Night had fallen over the fortress.

  No watch. No guards. No words.

  Only them.

  The silence between Garlan and Marenna was no longer woven of mourning. It was tension. That smoldering, black, incandescent rage one can no longer contain. Not the kind that screams. The kind that devours.

  Marenna’s breath had grown shallow. Garlan’s, uneven.

  They did not look at each other. They felt each other.

  One impulse was enough.

  The kiss was brutal. Urgent. Without tenderness. Their fangs clashed. Their claws slid across the other’s skin. Clothes didn’t tear—they were ripped away. Shredded.

  Their bodies were no longer human.

  Skin against skin. Scale against scale.

  Garlan felt his claws lengthen, anchoring into Marenna’s hips. She answered by digging her nails—now talons—into his back. A guttural sound, almost animal, escaped her lips. She bit his shoulder. Not to wound. To claim him.

  Their forms fully draconized. Horns. Tails. Wings pressed against the walls. Breathing ragged, searing.

  The act was not tender. It was vital. An outlet. A rite. A primitive fusion. They tore at each other as much as they loved. Their moans were like growls. Their sighs, like roars.

  They were not making love. They were finding each other again. Body and fire. Claws and life.

  Blood was drawn—quietly. Accepted. Offered.

  And outside, the night itself held its breath.

  Morning came—cold, hushed. Light barely pierced through the high stone windows. Marenna rose slowly, wrapped in a sheet still steeped with their heat. Garlan slept on, his breathing heavy, his body slack for the first time in days.

  She set her feet on the ground. And froze.

  A shiver. Not of cold. Not of fear. Something else. A dissonance in the air.

  She closed her eyes. Focused.

  And she felt it.

  A mana dark and cold. Inverted. Where hers pulsed like spring growth, this one crept—dry, desiccated. Necrosis, moving.

  She inhaled. Exhaled.

  — He is close, she whispered.

  Garlan’s eyes snapped open, instantly alert.

  — Him?

  She nodded.

  — He’s here. And waiting for us.

  They descended together into the fortress courtyard. The wind had shifted. It carried the stench of upturned earth, abandoned flesh, stagnant magic.

  An outrider waited at the steps.

  — Paladin Arcalion was transferred to the capital at dawn. Too weak to fight. He asked not to be a burden.

  Garlan inclined his head silently.

  Marenna lifted her gaze to the horizon. A black haze had settled on the southern hill. It did not move. A curtain between worlds.

  — He is there.

  — And this time, we go together, said Garlan.

  They left the fortress, side by side, without hesitation.

  Behind them, the stones themselves seemed to hold their breath.

  He was there.

  Standing in the center of the field, draped in a tattered robe, black with soot, rigid as a decomposed statue. The necromancer reeked of death, carrion, and rotten blood. For human senses, tolerable. For draconic ones, unbearable.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Garlan and Marenna stepped back instinctively.

  The necromancer merely raised his arms. Fifty corpses clawed their way from the earth in silence—old, young, mangled, armed. They charged.

  Marenna raised her arms and screamed. Thorns the size of trees erupted across the field. Sharp. Ruthless. Deadly. The dead were impaled, torn, reduced to dust in seconds.

  She roared:

  — Is that all you can do?! You’ll pay for our friend!

  The necromancer didn’t answer. He smiled.

  Then struck the ground with his hand.

  A dark circle spread instantly. From its vortex emerged a hideous chimera. Wings of a harpy. Centaur’s legs. A bear’s torso. A dragon’s neck. A deformed face and a pestilent breath. Death itself stitched into a body.

  The stench it exhaled was so vile Marenna staggered. She vomited, knees buckling, vision reeling.

  Garlan caught her hand. Fused their mana. A wave of heat and wind rushed through her.

  — Take him. I’ll deal with… this thing.

  — Are you sure? Marenna panted.

  — You’re more than capable of handling that necro filth. Just watch his projectiles—they carry death. Protect yourself well.

  He squeezed her hand.

  — I won’t be far.

  And true to himself, Garlan didn’t wait. In an instant, he teleported before the chimera, cloaked in full draconic form and armored in wind. He slammed a hand to the creature’s chest, unleashing a shockwave that blasted it across the field, smashing it into rock with a thunderous crash.

  Marenna inhaled deeply. Her body donned partial draconic armor, shards of green scales spreading across her arms, legs, and shoulders. Her life-aura swelled outward, pulsing against the necromancer’s death field.

  She pressed her hands to the earth, channeling mana. Roots stirred beneath their feet, vegetation vibrated. She summoned life—pure, wild, immense. She sought to undo the rot, to cleanse the soil, to strip the necromancer of control over the ground itself.

  The necromancer’s brow furrowed. He reached for more corpses—but nothing stirred. He tried again—nothing. Marenna had severed him. The land no longer obeyed.

  He grimaced, then raised his arms. A rain of black magic lashed down: fetid bolts, curses wrapped as arrows. Marenna dodged—quick, precise. Each strike left her startled. His aim was poor. His patterns repetitive. He was… weak.

  Meanwhile, Garlan prepared another assault. He raised a hand—an arc of thunder cracked, slamming into the chimera. The beast shrieked. Its rotted flesh charred, smoked. But it reformed.

  Garlan growled.

  — As long as he lives, it comes back.

  The chimera exhaled a draconic flame. Garlan smirked.

  — Fire? Really?

  He raised his hand, stopping the breath with an invisible wall. Walked forward through the blaze, step by step. Stood before the beast, raised his other hand, and slammed a sphere of pure fire down its gaping throat.

  Flame filled its torso. The chimera ignited completely.

  The Eternal Fire consumed it.

  But it did not scream.

  It only cracked. Fell. Began to reassemble.

  Garlan clenched his teeth. Seized the chimera’s horns mid-regeneration, swung it in a brutal arc, and hurled it like a catapult toward the necromancer. The twisted body spun through the air, claws flailing, launched by demi-draconic might.

  Now the necromancer struck not to kill, but to corrupt.

  The ground blackened with veins. From them erupted chains—thick, dark, clattering. They rose, whirled around Marenna, and descended.

  Garlan leapt into their path.

  The chains pierced him.

  They tore through his wind armor as if it were air. But when they met his draconic flesh, they sank in without reaching his vitals. He roared, but held.

  Blood ran. Yet he stood.

  He smiled, half-pain, half-defiance.

  — That was close… Good thing I’ve got this double armor.

  Marenna, hurled aside into the field, scrambled up. She saw him, bleeding, bound by chains. She dashed to his side, pressed her hands to him, pouring life-mana. The chains splintered, his wounds knit slowly, and still he stood—tense, focused.

  At that moment, the chimera crashed into the necromancer. The blow staggered the shadowed figure, but did not fell him.

  Garlan seized Marenna’s hand. Their breaths synchronized. Mana surged between them, steady, pulsing.

  Their bodies thrummed as one. Their eyes blazed with the same intensity.

  They roared together.

  Two cries. Two breaths.

  Incandescent fire. Verdant light.

  Their breaths fused in the air—fire and life, strength and radiance. A single draconic beam tore across the battlefield and struck the necromancer full force.

  The ground shook. The air quivered. And the shadow finally screamed.

  They advanced slowly, through the dissolving mist. Marenna pulsed life with every step, the soil shivering under her, refusing corruption.

  The necromancer lay on the ground, body cracked, charred, gnawed by flame and light. He stared at them, mask half-melted, revealing a withered jaw.

  He smiled.

  — Thank you… he whispered. Thank you for freeing me.

  The words froze them.

  Garlan exchanged a troubled glance with Marenna. She shook her head faintly, baffled.

  — He was… possessed? she asked.

  — Or a puppet, Garlan replied. Or worse… just a mouth, for something greater.

  Their faces hardened. Wary. Awakened.

  The tension had not eased when Marenna suddenly pressed a hand to her belly. A strange warmth. A soft pulse. Unreal.

  — Garlan…

  He turned, alarmed.

  She guided his hand gently to her lower abdomen.

  — Do you feel it? What is that?

  He focused, reaching out with his mana. And he felt it. Two presences. Faint. But alive.

  Marenna, pale, whispered:

  — Do you think… it’s a spell from the necromancer? Something I didn’t see?

  Garlan shook his head, pressing his forehead to hers.

  — No. This doesn’t smell of death. Nor corruption. It’s… alive. Too alive.

  He breathed deep. Then declared, steady, firm:

  — We return to the Sanctuary of Life. Now.