Aemon was different. What once seemed like an ordinary man now emanated a force that defied the very laws of nature. His hair, now glowing as if set ablaze, radiated an unnatural brilliance. The heat from his body distorted the very air around him, and his skin, already marked by fire, seemed to burn—but he felt no pain. Leather charred, raw flesh exposed, yet there were no screams. Only an immense, almost hypnotic silence. The power flowing through him was uncontrollable, wild, as if the potion Lilith had once made him drink had awakened his blood upon touching the dragon’s egg.

  His eyes, once human, had transformed. There was no longer the pain of doubt or the frailty of an uncertain prince. Those eyes were now a dragon’s—fierce, piercing, relentless. The fire of battle reflected in them, as if each flame represented a fragment of the soul he had awakened. Lilith, her breath caught, watched in a mixture of awe and fear. The egg… perhaps the egg had stirred something within him. An ancient power coursing through his blood, something he barely understood, yet now it was taking control.

  Dravenmoor observed with a cold calm. He, the master of war, the lord of battles, felt a faint unease upon seeing the prince before him. Aemon was no longer the inexperienced youth he had once faced. His stance, the way his body trembled with energy as if every muscle was ready to tear through flesh, said it all. He had changed, and Dravenmoor knew he was now standing before something far greater than a mere prince. Dragon’s blood, perhaps. Or the egg. Or both. But the question was—was he now facing an adversary who could not be underestimated?

  Aemon took a step forward, his sword—now pulsing with a power that seemed to radiate from the very metal—was raised with an almost supernatural ease. The energy around him intensified, the heat growing, making the air waver. His muscles tensed, like cords ready to snap. Fear had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming fury coursing through his veins.

  Dravenmoor did not hesitate. He, too, assumed his stance. His body shifted slightly, eyes locked onto Aemon. He knew the moment had come. He could no longer play, could no longer underestimate the prince. Not anymore. He would have to fight with everything he had.

  The exchange of glances between them seemed to stretch time. The tension on the battlefield was almost tangible. The roar of their power and the fury of their souls weighed heavily in the air. Everything was about to descend into chaos.

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  Aemon, teeth clenched, launched himself at Dravenmoor with a speed impossible for an ordinary man. The ground beneath his feet seemed to give way under the force of his charge, and his blade shimmered in the moonlight, slicing through the air with the precision of a serpent. Dravenmoor reacted swiftly, spinning his sword with masterful skill, blocking the strike with a resounding clash of metal against metal. But the force behind Aemon’s blow was staggering, forcing Dravenmoor back, his feet skidding across the ground.

  The shockwave reverberated across the battlefield, yet Dravenmoor did not falter. He recovered with a fluid motion, the experience of a warrior who had fought the greatest of monsters evident in his stance. He lunged forward, his blade striking with ferocity. Aemon blocked, but the impact sent tremors through his arm. His blood boiled within him, the sensation almost as if his flesh was being consumed by fire.

  But he did not stop.

  He attacked again, each movement faster, stronger, more precise. Dravenmoor’s sword moved like lightning, but Aemon was a storm. His movements were no longer those of a prince; they were something older, more primal. Their blades clashed in the air, the sound of steel slicing through space echoing across the battlefield. Each exchange of blows felt like a duel between titans, and though Aemon was consumed by the fury of his blood, Dravenmoor was not easily overcome.

  The energy Aemon unleashed with every strike grew more visceral, hotter. He was burning, but his rage and determination kept him standing. Sweat dripped down his face, yet he no longer felt the cold—only the unbearable heat rising with each strike. His sword was an extension of his very being, wielded with deadly precision, targeting Dravenmoor’s weak points. But the old warrior was cunning. He moved with the wisdom of a lifetime of battles, countering whenever Aemon left an opening.

  The heat intensified. Sweat turned to vapor, Aemon’s flesh seemed to ignite under the force of the power he wielded. He was at his limit. Every movement demanded more, every muscle screamed to surrender, but he would not retreat. The dragon within him would not allow it.

  Dravenmoor smirked, a gleam of wicked amusement in his eyes, as if testing Aemon’s limits. He delivered a strike that forced Aemon to dodge, the blade cutting through the air with terrifying precision. The sound of steel cleaving space was as loud as the roar of hell itself. Aemon stepped back, breathing heavily, the fire within him consuming him from the inside. But he still had strength left to fight.

  He was no longer fighting for himself. He was fighting for everything he represented—for his land, for his people. The spirit of Corvinus drove him, the memory of his father, the shadow of the dragon that now lived inside him.

  But how much longer could he last?