Darkness. Not the gentle dark of night or even the pitch black of a moonless sky. This was a crushing, absolute darkness that pressed against him like a physical weight.

At first, there was nothing else. No sensation. No movement. Not even the comfort of his own heartbeat to remind him he lived.

Time had no meaning in this void. Had it been minutes? Hours? Days?

The first thing to return was the silence. Not ordinary silence, but deep, suffocating quiet. The kind of silence that spoke of isolation. Of abandonment. Of burial.

Next came the awareness of air—stale and thin, each shallow breath tasting of dust and age. His lungs struggled to draw in enough oxygen, though he couldn’t yet feel them moving.

Gradually, a cold sensation seeped into his awareness. The eternal chill of underground chambers. Of tombs.

Panicked, he tried to rise, but his body remained frozen. He couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t move his fingers. Couldn’t even quicken his breathing as the terrible reality dawned.

They had buried him. He was trapped in complete darkness, in a space barely larger than his body, with air growing thinner by the moment.

His mind screamed for movement, for escape, but his muscles refused to respond. The Drakebane’s hold was still too strong, leaving him conscious but paralyzed as the horror of his situation settled over him.

Would he remain aware as the air ran out? Would his last moments be spent in this terrible stillness, unable even to cry out?

The silence, broken only by the soft whisper of his own thoughts, grew more desperate with each passing moment.

Panic surged as his mind cleared. The Drakebane potion had worked; he was alive. But he was also sealed inside a stone sarcophagus, buried in the royal crypts beneath Dragon’s Fang Island.

Then sensation returned in a rush—cold stone against his back, the taste of dust in his mouth, the absolute silence of the tomb.

He tried to lift his arms, but they barely responded. The potion’s effects still lingered, making his limbs feel leaden. His skin felt different—some of the scales had receded, though not entirely. The pendant his mother had given him still rested against his chest.

Pryce planted his palms against the lid, muscles trembling with effort. The stone remained unmoved by his initial push. His chest tightened—whether from fear or failing air, he couldn’t tell.

They never expected anyone to wake up in here, he realized. The thought sparked anger rather than fear. They’d tried to bury him, to use his “death” to claim Crystal Shores. Seren’s betrayal burned fresh in his memory.

“I will not die in this tomb.”

Power surged through Pryce’s body, a fusion of Shorling will and dragon strength.

He planted his feet against the stone, muscles tensing. The first push accomplished nothing. The second made the lid creak. With the third, he let out a grunt that was neither fully Shorling nor dragon, but something uniquely his own.

The stone lid shifted. A hairline crack appeared, letting in a whisper of fresh air. Pryce focused everything into one final effort, channeling his rage at Seren, his fear for Crystal Shores, and above all, his fierce determination to live.

The lid moved.

Not much—just enough to create a gap. But it was enough. Pryce twisted sideways, forcing his shoulder into the space. Sharp stone scraped against his skin and clothing as he fought to widen the opening.

 With a sound like breaking ice, the lid slipped further. Pryce heaved himself up and out, tumbling onto the chamber floor as the massive stone crashed down behind him. The impact shook the chamber, sending dust cascading from above.

He lay there for a moment, gasping in the marginally fresher air. Crystals provided enough light to see his immediate surroundings—a vast chamber filled with other sarcophagi.

His burial clothes were a formal Dragonkin ensemble befitting a prince. The high-collared jacket was crafted from midnight-blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that traced patterns like dragon scales. A cloak of deeper blue hung from his shoulders, its hem weighted with small dragon-forged medallions that chimed softly as he moved.

They had dressed him as one of their own, a final attempt to claim him even in death. But the elegant garments were torn now, damaged from his desperate escape from the sarcophagus.

Pryce pushed himself to his feet, fighting off dizziness. The glow of crystals revealed towering pillars carved to resemble dragons in flight. Between them, rows of sarcophagi stretched into darkness.

A distant sound made Pryce freeze—stone grinding against stone, followed by whispers that might have been voices or merely the wind through passages.

“I’m not alone down here.”

Movement flashed at the edge of his vision. Pryce spun to face it, but saw only shadows between the pillars. Yet when he turned back, the path ahead had changed. Where there had been only rows of tombs, an archway now stood.

“A test?” Pryce remembered Master Kestrel’s lessons about the Dragonkin’s love of trials and challenges. “The burial chamber is protected.”

Pryce caught faint sounds of guards approaching, perhaps, investigating the noise.

“Which way?”

The archway’s runes seemed to form words, though not in any language he recognized. Yet something in his blood responded to their pattern.

Pryce approached the archway. Though he couldn’t read them directly, their meaning seemed to seep into his mind. A challenge and a warning: Only those of true blood may pass. Choose your nature or choose your grave.

Below these words were two symbols, one resembling a dragon’s claw, the other a hand. A choice, then—but not the one the Dragonkin would expect.

Instead of touching either symbol, Pryce pressed his palm against the center where the two marks intersected.

For a moment, Pryce feared he’d made the wrong choice. Then the stone arch became transparent. Through it, he glimpsed a different chamber.

Behind him, the sound of boots grew louder. Guards shouting, orders being given. They would soon discover his empty sarcophagus.

Pryce stepped through the arch. As soon as he crossed, the opening solidified back into stone, sealing him off from his pursuers.

The new chamber was circular, its walls lined with dragon skulls. At the chamber’s center, a figure waited—translucent, glowing, its form shifting.

“Welcome, seeker,” the apparition said. “Few choose as you did. Fewer still understand why that choice matters.”

“Who are you?”

“Once, I was like you—caught between two natures. Now I am guardian of the trials.” The spirit gestured, and three doorways appeared in the chamber walls—red, blue, and silver. “Will you face the trial of strength? The trial of wisdom? Or the trial of spirit?”

Pryce studied each doorway carefully, remembering Old Man Finnegan’s stories about the ancient Dragonkin. Their tests were rarely what they seemed.

“What happens if I choose wrong?”

The guardian’s form flickered. “Those who fail remain here, joining the ranks of those who guard these halls. Choose wisely, seeker. Your mother’s life may depend upon it.”

“My mother? How do you know my mother?”

“Even now she faces her own trial. The volcano grows hungry, and the princess’s patience grows thin.”

He recalled Old Man Finnegan’s words: “A Shorling’s strength isn’t in their muscles, lad. It’s in knowing when to fight and when to think your way clear.”

Pryce studied the doors again, this time with his fisherman’s eye for detail. The red doorway promised raw power—tempting for someone who’d just discovered their dragon strength. The silver door beckoned with the allure of knowledge. But the blue door . . . its light rippled like the surface of Lake Dragontide on a calm morning.

“I choose the trial of spirit,” he said.

The guardian’s form stabilized briefly, taking on a more distinct shape. “Interesting. Most who carry dragon blood choose strength. Most Shorlings, though few have been here, choose wisdom.”

The guardian gestured, and the blue door swung open. Beyond it, mist swirled. “Enter, seeker. Face what lies within your own spirit. But remember—time grows short. The volcano’s hunger will not wait forever.”

Pryce stepped through the doorway. The mist enveloped him, cool and thick as lake fog. When it cleared, he found himself standing on what appeared to be the surface of Lake Dragontide itself. The water was solid beneath his feet, yet it moved like liquid glass.

Reflections appeared in the surface—moments from his past. His father teaching him to tie fishing knots. His mother passing down the dragon pendant. Seren’s betraying kiss. Each image flowed outward, creating overlapping memories and consequences.

Then the surface began to change, darkening. Shapes emerged—three figures that slowly took form before him.

The figures solidified, each one a version of himself. The first appeared as he’d been in Crystal Shores—a Shorling fisherman’s son in worn clothes that smelled of fish. The second showed him fully transformed into Dragonkin royalty, scales gleaming, dressed in the fine clothes Seren had given him. The third was something else entirely, a perfect fusion of both natures.

“Choose,” the figures spoke in unison. “Choose who you truly are.”

But there was something wrong about this test. His Shorling instincts—the same ones that had helped him survive Lake Dragontide’s treacherous moods—prickled in warning.

“No,” Pryce said firmly.

The figures stirred. “You must choose.”

“I already did. Back at the arch. I am who I am—all of it. The Shorling of Crystal Shores, the dragon blood in my veins. I won’t deny either part of myself.”

The water-like surface beneath his feet began to churn. The three figures wavered.

“Pretty words,” the Dragonkin version sneered. “But you were eager enough to abandon your Shorling heritage when Seren offered you power.”

“And you were quick to betray your new oath when things grew difficult,” the Shorling version added. “Neither fish nor fowl, as Old Man Finnegan would say.”

The third figure remained silent, watching.

Pryce felt anger building. A Shorling saying came to mind: The stormiest waters often hide the safest passage.

“You’re right,” Pryce said. “I did abandon my heritage when Seren tempted me with power. And yes, I broke faith with the Dragonkin when I discovered their true plans. I made mistakes. But a Shorling knows that every storm teaches you how to sail better.”

The surface beneath his feet calmed slightly. The third figure—the merged version—nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Pretty words,” the Dragonkin version said again. “But Crystal Shores will never truly accept you now. Look at yourself—scaled and changed. You’re neither pure Shorling nor true Dragonkin.”

Pryce touched his remaining scales. “These changes don’t make me less of a Shorling.”

The Shorling version stepped forward. “And what of your duty to Crystal Shores? You left them vulnerable to invasion.”

“I did,” Pryce admitted. “But now I understand both sides. I know the Dragonkin’s strengths—and their weaknesses. Knowledge that might save Crystal Shores, if I live to use it.”

The third figure finally spoke. “And if you had to choose? If saving Crystal Shores meant losing your dragon abilities? If protecting your mother meant surrendering your Shorling heart?”

“A Shorling saying tells us: ‘The tide serves those who know how to read it.’ I won’t choose because I don’t have to. My mother gave me this pendant filled with our blood mixed with dragon essence. She knew even then that being both wasn’t a weakness—it was a gift.”

The three figures started to blur at the edges.

“My Shorling heart gives me the wisdom to navigate troubled waters. My dragon blood gives me the strength to protect those I love. Together, they make me who I am—who I choose to be.”

The third figure stepped forward as the other two faded. “And who is that, seeker?”

“I am Pryce Harper-Green of Crystal Shores. Son of Ellie and Tyler. Student of Old Man Finnegan’s wisdom. Friend to dragons. I carry the blood of Lake Dragontide’s people and the essence of its ancient guardians. I am exactly who I need to be.”

The figure smiled—a genuine expression that carried neither mockery nor challenge. “Well spoken. But words are wind. Actions are the true test.”

The water-like surface cracked like ice in spring thaw. Through the widening fissures, Pryce glimpsed the chamber below—where his mother and Jorr were being led toward the mouth of the volcano.

Pryce gasped. “What’s my mom doing here? And why is she and Jorr tied up like they’re about to be . . . sacrificed?”

“Time grows short,” the figure said, beginning to fade. “Your trial is passed, but your greatest challenge awaits. Remember what you’ve learned here: true strength lies not in choosing between two natures, but in wielding both as one.”

The glowing surface shattered completely. Pryce fell through the cracks, but instead of plunging into darkness, he landed softly in a new chamber. This one was carved directly from volcanic rock. Veins of crystal pulsed with light.

Distant voices echoed through the stone—guards coordinating search patterns. But beneath these sounds, Pryce heard the rhythmic chanting of a sacrificial ceremony.

The mixed blood within seemed to pull him toward one of the crystal-lined passages. Without hesitation, he began to run.

The passages twisted deeper into the mountain, growing warmer with each step.

The chanting grew louder. Pryce ran faster.

“. . . by flame be purged, by fire be cleansed . . .”

He was close now. So close. Steam vented from cracks in the passage floor.

The tunnel opened onto a ledge overlooking a vast chamber. Far below, illuminated by the volcano’s glow, Pryce saw the ceremonial platform where white-robed Dragonkin priests led two figures toward the edge. Even from this height, he recognized his mother’s red hair and Jorr’s distinctive stance.

Pryce touched his mother’s pendant one last time. He was no longer the uncertain boy who’d left Crystal Shores seeking adventure, nor was he the half-transformed prisoner who’d drunk the potion. He was something new—something that bridged two worlds.

He prepared to leap.