Chapter 30 – The Breathers Lie

We moved quietly through the overgrown ruins, the sky overhead painted in soft streaks of gold and blue. Spring here felt heavier—like the air itself watched us.

For the first time since awakening as a dragon, I felt it.

Not power.

Strain.

My steps were slower, my wings heavier than before. Every beat of my heart echoed through my bones, each breath made my chest tighten like something inside me was too big to stay caged. And maybe that was true. I was a newborn—at least by draconic standards. I'd been alive only days since hatching, yet I'd fought, flown, and survived trials meant for those a hundred years older. No dragon should've been doing what I was doing.

My claws dug lightly into the grass as I walked. I didn't tell the others how my back burned where my wings joined my spine or how my limbs sometimes locked up for a moment before moving again. Lyssira noticed anyway.

She always did.

She walked beside me, saying nothing, but her eyes flicked to me every few seconds. When I stumbled slightly, she placed a steadying hand on my arm. I didn't look at her, but I didn't shake her off either.

Freya was ahead, spear on her back, face unreadable. The fight had taken a toll on her too. Her body moved well enough, but the look in her eyes was distant. Focused inward. Maybe she was thinking of her brother again…

We stopped near a half-buried temple wall where creeping vines choked the stone. The area was clear of danger. It was time to rest.

I sat down slowly, stretching my legs and tail as I leaned against a broken statue. My breath came heavy, fogging in the cooler air.

Lyssira knelt nearby. Freya stood guard. But her silence broke first.

"So," she said flatly. "We're all glowing targets now. That's what it means, isn't it? To be a Prospect?"

I looked at her. "Seems like it."

"The Tree doesn't protect Prospects," Lyssira added. Her voice was quiet, careful. "It favors them, but favor isn't safety."

"It's bait," Freya said. "All the strength in the world, and still they come for you."

We fell into silence again until Lyssira stood and brushed moss off a slab of stone behind her. There was writing—faint, ancient.

She read aloud, voice soft.

"The Tree grants, but first it breaks."

She looked at me.

"The chosen are not protected—they are exposed."

Then one final line.

"Only one wish. One truth. One left standing."

The words struck deeper than I expected.

I stared at the cracked inscription. So this was the cost? The Tree didn't want a servant. It wanted a survivor.

We moved on before nightfall.

The silence followed us like a second shadow. When we crossed paths with a wounded beastkin—limping, bloodied, and barely alive—Freya caught him.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Group from the Summer quadrant," he rasped. "One of them… one of the chosen. Ruthless. Hunting Prospects. Wants the title for himself."

Lyssira tensed. Freya cursed under her breath.

I helped him sit near the edge of the trail. He coughed hard, blood dotting his lip. As I moved away, he squinted up at me.

"Thank you, may I know your name?" he asked weakly.

I hesitated.

"Zavier. Zavier Von Drakaryn."

His expression changed.

Not fear.Recognition.

"Drakaryn…?" he echoed. "That bloodline… it was supposed to be extinct. The dragons erased them."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

But his strength was gone. He collapsed, unconscious.

I looked up at the others.

None of us spoke for a long time.

Whatever the hell this Tree wanted from me…

It was far from over.