The journey out of the Dead Marshes was silent, save for the splashing of mud beneath Alaric's boots. His body felt like a coiled spring, vibrating with a restless energy that made his skin itch. Every time he exhaled, a faint, crystalline mist escaped his lips—the cold exhaust of his dragon lungs.
"We are approaching the border of the Neutral Zones," Evelyn whispered, her eyes constantly scanning the horizon. "Beyond these marshes lies the Gray Pass. It's a lawless land, but the Church's reach is shorter there."
Suddenly, Alaric stopped. His wings flared open instinctively, the dark membranes vibrating.
"What is it?" Evelyn asked, her hand moving toward a vial of corrosive acid at her belt.
"A scent," Alaric muttered. His vertical pupils narrowed, scanning the thick fog. "Iron. Sweat. And the smell of holy incense. They didn't wait for the mist to clear."
From the shadows of a massive, rotted willow tree, three figures emerged. They weren't regular scouts. They wore the heavy, obsidian-lined armor of the Iron Inquisition—the Church's elite unit specifically trained to hunt heretics and magical beasts.
"Paladin Alaric," the lead Inquisitor said, his voice muffled by a heavy steel helm. "Or should I say, Subject Alaric? We were told you had fallen, but it seems you've only descended into a deeper pit of filth."
Alaric didn't feel the fear he used to feel. Instead, a surge of cold, predatory joy flooded his mind. The dragon's lungs expanded, drawing in the toxic marsh air and refining it into pure power.
"Hide, Evelyn," Alaric commanded, his voice vibrating with a low, draconic resonance.
"Alaric, wait! Their armor is resistant to—"
Before she could finish, Alaric moved. He didn't run; he launched. With a single beat of his wings, he vanished into the fog and reappeared behind the first Inquisitor. His clawed hand struck the obsidian armor, and to his surprise, the metal didn't just dent—it shattered.
The dragon's lungs were pumping a cold, numbing energy into his muscles. He felt no pain, only the target. The lead Inquisitor swung a heavy mace glowing with holy light, but Alaric caught the weapon mid-air with his bare hand. The holy fire hissed against his scales, but it couldn't burn through the ancient protection of the dragon essence.
"My turn," Alaric hissed.
He leaned in close and exhaled. A blast of freezing, concentrated mana hit the Inquisitor's helm. The steel turned brittle instantly, cracking like glass. The man fell, his screams silenced by the sudden frost filling his throat.
The remaining two hunters froze in terror. They weren't fighting a man. They were fighting a Chimera that moved with the precision of a ksatria and the brutality of a dragon.
"Go," Alaric growled, his golden eyes glowing in the dark. "Tell your masters that the Light can no longer reach me. I am the shadow that will haunt their cathedrals."
As the survivors fled into the mist, Alaric stood amidst the frost-covered mud, his breath coming in steady, icy clouds. He looked back at Evelyn, who was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. It wasn't just pride anymore. It was a realization.
She hadn't just saved a life. She had unleashed a disaster.