Chapter 31 – Hunted and Hollow

The spring winds had turned sharp.

What once felt lush and lively now carried the scent of blood and smoke. Somewhere far off, a forest burned — its dark smoke curling into the soft-colored skies like a bruise on heaven's skin.

We were being hunted.

Not by beasts.

Not by storms.

But by those who were like us — chosen.

Prospects.

Another group had begun targeting us after our brief encounter with the wounded beastkin. Word must have spread of Zavier's identity — not just as a Prospect, but as a Drakaryn. That name carried weight now. Weight and danger.

We'd been moving fast for two days. Sleep came in short, shallow bursts, and food was whatever we could scavenge. Even Freya, who rarely complained, looked ragged.

"We can't keep running," she growled, crouching behind a crumbling archway. Her body tensed in that half-animal posture she adopted when she was on the brink of transforming. "They're closing in. Smell's thicker now. They're not far behind."

Zavier's voice was quieter than usual. "How many?"

"Four. Maybe five. One of them is strong. Like… scary strong."

He nodded. His silver-and-rainbow hair caught the light like liquid opal. The strange aura he'd been radiating ever since the metamorphosis pulsed faintly around him now — a mix of regal calm and something… untamed.

Lyssira stepped beside him. "We should fight. This ends now. We won't reach the Tree if we keep wasting time running from every ambitious fool that wants your crown."

Zavier looked off into the trees. "I'm tired of running too."

There it was — a subtle shift in his tone. Dignity. Pride. Not arrogance, not yet… but something new. Something dragon-born.

They came at sundown.

Five figures — all from different races. A crystalline-skinned woman with floating blades. A massive warborn whose skin cracked like obsidian lava. A cloaked voidkin with six red eyes. And two others — one quick, one quiet.

"We just want the title," the obsidian giant growled. "Hand it over, dragon boy. Or we carve it off your corpse."

Zavier's eyes glowed.

He stepped forward alone.

"No."

That single word struck like thunder.

The air changed. Mana rippled in waves. The others flinched — instincts kicking in before thought. Dragons, even newborns, had presence.

Still, the fight exploded.

Freya transformed midair into a gleaming sabertooth hawk and collided with the voidkin, wings slicing shadows apart. Lyssira danced between the quick assassin and the blade-floating woman, her green hair like wildfire behind her, glyphs pulsing on her arms.

Zavier met the warborn head-on.

It wasn't easy. He still hadn't fully grown into his power. Every block sent a shudder through his bones. But he moved with purpose — less like a boy improvising, and more like someone beginning to remember what power truly was.

The battle raged across the hills.

Eventually, they won — barely.

Two opponents dead. One escaped. Two surrendered and fled.

Zavier stood above the fallen obsidian warrior, wings flared wide, eyes fierce.

"Tell the others," he said. "I'm done running."

Silence followed.

Even the wind seemed to agree.