How does one even begin to grasp existence? Is it the sudden rush of life at birth, a scattered collage of half-remembered days, a mosaic of moments that fit together only when looked at from a distance? Or is it something more predetermined, a cord of threads spun and snapped, tugged and tangled by some unseen claw, weaving patterns not for our sake but for Her own private amusement?

Every culture carries its stockpile of myth, and the ancient texts are no exception. They whisper scraps of truth, yes, but to treat them as unvarnished fact would be a fool's gamble. As they were written with intent, to glorify the Ancestors who were already mythologized in the eyes of those who recorded them.

Among these brittle scrolls and fading inscriptions, one particular figure stood out: it was a Dragon said to predate every other scaled being. She was called the very Mother from whom every dragon soul descended. Myths painted her as the Claw of Fate itself, the hand, or talon, that cut and spliced the cords of destiny.

That would, conveniently enough, explain why dragons as a whole seemed marked with cosmic favor, spared from obscurity while so many other lineages waned.

There was, in fact, an entire creation myth orbiting her. When the world first congealed from the raw ether of beginnings, she was said to be the first presence to walk it, the earliest living soul, shaped from the Creator's own fallen essence. The First Child. The First Dragon. Born whole from the Creator's mind.

As the Creator dissolved further into the expanding cosmos, new sparks of life spilled forth: each the first of its kind, each drawn from a fragment of His unraveling.

From the Creator's silver tongue came the Kitsune, who painted the skies with their auroral fire. From His diaphragm came the Leviathan, who dove beneath the crust and carved the labyrinthine arteries that riddle the earth. From His left eye burst the Sun Lion, who burned upward and ignited into the sun itself as eternal and radiant.

From His right eye emerged the Night Wolf, cold and reflective, who settled into the role of moon, guardian of secrets and keeper of the tides. His blood poured into the oceans, where it seeded the Tideserpent. His bones calcified into Behemoth, who shouldered the mountains upward to cradle the land. From His very breath spiraled the Sky Gryphon, who gave shape to the winds and skies themselves.

Snežana remembered this myth. Once, long ago, it had been common recitation, spoken as sacred doctrine. Now it lingered only in forgotten corners, half-remembered by those with access to buried archives or preserved by the few who clung to their ancestral traditions. She had no way of knowing if any truth clung to it.

So she left the question to lie dormant. Her attention returned to the wall before her: an immense surface of stone etched with the likenesses of those primordial beasts. Snežana ran her slender fingers across the ancient etchings, tracing the grooves with deliberate care. The workmanship was truly exquisite; each line was so refined that no careless hand could ever hope to replicate. She allowed herself one brief moment to genuinely admire the immense patience and absolute skill required to immortalize such legends in stone.

Then, she withdrew her hand from the cool, textured stone and continued walking toward her intended destination.

Passing through the wide, hewn tunnel, the path suddenly opened into a colossal amphitheater. It was a vast, open ground buried impossibly deep underground, yet its soaring ceiling offered a profoundly real illusion of a full and open sky. Rows upon concentric rows of stone seats circled the entire space, wide enough to have once held hundreds of thousands of souls. They had stood exactly like this for as long as Snežana could remember, and yet not a single stone bore a chip, a hairline crack, or the slightest hint of erosion. The entire place remained utterly timeless, perfectly pristine, as if it had been carved only the day before.

She stood at her vantage point high above, her personal balcony overlooking the immense and empty expanse. It would not remain vacant for long. Soon, the grounds far below would erupt into a controlled chaos of spectacle once the Spirit Hunt festival officially began.

At the edge of the stone balcony, another figure stood waiting. A woman—another Drakkari—sported horns with the distinct, deep red of freshly forged iron. She leaned slightly forward against the rail, her expression deeply pensive as she studied the silent arena beneath them.

"You took your sweet time answering my summons. I am assuming you were occupied being an upstanding leader and not engaged in any activity that might bring your worth of that title into question?"

Snežana's expression remained as rigid as stone. Of course, the very first thing this hag would ask her was if she was acting against their direct orders.

"You can rest assured, Elder Svetlana. Despite my outburst a week ago, I am not one to act so recklessly."

The older woman didn't even bother to look at her, maintaining her constant scrutiny of the arena below.

"These are grim times. And I have known you since you were but a babe, Snežana." She finally looked up and stepped closer, her voice dropping. "And that face of yours, it is telling me you know something, or have done something, that you are not telling me."

An intense, invisible pressure crashed down on Snežana immediately, but she merely scoffed and countered by releasing the potent pressure of her own gold core. They were evenly matched, and she could not wait for the day she would finally overwhelm this old hag and show her precisely where she belonged.

"I sense defiance in your spirit," Svetlana stated.

"You are just growing old and suspicious," Snežana retorted.

Just as quickly as the pressure had come, it withdrew. "It was a decision all five of us agreed upon. If you are truly entertaining any funny thoughts just because you hold some power now, Snežana, I would strongly recommend you bottle them up. Their eruption would not only cause significant damage to you but to every single one of those around you as well."

Snežana remained silent. She had already said her part. Possibly, she had even said a lot more than that. She was the current Matriarch of the Flameclaw Sect, but that did not mean she was the one who truly ruled them all. At times, the title felt like little more than a public persona, something to be displayed rather than something that held real authority. The Flameclaw's true workings had always been in the hands of the entire council of five elders. The ancient fossils who had been alive for, as the Ancestors know, far too long.

And the recent incident with their long-lost sin finally making an appearance had brought them all together once again.

As much as Snežana personally wanted to interfere with what they were trying to do, she was not in any position to do so. It was five against one. And they were not far away from very subtly blackmailing her by invoking Vernia's name, her daughter.

"You do realize that me sitting here idly will barely change a single thing?" Snežana pointed out.

"Yes. And that is exactly the outcome we desire. It all comes down to a simple decision. You, Snežana, are not to interfere with whatever is going to transpire. Since all of us are back together after so long, we will be acting directly on your behalf. This sudden elf infestation, those shifty and crafty creatures. The Vor'Akh, those old fools weaseling their way in by banding together with the Elves, and that single remaining moron in the Iron Pact. I still have no concrete idea where the other two are. Supposedly somewhere in the Dwarven lands, which ultimately makes it easier for us to take control.

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"We will deal with it all, and we will deal with our little trash problem that was supposed to be dead but was kept alive due to a certain someone taking pity on it."

"You know exactly why I did it."

"Yes, and I'm not faulting you for it. But it doesn't change the reality: that thing never should've existed to begin with. Whatever scraps of it remain are an abomination. A Dragon stripped of its divinity is no Dragon at all—it's just another beast. And like any beast, it needs to be put down before it grows into a greater disaster."

Snežana kept her mouth shut. If she spoke now, she might let something slip that went further than last time, and that confrontation had been ugly enough.

"Silence suits you. Now get back to your proper duties. Make sure every Trial is running as it should. Despite the earlier mess, we'll still hold this festival to honour our ancestors and give the young beastkin their chance to earn divine favour. If we don't, those bastards will strut around thinking they've already won. No doubt they're scheming something vile, but this time, we'll be ready for them—every last one of us."

Snežana nearly laughed at the irony dripping from her words. But who was to say the old hag wasn't perfectly aware of it herself? Trying to read a fellow Gold Core's true emotions was no easy trick. Lower cores trembled in the presence of a Gold, broke down, and spilled every thought running through their terrified minds. But when you stood on equal footing, that simple advantage vanished.

Not that Snežana would call them equals. If it came to a straight one-on-one fight right here and now, she was confident she could put this decrepit hag in the ground. But she wasn't blind, this wasn't a duel. The whole Council of self-important fossils was back, circling like carrion birds, and she wasn't about to ignore that.

So, like a dutiful subordinate, she bowed and turned to the task handed down: preparations for the Spirit Hunt. It had been her idea to cancel it this year, but clearly, that wasn't happening. They were going through with it, no matter the risks. Snežana didn't question their competence, but every time she obeyed instead of acted, it scraped at her pride like salt in a raw wound.

She shook her head and descended. The amphitheatre itself was an ancient artefact, and beneath its foundations was something far stranger: a mechanism no one had ever laid eyes on. Snežana had only ever heard it, echoing faintly through the stone like a rapid heartbeat. People had their theories, of course, the most convincing one claiming it was the preserved heart of a Dragon, fueling the entire artefact. They called it the Beating Heart of Varkaigrad. Anyone with ears could hear it the moment they stepped through the gates.

And Snežana couldn't help but wonder: if it really was a Dragon's heart, how would it react to the presence of one of its own?

The Trial usually began with a ladder-style matchmaking system. Dozens entered, but only eight champions were selected to advance to the next stage. From there, those chosen few faced a gauntlet of challenges, each uniquely tailored to the individual. Restrictions were clear: no participant above Red Core, and only those beneath the age limit were allowed to compete.

There were four Trials in total. During them, the artefact connected itself directly to the Spirit World and transported challengers into trials shaped to test their will, strength, intelligence, and, often, their ability to survive whatever curveballs life hurled at them. The moment their lives were in true danger, the artefact forcibly pulled them back, spitting them out of the competition.

Most champions rarely lasted beyond the third challenge. To complete all four was considered impossible, something no one had ever achieved, no matter how obsessively they trained or prepared. As a result, the victor was always the one who had pushed furthest, the one who had overcome the greatest number of hurdles.

Snežana remembered her own Trial vividly as she drifted past the ancient stone seats, her flaming broadsword serving as her platform. She reached the first chamber, the very place where the first Challenge would soon unfold. With a flick of her hand, she wove her magic into a detection probe and began checking the mechanisms. Everything was functioning properly, just as expected. This was less about necessity and more about custom.

The leader of Varkaigrad was expected to oversee the inspection personally, to show the people that nothing was left to chance.

Her Path, however, was the least suited for such routine, mind-numbing tasks. Yet she carried them out with a blank, disciplined expression. Behind that mask, her mind was racing, searching for some course of action—any possible way to maneuver—without drawing the Council's sharp-eyed attention. But no, they were too meticulous, too damn thorough. Anything out of place would be traced back to her, and she knew it.

She wasn't even allowed to wear an anti-divination charm. They wanted her wide open, spied on whenever they wished. She was always a hair's breadth away from snapping—burning it all down just to be free of their suffocating control.

Her hand tightened on the carved runes of the stone she was checking. The stone cracked, shattered and then the air itself seemed to freeze. Dust hung suspended midair, fragments of stone unmoving. Then, as if the world had drawn in a sharp breath, every piece reversed its path, snapping back into its original place as though nothing had happened.

"You really ought to take a damn nap," said a voice behind her. Familiar. Too familiar. It hit her like cold water down the spine.

She didn't flinch at the sudden appearance as the woman had manifested rather than walked in, so surprise wasn't the issue. It was who the voice belonged to that set her nerves alight.

Snežana spun around. There she was, lounging casually on one of the stone seats as if she owned the place. Tall, striking, a wide-brimmed hat framing her sharp face, clad in a long crimson dress cut daringly, even provocatively. Of all people, Gweneth was the last she had expected to meet again, let alone exchange words with.

"Gweneth."

"Snežana."

Both remained silent for a weighted moment, studying each other with intense scrutiny, before Gweneth broke the tension by throwing her head back and releasing a peal of clear, ringing laughter.

"Oh, do not trouble yourself. I am not truly present. What you see is but a clone, a projection of sorts. I merely thought you might require a measure of emotional support, and, as your sworn sister, I hastened here without delay."

Snežana didn't know whether to feel profoundly relieved or deeply disappointed by this revelation. A fractal clone? It was just like Gweneth to find some new, obscure method to hide her true strength. This woman was utterly obsessed with the tactic, luring everyone into believing she was pitiful before revealing exactly why she was called the Nightmare.

"What… exactly are you here for, then?" Snežana asked, her voice laced with wariness.

"Well, to serve as your unofficial confessor, naturally—your therapist, if you prefer—and also to secure myself a place in the front row. I already told you I would never dream of missing the moment this entire debacle collapses in spectacular fashion. Ah, it promises to be a most delightful spectacle."

"Well, since you're already here and apparently so invested, you are aware that there are five, FIVE Gold-Cored old fucks working in concert to try and eliminate her. Perhaps instead of prattling, you might do something useful? If you truly know her whereabouts, then remove her from this madness!"

"First of all, such choices are not ours to make. Second, you would do well to consider what you are saying. Fate has drawn her here, to the very place of her true birth, and the place where she was gravely wronged. You imagine that to be coincidence? It is never coincidence where dragons are concerned. I should not be surprised in the slightest if every one of those venerable old fools ended with a fate far harsher than mere death once matters resolve."

She folded her arms. "Fate is a jester, Snežana, and its currents grow only more turbulent in her presence. If you believe you can forecast the conclusion of all this, I strongly advise you to reconsider. Do not even attempt to predict what is coming. The outcome will exceed your every expectation. I did grant her crutches, yes, when she had need of them. But she has outgrown them utterly. So cease your futile attempt to impose control, and sit down with me instead. You may trust me on this much: she shall deliver the performance of your life."

Snežana just rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. "You sound… alarmingly confident. How do you even know so much about dragons, anyway?"

Gweneth just shrugged, making a zipper motion across her lips. "I've got my own little secrets. They'd stop being secrets if I told you, wouldn't they?"

"Whatever. Any news from Lithrindel?" Snežana asked, changing the subject.

"As a matter of fact, yes. A rather weighty piece of news."

Snežana's eyes widened. "What is it?"

"Merely that they are actively sowing the foundations of a war destined to engulf the entire continent, one designed to end with the Elven Queen enthroned as undisputed victor. Nothing terribly remarkable."

"WHAT?!?"

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