The world didn't sleep.

Screens everywhere pulsed the same colors: emergency red, breaking yellow, the cold blue of live feeds. The pictures underneath were different only in skyline—Paris, Beijing, New York, Seattle—and the same in sound: sirens, and a wind with teeth.

Anchors lost the careful cadence they trained for. Their voices kept catching on words like unprecedented, dragons, shockwaves, and casualties. Aerial footage wobbled over plumes of dust; phones shivered in hands as invisible impacts boomed through air and glass. No camera held the combatants steady for more than a heartbeat—only blurs, silhouettes, a scythe's arc, a rippling void. Everything else was an aftermath.

"City services are overwhelmed—public transit shut down, hospitals at capacity—"

"—we are advising everyone to remain indoors—"

"—and to repeat, authorities are calling this a cross-continental incident, likely involving the two known dragons—"

DRAGONS LEVEL CITIES — WHO STOPS THEM?

TRIAL FOR TWO? PUBLIC DEMANDS ACCOUNTABILITY

Split screens filled with experts, then with people who only sounded like experts. Talk-show panels argued about power limits and moral calculus; international ministers, bleary-eyed, promised coordination; a mayor wept on live TV. In one feed, the camera cut to a hand-lettered sign outside a shelter: CAGE THEM. BOTH.

Clips rewound and replayed, slowed and sharpened by software until pixels turned to guesswork. A streak over Paris—an explosion of glass. A white flare in Beijing—buildings bowing as if to a storm. The Manhattan skyline shaking—sirens leaping an octave. The crater yawning in Seattle like a wound that wouldn't clot.

Crowds outside parliaments shouted themselves hoarse: "Trial for Two!" "No Exceptions!"

Placards rose in unison: Cage the Dragons. Protect Humanity. Justice for the Fallen.

A calmer voice tried to thread nuance into the noise. On one channel, someone with the patience of a teacher pointed out the pattern: one combatant constantly redirected impacts skyward, shearing shockwaves into the empty; one constantly pressed forward, forcing collisions back toward the grid of streets.

"Self-defense," the analyst offered. "Damage reduction."

The clip racked up commentary almost instantly.

Doesn't matter.

They're dragons.

Lock them both up.

Can they even be locked up?

The consensus wasn't subtle. It was terrified.

Far from the broadcasts, in the smoking ruin of Seattle, Cefketa still sat at the crater's edge.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and the air stank of smoke and melted stone. But he looked serene, sitting on a piece of rubble, his daggers resting in the ash at his side. The black aura had vanished, tucked neatly away, but the ground still hummed faintly beneath him as though it remembered.

A line of armored vehicles crept into the ruin, headlights cutting through haze. Soldiers disembarked in formation, their weapons raised—not pointed, but trembling all the same. At their center, a commander stepped forward, his voice carried by a loudspeaker, strained with both authority and fear.

"Cefketa. You are to come with us. Do not resist."

The Dragon lifted his gaze slowly. His expression was unreadable, not defiant, not submissive. Simply calm. He did not move. He only waited. The voice over the loudspeaker spoke again, his voice more shaky than before.

"L-Lord Cefketa, we request that you come with us."

Cefketa let out a satisfied grunt and rose to his feet, dust falling from his robes. His hands were empty, his daggers vanishing into the void. For a long moment, the soldiers held their breath.

Then Cefketa inclined his head once. "Very well."

The commander swallowed hard. "We… we will not attempt restraints."

A faint smile touched Cefketa's lips. "Wise."

He stepped forward, walking into the line of soldiers as though he belonged there, as though the world itself had been waiting for this moment. They parted reluctantly, uncertain whether they were leading a prisoner or following a king.

Behind him, the crater smoked, a scar carved deep into the city's heart.

Above, news chyrons rolled across screens worldwide:

AUTHORITIES DETAIN CEFKETA. DRAGONS TO STAND TRIAL.

In a private channel of the Seats, excluding Amataterasu, silence reigned for a long while before the Kitsune leader, Veydris finally spoke.

"This is exactly what Cefketa intended," she said, her voice steady despite the weight in it. They all had seen Cefketa's peaceful surrender, when he could have reduced that army to ash. They all knew he had a plan, but he had yet to completely share all the details.

"The humans will demand a trial. They'll know they can't contain either him or Mythara, not truly—but they'll still demand judgment. And the Seats will be asked to carry it out."

Her tail flicked once in the shadows. "Kill them, or bind them. That is the choice the world will force on us."

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Sylvaira, the 4th Seat, replied quick. "And Lord Cefketa's answer?"

"He wants us to agree. Confinement, under whatever terms the humans choose. He means to submit—because he knows humanity cannot remain still after this. They will devour themselves searching for control. He's simply giving them the stage."

The others said little, but the silence between them was heavier than any words. They saw the footage that Ferradon had captured. Already the lines of division were clear:

Some would point to Cefketa's restraint, his history, his tragedies. His wife and child were slaughtered by Persequions, and his mother driven to an early grave. Yet even tonight, he had fought to reduce damage, standing against a young dragon not yet in control of himself.

Others would point to the crater in Seattle, to towers broken like toys, to families who would never come home. They would demand more than confinement. They would demand extinction.

And others still would see an opportunity—Firmatha Sangaur pressed into building defenses, teaching humans how to live among destruction without being crushed by it.

All of that would come later.

For now, the Seats listened to Veydris' voice, each hearing what they feared most in Cefketa's calm surrender. Just how far and deep did his planning go? As old and wise as they were, were they even being moved like pawns on his board?

Mythara sat alone, far from the cameras, but the images still burned behind his eyes.

He had fled without direction, carried by panic more than reason. Now he found himself crouched at the edge of a ruined district just outside the city limits, the earth beneath him fractured into splinters. His scales still glowed faintly with cracks, proof of his shedding.

His chest heaved. His fists shook. The rage that had carried him was gone, leaving only the echo of screams. Seattle. He had destroyed Seattle.

He remembered the towers collapsing, the shadows of crowds running for cover. He remembered faces—small, fragile, human—looking up as if to ask why the protector they'd glimpsed was suddenly the monster they feared.

And he remembered how little control he'd had. The fury had come over him like a tide, flooding reason, smothering judgment. It had not felt like his choice. Yet the devastation was his. The blood was his.

He pressed his palms into the broken stone, jaw tight enough to split his teeth.

A sound pulled him from his thoughts.

At first, he thought it was thunder, another aftershock rolling through the air. But the rumble was too steady, too deliberate. Footsteps. Heavy. Unmistakable.

He turned—and froze.

Through the haze of smoke and the glow of broken glass, four figures emerged.

Roratha walked first, her heartbroken expression pierced the moonlight as she looked at her broken son. Beside her, the Bone Collector's frowned at Mythara. This was not a frown of disappointment or reprimand; it was a frown of fury at the one who put his son in this predicament. He looked over his shoulder at the destruction and let out a sigh.

Behind them, radiance cut through the haze: Amaterasu, light spilling like dawn across a battlefield. She burst into a full sprint, wrapping her arms around Mythara's and letting his head drop on his shoulder. Selistar walked steadily behind the group and looked at the devastation that had taken place. He looked back at Mythara, with his head resting on Amaterasu's shoulder, his eyes deadened. He had seen that look in the eyes of many who came before Mythara.

If Zac...Cefketa wanted something broken. It would break without fail. Selistar shook his head. He didn't think he'd go so far as to use the lives of civilians to accomplish his goals, especially against Mythara. None of them did. That was their mistake. And it had cost them dearly in this silent war.

Together they filled the broken street, silence heavier than the ruin around them.

Mythara staggered back a step, chest tight. "Why… why are you here?"

Roratha's voice rolled out like distant thunder. "Because the world may call you a monster. But you are still my son."

The Bone Collector looked at the devastation that had taken place and turned toward his son.

"They are calling for your head, Kenji. I'd rather let them all rot than agree to such nonsense."

"What happened, Myth? I know you wouldn't do something like this." Amaterasu pleaded as she continued to hold him.

"What did Zac do?" Selistar asked, cutting straight to the point.

Mythara swallowed hard, throat raw. "He… he didn't need to do anything. I lost myself. He only nudged me, and I fell straight into it." His fists trembled against his knees. "All those people—everything I swore I'd protect—I..."

Amaterasu's grip on him tightened, her light haloing the cracks across his scales. Amaterasu's grip on him tightened, her voice trembling. "It had to be that fox… she must have twisted your head, slipped into the cracks when you were vulnerable. It wasn't you. It couldn't be."

The words tumbled out too quickly, desperate—meant as much for herself as for him. She clung to him harder, burying her fear in certainty he didn't share.

"It doesn't matter. It was my hands that broke the city," Mythara said, voice cracking. "The screams were real. The fire was real. What's the difference if I didn't mean it?" Mythara proceeded to talk about what Cefketa had said to him before he exploded.

Roratha's voice cut through the haze, gentle but steady. "You keep blaming yourself for the fight, but you won't even face the reason why you lost control."

Mythara looked up, throat tight. "Because I was angry—"

"No," she said firmly. "Because you don't know who you are when that anger hits. You've worn too many names, carried too many masks. Kenji. Trigger. Mythara. Auranos. You try to be all of them, and when they clash, there's nothing left to hold you steady."

Silence pressed in. His fists trembled, the truth cutting deeper than any blade.

Bone Collector gave a low chuckle, not unkind. "A warrior without a name is like a blade without a hilt. Even the sharpest edge cuts its own hand sooner or later."

Mythara shut his eyes, shame and fear knotting in his chest. He wanted to argue, to say he didn't need a name, that he only needed strength—but the words wouldn't come.

The Bone Collector loomed closer, his shadow falling across Mythara like a shroud. His voice was low but unwavering, every word carrying the weight of a verdict.

"Listen to me, Kenji. They will put you on trial. They will scream for punishment. But you must not crawl. Take responsibility, but do not beg forgiveness. Make them understand that the only one who can judge you is yourself."

Selistar's eyes lingered on him, sharp. "In this situation, resolve is all that separates prey from predator. So decide. Will you keep running from his shadow, or cut it down?"

Amaterasu then began to whisper gently in his ear.

"You are not human. You don't need to be. You shouldn't strive to be."

"But I don't feel like a Dragon either. What am I? Who am I?" Mythara asked her.

"You are exactly who you're meant to be. What that means, only you know. Just know whoever, whatever that is. I love it." Amaterasu said with a smile.

"We love it." Roratha cut it, as she rubbed her son's face.

"We will support whatever choice you make," Selistar responded.

"What about the others?" Mythara asked Amaterasu.

"Everyone is already doing everything they can to try and find a way to clear your name. We just don't have a lot to go on." Amaterasu said with a frown.

"Tsk, tell them not to waste their time. They should just focus on training. It's clear that this war is coming regardless of what we do."

Mythara pressed his palms against the broken street, breath shuddering. His mother's steady voice, his father's harsh truth, Selistar's sharp demand, Amaterasu's love—they wrapped around him like walls. For the first time since the rooftop, he didn't feel like he was collapsing. He felt cornered—but upright.

Slowly, he raised his head. "I'm done running." His voice was hoarse, but steady. "If they want a trial, then I'll face it."

The weight of guilt hadn't vanished; he still wasn't sure exactly who or what he was, but beneath it was something harder, clearer: resolve.

Amaterasu exhaled a shaky breath and pulled him tighter. Roratha nodded once, pride and sorrow mingling. The Bone Collector's frown eased, just slightly, the closest thing to approval he gave. Selistar only turned his gaze back to the broken skyline.

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