Chapter 33
He watched her, satisfied. "I already know the answer to that."
Nyra shot him a wry look but said nothing. With a tentative motion, she climbed onto the dragon's back, its ghostly form surprisingly solid beneath her.
He joined her effortlessly, settling in behind her as if the spectral mount had always been theirs.
The dragon shifted, its translucent wings stretching wide, their edges shimmering like the edges of a blade.
"Let's go, Agheel," he commanded.
The dragon responded instantly, its wings beating with a thunderous force that sent ghostly flames rippling through the air. The ground beneath them blurred as Agheel lifted off, ascending into the night sky with a speed and grace that defied its size.
Nyra held tightly to the dragon's ridged back, her hair whipping around her face. Despite the chill of the wind, there was a strange exhilaration in her eyes.
"You could've warned me it'd take off like this," she called over her shoulder, though there was no real anger in her tone.
"Where's the fun in that?" he replied, leaning forward slightly to steady himself.
The view stretched out before them—vast plains dotted with ruins, rivers snaking through the land like silver veins, and the imposing silhouette of Stormveil Castle looming in the distance.
As Agheel leveled out, Nyra turned her head slightly, her voice quieter. "I still think this is insane, but… I'll admit, it's incredible."
He smirked, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "You'll get used to it. A weapon like this isn't just for show."
...
The descent of Agheel upon Castle Morne was as grand as it was shocking.
The ghostly dragon's spectral form landed with a powerful gust, its translucent wings spreading wide as the soldiers on the ramparts froze in place, their weapons momentarily forgotten.
At the heart of the commotion, Edgar, the Warden of Castle Morne, rushed forward.
His steel armor clinked as he moved, his weathered face etched with surprise and recognition as he beheld the dragon and the man who rode it.
The soldiers quickly dropped to one knee, murmuring in awe and reverence.
"The master has returned!" one of them whispered, a wave of deference spreading through the ranks.
Edgar stepped closer, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword, though his expression was one of respect rather than hostility.
"My lord," he said, bowing deeply, "you've returned… and with a creature of legend, no less. a dragon…" His voice trailed off as he took in the dragon's ethereal form.
He dismounted Agheel, turning to offer Nyra a hand. She hesitated for a moment, then accepted, sliding down with a soft grunt.
The ghostly dragon remained still, its glowing eyes watching the gathered crowd with an almost regal calm.
"Edgar," He said, his voice carrying the weight of authority, "rally every soldier across the Weeping Peninsula. There is a name I want spread to every corner of this land."
Edgar straightened, his gaze sharp. "As you command, my lord. What name shall we spread?"
"Witch Hunter Jerren,"
"I want him hunted, captured, or killed. No quarter given."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, but Edgar gave a firm nod. "It shall be done, my lord. I will send word to every outpost immediately."
The moon hung heavy over Castle Morne as the He stood on the battlements, overlooking the vast expanse of the Weeping Peninsula.
"Edgar," he called, his tone calm but commanding, "prepare the Misbegottens. We strike at dawn."
The Misbegottens, grotesque in form but fiercely obedient, were gathered nearby, awaiting their master's command.
"Yes, my lord. The Misbegottens are ready. Their numbers are vast, and they obey your every command without question."
His smirk deepened. "Good. With the dragon and my army of Misbegottens, Stormveil Castle will be a mere obstacle."
Edgar bowed low. "The Misbegottens are yours to command, my lord. Shall I gather more of the soldiers to march alongside them?"
"No need." his eyes flickered amusement. "The Misbegottens alone will be enough. The dragon will ensure that the skies are ours."
...
Meanwhile, far across the land, a woman cloaked in black lingered within the shadows of a forgotten ruin.
Her gaze, veiled yet piercing, traced the unfolding events with an air of quiet foreboding.
"A Tarnished... wandering so boldly," she mused.
Her voice softened further, as though speaking to the ruin itself. "The Weeping Peninsula... taken, and a dragon subdued."
Her form, shrouded in mist-like magic, began to dissolve into the very air.
With no further sound, the woman vanished, the dust at her feet swirling as if mourning her absence.
...
As dawn broke, the He mounted Agheel once more with Nyra, the great dragon's spectral wings unfurling in the first light of morning.
His army of Misbegottens trailed behind him, their twisted forms silhouetted against the rising sun, a terrifying wave of grotesque warriors ready for the assault.
"Let's see," he muttered, commanding the dragon to fly faster. The misbegotten were closing in, their shrieks echoing in the distance. He needed to inform Sellen about this.
With the dragon's speed, it wasn't long before he arrived at the ruins. Agheel landed with a thunderous thud, scattering dust and loose stones. He dismounted swiftly.
He descended carefully into the ruins. The dimly lit chamber at the bottom came into view, and Nyra's eyes narrowed as she caught sight of its occupants.
Two figures stood in the room. One was a sorceress, her presence marked by the imposing stone mask that entirely covered her head.
Beside her was a young woman clad in a simple gown, a blindfold concealing her sightless eyes.
She seemed to be attempting a spell, her hands trembling faintly as faint sparks of magical energy flickered and died.
///
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