The fire crackled softly.
It was small, flickering, tucked beneath a crag of stone outcroppings in the wilds north of Ash'myra. The stars above were dim, veiled behind thick clouds as if even the sky could not bear witness to what had unfolded beneath it.
Nyxia sat near the fire, her back to Loque'nahak. Her armor lay in a pile beside her—chestplate bloodstained, one pauldron cracked. She wore only her under-tunic now, soaked with sweat and blood and ash. Her hands trembled as she stared down at them, black smudges of dried ichor lining the creases of her palms.
Loque laid nearby, silent, his glowing eyes fixed on her with a kind of quiet reverence. He knew. He always knew.
And then—she broke.
Without a word, she shoved the pile of armor off the stone ledge. It clattered and clanged, echoing down into the gorge.
"Damn her!" Nyxia shouted, voice hoarse and ragged. "Damn her, damn me, damn this whole gods-forsaken path!"
She stood abruptly, pacing the camp like a caged animal. Her hair lashed behind her, her breathing sharp and uneven. She grabbed a stone and hurled it at a nearby tree—it shattered bark in a sharp crack.
"She was mine!" Her voice cracked. "She was light, she was hope!" Another stone—this one missed, sailing into the darkness. "She looked at me like I was something more than a killer! And I left her! I—" her voice dropped to a whisper, ragged and wet, "I left her…"
Nyxia fell to her knees.
Her claws dug into the dirt, fingers tearing at the soil as if she could bury her shame. Her shoulders heaved, silent sobs wracking her lithe frame. Her face pressed against the cold ground as she whispered again and again:
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
The fire crackled, casting her shadow like a broken wing across the rocks.
And still, Loque'nahak did not move.
Not until she was silent.
Then, with the patience of ancient snow and the grace of a specter, he rose and padded to her side. He lowered his great head and pressed his forehead gently to her back. Just enough to say: I'm here.
Nyxia didn't flinch.
She turned and leaned into him, arms curling around his neck, her sobs muffled in his fur.
Together, they stayed like that—hunter and beast, soul and solace—as the stars finally broke through the clouds above them.
Dawn came slow.
The fire had died to embers, soft orange light casting sleepy shadows on the stone walls. Nyxia sat wrapped in her cloak, knees drawn to her chest, eyes rimmed red but clear now. Loque'nahak dozed nearby, his spectral body curled tight, one ear occasionally twitching at unseen sounds in the trees.
Birds sang.
The forest smelled wet—moss, earth, and the faint sweetness of spring.
Nyxia turned her old moonstone pendant over in her hand. It caught the light, dull now. As if the gem remembered Ves'Sariel's voice, too.
"I should have told her I still loved her," she whispered, voice barely audible.
Loque raised his head slightly, eyes watching.
"I should've said it, even if it meant nothing. Even if she's already gone."
She exhaled slowly, letting the quiet hold her like a warm current.
Then the birds stopped.
All at once.
Every chirp, every rustle, every whisper of life—snuffed.
Loque shot to his feet, body tense. Nyxia stood, gripping her weapons.
Then came the sound: a low, wet groan that vibrated through the stones.
And then the stench—rot. Flesh left too long in the sun. Decay laced with something older. Wronger.
The trees exploded.
A massive form burst through the forest like a meteor, black ichor flinging from its wings. It was a dragon—once a dragon. Now a twisted colossus of festering flesh and void corruption. Its scales had peeled back in places, revealing muscle and bone riddled with tumors. One of its wings dragged uselessly, melting at the edges, dripping necrotic slime. Its head was partially exposed skull, and from its maw oozed a green miasma that sizzled the earth where it touched.
"Move!" Nyxia screamed as the beast lunged.
Loque vanished into the shadows. Nyxia rolled, just as the dragon's tail smashed the stone ledge where she'd slept hours ago. The entire camp disintegrated in a rain of debris.
She loosed three arrows—one pierced the eye, another hit a swollen pustule that burst in a wave of acidic sludge. The third embedded in its throat, but it didn't slow. It roared, and the very air twisted, trees warping, stones melting.
Loque reappeared behind it, slashing across its spine with claws of spectral fury. The beast shrieked and swung its ruined wing, knocking him midair into a tree with a crunch.
"Loque!"
Nyxia charged, using the dragon's lowered head as a ramp. She leapt onto its back, stabbing into a soft patch of exposed flesh. Her blade sank deep, black blood spurting in steaming arcs. The dragon shrieked, twisting violently—throwing her.
She hit the ground hard. Something cracked.
Her ribs screamed.
The rot dragon reared back, bile gathering in its throat, bubbling like molten filth.
She couldn't move fast enough.
Loque appeared again, flinging himself between her and the coming torrent. The bile struck him mid-leap, searing his flesh, burning his fur to ash in streaks—but he landed, tearing out the creature's other eye with a vicious growl.
It reared in agony.
Nyxia dragged herself up and fired one last arrow—straight into its gaping, ruined maw. It pierced something deep.
The rot dragon choked—and exploded in a cloud of noxious gas, blood, and shattered bone.
Silence returned.
The forest was dead around them.
Loque limped to her side, blackened and burned but alive. Nyxia coughed, her face slick with blood that wasn't hers.
They had survived.
Barely.
She looked at the ruined forest, the bones of the dragon still twitching, and whispered through cracked lips:
"…This is just the beginning."