It was no living beast, no corpse in truth, but something caught between fossilized and eternal. Wings folded around it like a shroud, their membranes petrified into sheets of stone, their bones gleaming with veins of faint light. Its skull was crowned in a crest of jagged spines, jaw locked forever in a silent roar. Runes spiraled along its body in coils, flickering faintly as though memory itself had been etched into bone.

Artorius approached, breath shallow, the weight of the air pressing down on him as if the tomb itself judged his every step. He raised a hand, trembling, and laid it against the cold fossil. The runes blazed.

The tomb came alive with whispers. They surged into his skull not words, but the echo of war. He saw visions: skies torn by dragonfire, the thunder of wings, other beings burned to ash, dragonkins devoured by it. And through it all, the Champion soared, wings wide, a great warrior of the Eyrie.

Coming back to the here and now. He shook his head to shake off the visions and then he watched as from the Champion’s chest, the fossil cracked. Shards flaked away, revealing stones that pulsed with inner fire and glowed different colors. They fell into his hands, hot as brands, thrumming with ancient power.

Using inspect he saw that they read: Willpower attribute stone, Intellect attribute stone, Perception attribute stone!

His body trembled as he clutched them, each one a condensed legacy of the dead. If these were what he thought they were then they would be a great boon. Looking them over he tired to figure out how to get at it when giving up after several attempts popped it into his mouth. 

It tasted like candy, the intellect one like blueberry, the perception like carrots, and the willpower like pomegranates. It seems like the additive if all else fails, just put it into your mouth was true as he got prompts;

+1 Willpower, +1 Intellect, +1 Perception!

And then the wings stirred. Dust fell in sheets. The petrified bones groaned, veins of light blazing bright that ran across the corpse. The dragon’s wings unfolded in death, towering, shadowing the tomb as they floated silently in the air. 

He used inspect once more and saw that the system called it: [Tattered Dragon Wings]

[Old wings of a great Dragon Champion. Its might is faded, its glory frayed, yet still it remembers how to take to the sky.]

-

Artorius stood at the canyon’s edge, the tomb at his back. Below yawned an endless chasm with black stone and rivers of molten yolk winding like veins through the Nest, the air thick with heat and shrieks. The sky above was a bruised red haze. The horizon burned.

In his hands lay the Tattered Dragonoid Wings. It didn’t feel like an object so much as a living echo with frayed pinions of bone and shadow, its edges shedding slow curls of ash. When he drew it close, his back prickled as if something old in his blood recognized it.

He fastened the bone harness across his shoulders. The flesh parts bit into his old wounds. The wings whispered against his spine, sinking into his skin until the weight became his own. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a phantom pressure stretched behind him like holding open doors to the sky. He looked down into the abyss.

He was really about to do this. If this failed, there would be no second chance. The Nest below was a labyrinth of ruin, molten rivers and shifting gravity, hatchlings battling like armies. Even if the fall didn’t kill him, the things waiting below would.

He swallowed hard. The air smelled of ash and blood. He spread his wings. They unfolded with a groan, membranes glimmering faintly, frayed edges dripping light like molten wax. He could feel them trembling or maybe that was his own hands.

“Its now or never,” he muttered to himself. And he jumped. 

The world dropped out from under him. Wind howled past his ears. His stomach lurched into his throat. The wings dragged at his back, heavy and unresponsive, and for a heartbeat he thought he had doomed himself that it was only broken relics, a cruel trick. The chasm rushed up, stone spires spinning by, rivers of lava and yolk glowing like veins of fire.

He clawed at the harness, shouting in panic. “Come on—!”

Something in the wings snapped awake. They flared wide, tearing the air with a noise like thunder. The fall slowed jerking and stopped. Pain shot through his spine, white-hot, but his body hung suspended, trembling. Then the wings beat once, twice, each strike a hammer of wind.

He rose. The canyon spread out beneath him, endless and alien. Forests of petrified bone stretched like claws. Ash storms coiled over molten rivers. Dragon silhouettes wrestled and tore in the distance, their cries echoing across the void.

Artorius soared between stone pillars, banking hard. The wings dragged sparks from the air, leaving streaks of gold behind. The pain in his spine dulled beneath a rising exhilaration. For the first time since entering the Nest, he wasn’t running, climbing, or crawling. He was free.

He whooped, a ragged, disbelieving sound and tilted higher, catching a current of heat that lifted him above the canyon lip. From up here, the Nest went on forever: endless plains of shattered shells, rivers of molten glass, distant spires like teeth. It was apocalyptic, terrible and breathtaking.

The wings burned his back, drawing from his blood and stamina, but he didn’t care as it carried him higher, into a rising current that lifted him toward the horizon’s bloody light. His heart thundered, his veins sang. For one fragile moment, he felt what the dragons must feel a sovereign of the sky.

Artorius banked, wings trailing sparks, and let the horizon unfold before him. But the Nest did not forgive joy. A shadow darted across the red haze. Then another. Then dozens.

From the cliffs erupted a swarm the system named them: [Dragonets]. They were no larger than hounds but armed with claws like scythes and needle fangs dripping poison. Their wings were sleek membranes, sharp-edged like broken glass, their eyes molten coin-bright. Hatchling predators, bred to gang up on others.

They shrieked as one, a piercing chorus that rattled his teeth. The first dragonet skimmed past his face, close enough that he felt its sulfurous breath. Artorius jerked the wings, heart pounding, barely dodging another that streaked up from below. Their cries bled together into a hunting cry, vibrating the air around him.

The swarm moved like a single living thing. Every time he climbed, they climbed. Every time he dove, they dove. They were small, faster, hungrier and made for this sky. Panic clawed at his throat. The wings drank his stamina greedily, his arms and back already shaking with the strain. His lungs burned in the heavy air, sulfur stinging his tongue. If they dragged him into their midst that was a swarm, he was finished. 

He twisted into a narrow canyon, stone spires knifing past on either side. The dragonets followed, shrieking, but the tighter space broke their formation. He banked hard, scraping sparks against the rock, then folded the wings close and dropped into a plunge. The rush tore his breath away but it shook half the swarm.

Still, there were too many on his trail. Taking a risk he continued diving down as his chest heaved, pushing onward. The wings strained, barely catching him before he slammed into a molten river. Heat washed his face, blistering hot. He veered low, skimming the current, letting the thermal lift drag him higher again. Dragonets fell behind him, seared by the heat or outright fell into the lava.

A few caught a hold of themselves in time or quickly wheeled back above. They were on the look out for him, but he was long gone. Clenching his fist as he flew over the landscape, he was glad to be alive but it was a close call. The Nest never let him rest. It would keep testing him. Keep sending its foes until he proved himself or broke.

Keeping low to the ground and being on the look out for danger, Artorius used this chance thanks to his newly acquired wings to get a better look at his surroundings. The wind whipped against his face as the wings carried him higher, every beat burned his spine, but Artorius didn’t care. The Nest unfurled below him like a map carved by gods.

From the air, the Dragon Nest stretched into infinity. Seas of broken shells gleamed crimson under the haze, rivers of yolk flowing molten-gold through the bones of mountains. Vast spires of black stone stabbed into the sky like the teeth of titans. And between them, dragon hatchlings clashed in numbers beyond counting, untold millions, tearing and devouring, a war eternal beneath the sunless sky.

He noticed the fields where he’d hatched from now nothing more than a fading scar on the horizon and the bone forest he came from stretching beyond like a maze of ivory knives. And then, far across that wasteland of ruin, he saw it. A citadel.

It rose from the horizon like a shard of divinity half-buried in blackened glass. The tower was carved entirely from dragon bone ribs arcing upward to form a crown of pale thorns. Veins of silver fire flickered faintly between its joints, casting long ghostly shadows. No banners flew. No smoke rose. The fortress stood silent, patient, watching.

Something was there, something important, he knew it deep within his bones. Artorius hovered in the ashen air, wings trembling, the heat burning at his throat. There was no path left, no guidance, only instinct.

And his instincts pointed there. Toward the citadel of bone and silence. Whatever awaited inside death, trial, or revelation it called to him like a voice half-remembered in a dream. With no direction to go into, this looked to be his next target. He adjusted his wings, turned toward the lightless spire, and dove.

-

Chapter 6 Recap!

Leveled up Class: Storybook Squire to Lvl. 2!

+1 Str, +1 Con, +1 Will, +1 Char, +1 Luc!

Treasures found: Tattered Dragon Wings

+1 Willpower, +1 Intellect, +1 Perception!