Chapter 15

The wind grew still the moment Marion stepped into the crevice.

Behind her, the sky burned orange and purple, but inside the cave, the light didn’t follow. It wasn’t just darkness, it was absence. Sound dulled, and even the flicker of her lantern seemed to hesitate, the flame drawn inward like it too feared what lay ahead.

She pressed forward, one hand brushing the damp stone wall, the other gripping the chain-bound kusarigama at her hip.

The tunnel narrowed, the air tightening around Marion’s throat like a noose of silence. Her lantern flickered, shadows slinking up the stone walls like they were retreating from something deeper. She stepped into the heart of the mountain—and stopped.

Before her stretched a cathedral of bone and stone, though no corpse lay here.

The space before her was not merely a cavern—it was a tomb made in the likeness of a dragon’s corpse. The ceiling rose high above in an arch of petrified grandeur, supported by colossal stone beams shaped like ribs, each one marked with curling draconic runes and faint etchings of wings, claws, and fire. Time had worn them smooth but not erased them.

This place had not been made for mortals.

It had been made to honor the fallen dragons.

At the chamber’s center stood a low pedestal of obsidian, shaped like the fused spine of a dragon. Resting atop it was a single black gem, smooth as glass and darker than the deepest ocean trench. It pulsed faintly now, like the slow heartbeat of a sleeping god.

Marion took a step forward—and something stirred.

The runes along the ribs lit up, one by one, with a dull silver glow. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t meant to be. It was like embers in a hearth, flaring in recognition.

She stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. “...You know I’m here.”

The light flowed down the ribs and across the floor in delicate lines, converging into a single glyph at the base of the pedestal. It flared once—then sank beneath the stone, as if unlocking something deep below.

The air changed.

Not colder — sharper. Expectant.

Marion stepped forward again, and a soft tremor pulsed beneath her boots. Not a threat. A welcome.

On the side of the pedestal, new lines of script began to rise from the stone, glowing faintly as if summoned by her very presence. She knelt to read them, brushing away centuries of dust.

"Here lies the final breath of Nihrozar, the Last of the Deathwings."

"May the Seed of Veynir awaken when the world darkens again."

Marion froze.

This wasn’t a prison. This wasn’t even a tomb.

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This was a chrysalis.

The gem pulsed faintly under her gaze—so subtly she might’ve missed it, like a heartbeat deep within a dream. She stepped closer.

“You are late.”

Her hand moved without her consent, trembling fingers brushing the gem’s surface.

The world shifted.

She wasn’t standing anymore. She was falling—through smoke, through flame, through memory, not her own.

She saw a battlefield shrouded in crimson mist. Thousands of corpses, mortal and monstrous alike, scorched beyond recognition. Above them, a creature of shadow and silver fire—Nihrozar, wings torn, blood black as ink—roared defiance at the sky as it collapsed. In its claws, it held a dark crystal, cradled against its chest as if protecting a child.

She saw a circle of hooded figures, carving the tomb. Preparing. Praying. Waiting.

Waiting for her.

A voice rang out—not speech, but essence.

“This is not the end. The seed remembers. When the world burns again… I will return.”

The gem—the same gem now in her hand—flared with a brief, starless glow.

Then, silence.

And now, she stood where the last Death Dragon had died—not by accident, but by design. The gem called to her. Not just as a vessel.

As a mother to its rebirth.

Marion snapped back to the present, gasping. The gem now pulsed faintly in her hand. It was warm.

Alive.

No longer just a relic. Not yet a creature.

A beacon of change.

She looked around at the stone ribs, the runes, the layered wards. This place had been built by those who believed in one last miracle. One final hope to counter the darkness they knew would one day rise again.

And now, that hope stirred. Veynir was not yet born.

But he had chosen her. They would change the world together.

The warmth in her palm changed.

It wasn’t just pulsing now—it was feeding. Drawing in the ambient ether, the age, the decay baked into the walls of the tomb. The runes etched into the floor flared one last time, brighter than before, and then dimmed into silence—as though something had been released.

The gem no longer slept.

Marion felt it in her chest, a low, spiraling pressure, like a second heartbeat woven into her own. And just beneath that beat… a hunger.

Not for food. Not for gold or power.

For death.

Not in the way of cruelty. This wasn’t evil. It was nature. Pure. Cold. Unforgiving. The gem—no, the seed—thrived on what had ended. It drank finality like water. Every fallen creature, every soul cut from the weave of life, would feed its growth.

And Marion, knowingly or not, had already left a trail of such offerings.

She thought back—bandits, monsters, corrupted beasts. Some killed with arrows. Others with fire. One or two with her own hands.

The gem pulsed stronger now, in time with each remembered death.

And it liked them.

She heard a whisper, softer this time. “The world craves balance. All things must end. Let them feed me. Let them wake me.”

Marion’s fingers tightened around the black stone. For the first time, she noticed something: hairline cracks across its surface—tiny veins of dull violet barely visible under the black sheen. Like something inside was growing, pressing outward. Slowly.

It wasn’t ready to hatch.

And it had chosen her.

The tomb had done its part—kept the seed safe through centuries. Now the stone ribs no longer glowed. The air no longer held its sacred stillness. The sanctum had passed the burden on to Marion.

To carry it. To feed it. To raise it—not as a weapon, but as a living legacy and bring a balance. One that would awaken fully only when it had consumed enough death to become what it was always meant to be:

Veynir. The Last Death Dragon.

Marion slid the gem into a reinforced pouch at her side. She could still feel it, even through the leather and iron.

Alive.

Watching.

Waiting.

With a deep centering breath Marion decides to look at her status screen.

[Name- Marion Blackrose]

[Level- 9]

[Class- Death Reaper]

[Affinities]

{Death}

[Stats]

{Str- 25}

{Con- 25}

{Dex- 41}

{Wis- 16}

{Int- 16}

[Skills]

{Rapid Shot- Shoot multiple projectiles in quick succession}

{Identify- Get a description of the item}

{Shadow Sense- Even Shadows can have senses}

[Money- 600G 96S 95C]