragonians valued strength, but they respected leverage even more. I kept my posture relaxed, forcing myself not to glance at his spear or the tension coiled in his wings.

  His brow rose slightly. “A trade?”

  “I’ll give you the Celestial Draught. Right here. Right now.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And what do you want in return?”

  My tone hardened. “Return what you stole from us.”

  Silence followed.

  His expression shifted. No longer confident, no longer dismissive. For the first time, doubt flickered behind those golden eyes.

  And just like that, the balance between us changed.

  ***

  Ryzenethar Baaik was no ordinary dragonian.

  He was an elite warrior born of a noble bloodline, trained in battle and subterfuge since childhood. His name carried weight, spoken with equal measures of fear and respect. Yet circumstances had driven him from the safety of his domain and into the sacred lands of the druids, a place he had no right to tread.

  But he had no choice.

  He had come for something vital. With his mastery of infiltration, he had been certain he could slip in and complete his task unseen. In and out, without a trace.

  Until he encountered this druid.

  At first glance, the boy seemed little more than a child. That illusion shattered the moment they exchanged blows. His movements were too sharp. His timing too precise. Spellcasting executed with a clarity and restraint no novice should possess.

  And worse still… he knew things.

  Things no outsider should ever know.

  Could it be? Ryzenethar wondered, his grip tightening around his spear as his golden eyes narrowed. Does he truly possess Celestial Draught?

  If that were true, then the artifacts he stole were no longer necessary. The Draught alone could replace them.

  But could he trust the boy?

  The druid spoke with unwavering confidence, even beneath the crushing weight of Dragon’s Fear. Any ordinary being, even seasoned warriors, would have been paralyzed in terror, their minds overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his draconic presence.

  Yet the boy stood firm.

  Ryzenethar’s tail flicked once behind him, betraying his unease. He could not tell whether the druid was bluffing or truly holding the card.

  “Show me—”

  WHOOSH!

  A razor-edged gust slashed toward his face. Ryzenethar tilted his head just in time, the wind shearing past his cheek with enough force to sting.

  A low growl escaped his throat.

  Before he could retaliate, the druid was already moving.

  Too fast.

  The distance between them vanished in a heartbeat, boots barely touching the ground as the boy closed in. Ryzenethar’s instincts roared a warning.

  "Enough games," he muttered coldly.

  [Fury of the Wyrm cast]

  White light flared at the tip of his spear. He struck in a rapid succession of thrusts and sweeps, each blow delivered with lethal precision. The spear moved like a silver arc, tearing through the air with an ear-splitting hiss. Dust and leaves exploded outward from every near impact.

  Yet none of his strikes landed.

  Each attack was diverted at the last instant. Redirected, brushed aside, or narrowly avoided as though the boy could see them coming before they were even unleashed.

  Ryzenethar’s breath hitched.

  How?

  Even holding back, even favoring his left arm and avoiding vital points, this should not have been possible.

  BAAAM!

  A brutal impact slammed into his side.

  Pain rippled through his ribs as he staggered back, boots carving shallow furrows into the earth. The druid’s staff had struck his right flank, the side where his cursed arm hung weak and unresponsive.

  Not a lucky strike. Calculated.

  The realization sent a chill down his spine.

  And worse…

  That blow had carried weight. Not the strength of a druid, nor even a seasoned adventurer.

  It rivaled dragonian warriors.

  Ryzenethar leapt backward, wings snapping open to create distance. Before he could reassess, his senses flared.

  A surge of magical energy.

  He glanced skyward.

  Elder druids stood at the grove’s edge, staves raised, spells already woven. Fire, lightning, roots, and storm magic converged toward him in a coordinated assault.

  "Shit."

  This had escalated too far. He had no desire to ignite open war with the druids, but retreat was no longer optional.

  “I didn’t want to use this,” he muttered.

  [Dragon’s Roar cast]

  He opened his mouth, and the sky trembled.

  The roar tore free, an overwhelming wave of draconic power that shook the grove to its roots. Blue energy surged outward, unraveling every spell it touched. Flames guttered into sparks. Lightning fractured and vanished. Binding roots crumbled to ash before reaching him.

  The elder druids were thrown back, forced to shield themselves as the shockwave rolled through the clearing.

  In the silence that followed, Ryzenethar lowered his spear and looked once more at the boy before him.

  He took a single step forward.

  Then stopped.

  Something in his expression shifted. Not pity, but acknowledgment.

  “…I hope we never meet again, little one,” he said calmly. “I won’t be so merciful next time.”

  With a powerful beat of his wings, he rose into the night sky, scales glinting beneath the moon.

  But as he climbed through the cold night air, something felt… off.

  His eyes widened.

  That’s impossible. I didn’t feel him.

  His jaw clenched.

  “This isn’t over,” he muttered, the wind stealing his words as he vanished into the dark.

  Dragon’s Roar was so intense I’m pretty sure it rattled my monitor and leaked right into the real world!

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