Dragonheart Core

Chapter 77: Fourfold

I polished my new silver walls with a fervor that the gods themselves had to respect.

It was only gilded over the limestone, thin and limited, and thus my carvings had to indent barely more than a feather's touch. Cloyingly gentle, really, like a mother and her hatchling; I inscribed all manners of draconic protections over and around my core, gentle stirrings of old fate and the rumble of my old voice echoing as I worked. They weren't real, I knew, not in the way they had been before. The markings called upon my old god, the god of dragons, creator and savior of my race; but he would not respond. There was no reason. I was a sea-drake no longer.

But still, I took comfort in the protections. Old things, trembling and ancient, from well before my egg had first been laid on the sand. Maybe he would smile down and extend his great wings once more, if a threat came to my core.

I shook my head. There truly wasn't time to get lost in those memories. I had both a job and a rather important task to complete first; because as I finished carving the last of a prayer into my hoard room, a last little spark of mana flicked out from two floors above. Not the fourth, where the mage ratkins were taking their sweet time to digest those jewels, but from one even higher.

The floor where I had two rather lovely little evolutions cooking away.

I waited the bare second it took to instruct Seros to follow before I flung my active attention up to the Underlake.

Immediately, I could feel the shift; the sarco, though still a little sluggish from his battle with the pitch-shark as his mana levels recovered, was tense, eyes attentive and flicking. He knew there was… not a threat, but certainly a presence brimming in his territory. I sent a little soothing pulse of mana as I peered into the tunnel I'd sectioned off for the first evolution, the one just now losing its beautiful glow.

Losing a beautiful glow to reveal a far more beautiful creature beneath.

Now. I don't wish to say anything bad about dragons, because to do so would surely shred my soul to pieces far worse than any invader could dare. Dungeon as I was, I was a sea-drake first, and my loyalty would always belong to them. Wing to water, scale to sea, claw to current; even as I moved around my halls I flexed metaphorical aspects of my old body, carved at the stone as if with claws, exhaled mana as if in my previous life. I was a dragon.

But gods did I love sea serpents.

Vicious bastards, cankterous and proud and immense, both in size and just raw presence; they embodied the word regal. I'd seen only a handful in my time; they tended to split as they aged, those younger staying to shallow waters to prey on ships and whales, the aged slipping to the deep seas to hunt other monstrous prey. My territory had been rather perfectly in the middle. We simply hadn't crossed paths enough.

But oh, we'd had lovely fights. There had been one brute, several hundred years ago, who had circled me for weeks; I'd seen her eel-esque form in the corners of my eyes as she searched, hunting for any sign of weakness to take me down. I'd provided no such thing and had merely charged the moment she'd lingered too long. We'd ripped out the coastline of a small archipelago and I'd slept off the injuries for nearly a decade. Gods. What glorious battle that had been.

I had won, of course, but that didn't mean that I couldn't train this new sea serpent to be better than his peers.

I devoured his new appearance like the most delicious of meat.

As a silver krait, he had been some fifteen feet long, thin as a whip and built for speed. Perfect for how a krait worked, slender in the shadows and made for ambush attacks. Nothing like the sarco he had so plainly admired.

His new form fit him much better.

Already nearing twenty-five feet, he rippled with muscle, every scale flexing as he wriggled to life; jagged frills raced down his back, the burnished silver of his previous form, but now his scales were a glowing sea green, paler on his underbelly. There was no need for the dappling effect that so many lesser creatures required for camouflage. If others dared to acknowledge they could see him, that was a mistake that would rest solely on their backs.

Frills framed his face, similar to Seros' in their spread, tendrils floating off the edges; his sensory organs, then. His eyes were large but angled forward, as all predators should, but fighting in the water meant it was necessary to know more of your surroundings. Those frills would give him all the information he needed.

The deep amber-gold of his eyes was very pleasing. Already I could see that as a beacon in darker waters, scouring those that dared make contact.

Oho.

From just the bare glimpse of his fangs that I got, I could see his venom was gone, though. Pity. He'd made more than good use of it, on regular prey and pitch-sharks alike. I'd be tossing more luminous constrictors into the Underlake to bring above a new strain of the useful little devils before long. He'd lost the thin, hooked-back teeth that were so adept at puncturing unwilling flesh; now he had a proper maw filled with sharpened points, aimed for one lovely task. Maybe as he aged, he would gain the two extended fangs I knew sea serpents used to hold onto their prey; or would he be of the ripping variety, keeping his teeth the same length so he could tear out chunks of his next meal?

So many delicious options.

I carefully carved away at the walls of the tunnel I'd sequestered him in, freeing him back to the wider halls of his home; he blinked, still adjusting to his new form, but swam out at my gentle push. His gills fluttered and I could feel his thoughts, already more complex and curious with his second evolution; he knew he no longer needed to breathe air. He could live beneath the surface forever, if he so wished.

Judging from what I could hear, he did. He very much so did.

Seros burst into the Underlake just as I guided the fledgling sea serpent out to freer waters, taking in his surroundings with his new sensory frills and tendrils; their gazes both snapped to each other.

The budding claim Seros was starting to feel over his territory—even though his more rational mind knew it was my territory, thank you kindly—crackled to life. The sea serpent, still so young and only just reawoken, hadn't had any time to really consider what he wanted as his territory. All he had time to think about was that he didn't particularly want Seros in it.

With a rumbling hiss, he vocalized his claim to the Underlake.

Seros snarled back his own declaration.

This was made suitably worse as the sarco emerged from the still-recovering bloodline kelp forest and growled.

Not to be outdone, a second trickle of light shut off beneath them all, in the protection of sand and limestone I'd trapped him within. I did a very quick breathing exercise as the sand erupted.

A beast of legend burst upward, eyes red with hunger and maw opened wide; I shoved a mountain's worth of mana in his path a second before the armoured jawfish did his damnedest to rip off the sarco's head. He slammed into the barrier hard enough the water exploded outward in a shockwave.

Hm. Yeah. Interesting.

I tore my way into his brain, not so much instructing as shoveling raw commands into every section of his cerebral cortex that I could get my grubby mitts on; he shuddered, trembling, but his archaic mind had been shaped by me. Had been born from me. He was going to fucking obey or I would have Seros hold his ass with hydrokinesis and have the sarco and sea serpent rip into him so bloody fast his scales wouldn't even have time to hit the sand–

With a low, rumbling growl, he pulled back.

I couldn't quite smother the relief in my core.

In terms of size, he was technically the smallest one there; from jaw to tail, he was only twenty feet long, similar enough to his armourback sturgeon size. Built like a brick shithouse, of course, torso wider than the sarco's even before all the bone plating covering what should have been scales. It looked like true armour, not just the hardened substitute so many of my creatures called 'armoured' had—real weight behind the plates, proper gaps and ridges for movement, smooth and streamlined for the water. And that was without the jagged points enveloping his mouth, poised to rip and tear with a force I doubted any of my other creatures really had. His eyes, still burning and red, looked prepared to test that theory.

No, the real problem was how dense he was.

Though I'd dissolved the barrier, he had to keep swimming, a gentle movement forward just so he wouldn't fall to the bottom of the Underlake; there were always reasons creatures went extinct and I would wager a guess—maybe even multiple—that this was the reason I hadn't seen any of his kind before. They needed to live in currented waters to support their enormous weight, to keep up the armoured plating that kept them alive as living mountains.

Yeah, it looked like he'd been staying on this Mayalle and cloudskipper wisp-powered floor for the foreseeable future. Which, great! His smaller size—when had twenty feet become small to me—would fit in better.

Gods, I wanted to see him in action. Those bony fangs looked like they could cleave through diamond, and that was without the apparent vacuum ability he could use to pin his prey. But I was rather particular insofar that I wanted to see him in action against someone else.

While I did believe that Seros would win the fight, he would also lose far too much of his vital parts for me to really be comfortable with. It would only take one bite for the battle to be a loss on both sides.

So. The perfect defense for this lovely floor.

I circled around as they sized each other up, my instructions still bleeding through our connections in a constant soothing wave—the pitch-shark had shorn so much of my bloodline kelp that the center was relatively free, allowing them to look at each other without the amber-gold fronds taking up the way or forcing them to get too close. My points of awareness spiraled back as I tried to take them all in at once.

Ah. Hm.

I recalled how I knew that the pitch-shark had been too cramped to use its full potential in my Underlake, pinned down by the strong currents and sloping walls.

Just looking at the two new beasts, I was starting to think I was going to have a similar problem.

And that wasn't only it. With my mana extended as it was, soothing back the four bastards so willing to rip each other to shreds, I could feel something tinge on the edge of my field of awareness; Mayalle.

Not in the way that meant another fucking pitch-shark was shredding at her mana, but more that she had noticed the changes and was looking in.

Now, if I took the time to explain it, I imagined she would only be pleased. There was really nothing that made an entrance quite like four overpowered monsters sitting pretty on the floor you'd become patron of, and her goals of collecting more… if not followers, then at least people who feared her, would be successful. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that she had noticed.

There were too many changes. She'd already laid claim to the Underlake, I had titled it, and it was supposed to remain the same. For the Drowned Forest, I had been able to add the lichenridge snapping turtles and cloudskipper wisp even after I'd already titled it, but that had been toeing the line before Rhoborh would step in; it seemed I had just found the line and fully stumbled over it. Mayalle could appreciate the new monsters on her floor, but that hadn't been what she had made her contract on. She had already said what she liked. Gods weren't particularly fond of upstart mortals changing the terms of their contracts.

If she was paying attention, that meant I needed to get these new beasts out. And considering my rather dry other floors, there was only one other option.

It was probably a good thing that I had a legitimate reason now, rather than simply running out of excuses. Made me feel better, considering my fourth and fifth floors weren't really up to snuff yet.

But apparently I'd delayed long enough; an attack would be coming soon, if that invisible invader would eventually get their head out of their ass and retaliate, so I wouldn't fully deplete my mana as I worked. But it was time. The problem had been presented and I would answer.

It was time to start on my sixth floor.

I pushed more instructions into everyone's head, leaving the very, very firm knowledge that Seros was in charge and they were not to be fighting each other. The sarco rumbled, fangs flashing; the sea serpent paused in his coiling, frilled tail lashing at the water. Mayalle's interest picked up once more and I did my best to shove my intentions at her, giving a general overview of my sixth floor—which would be watery, as it turned out. Looked like my original fire theme would be waiting for the seventh. Fantastic. All those lovely fire schemas would just wait in my core as per normal.

Gods, I just wished things worked as planned for once.

Her attention slithered away with the feeling of fang-shaped mana. I did not breathe a sigh of relief.

Well. Time to make new plans, I supposed.

I wouldn't rush into it, though. The time I'd spent cleaning up my first three floors after I'd built hasty designs was enough to convince me of avoiding that particular course of action. No, I'd be taking this a bit slower.

Not much slower, admittedly. As much as the sarco, sea serpent, and armoured jawfish would listen to me, that didn't mean they would be particularly fond of listening, and who knew what would come when I was distracted. Which might be pretty soon, depending on the moronic invisible idiot who'd invaded me.

But a little planning would never go awry.

In the back of the Skylands, on a relatively empty section of island that I shuffled a mottled scorpion off of, I brought dozens of points of awareness to my call and dragged up a spiral of plain limestone in a rough square. I dissolved a thin, spidery circle near the top where the entrance tunnel would be, metaphorical tail swishing as I stared at the open canvas.

It was time to plan.

-

Calarata burned hot and heavy in the rising spring.

Lluc strode from the peak of the coven city, morning sun casting twin shadows to rise above his shoulders; the sea-drake's wings, perfectly preserved, crowned his descent. His movements felt stiff, untested, shambling like an early morning drunk; he hadn't had time to change but the crow-wing coat hid the scarlet blooming over his sides and back. Any finery he had would still be leagues above those he was meeting today. They would still be impressed.

He held that thought close to his chest as he moved through the city.

There was no official summons but Calarata stood strong with a central plaza, open and sprawling, a memento of Leóro architecture. No matter how many came to his call, there would be others who would spread the word, taverns buzzing with information, with ideals. He would only have to do this once.

Tonight, he would rest. Curl up with a tall, tall glass of arrack or toke, let his mana build until it burst and crackled at his fingers, bind his wounds and chill his bruises until he looked the piece of perfection once again. Lluc Cardena Ferré was perfection. There was simply no denying it.

But today, he would settle for slightly less—just a fraction, barely a hair—because he had been given a job, and he had already been shown the cost of failure.

Lluc bared his teeth against the unforgiving sun.

The walk felt cold despite it.

Calaratan natives glanced up as he strode past, only to duck and turn away; they fled from his shadow, as they damned well should. The First Mate of the Dread Captain was a loathsome power indeed, and he did not tolerate those that dared count themselves equal. Lluc was more. He needed to be.

He passed through the entrance to the market plaza. Those hawking wares and deals and offers quieted as he passed, voices drying in their throats through no mana of his own. His steps sharpened, back straightening. They still knew he had power. They understood.

None interrupted his march to the center platform. The borwood tree stood proud, a relic of the old world, its bark carved with unknown languages; either protection or curse, he didn't know. It was a foolish man who risked felling a borwood, no matter what the old world had carved into it. Hells, it could have been a direct summon to the Dead War and he would still leave the blasted thing alone. He clambered onto its surrounding platform with nary a thought for the jagged bolt of pain across his knee. This was more important.

He had been given a task, and by the gods, he would do better with this one. Varcís had told him he needed to, and Lluc considered himself intelligent enough to understand the meaning behind that.

There was no reason to argue against whose fault the previous task was; the task had been given to Lluc, and instead of a proper report, he had gotten a glimpse of the first floor and a single room of the second. That was not success. If it was not success, ergo it was failure, and since the task had been given to him, he had failed. The thought process was easy. The punishment was not.

Lluc exhaled. The motion tugged rudely at his cracked ribs. He hid any pain under a sharp-toothed grin.

"Calaratans," he said, and a curl of mana made his voice tremble through the plaza, tugging at the ears of all those who dared now give him their attention. They turned as one, faces indistinguishable amongst the crowd. The horde. He guessed there were several hundred, maybe more, all with the street cat wariness that so plagued this city. "I bring ill news."

Jaws set. Facial scars tightened. Brows furrowed. They stayed silent.

"A threat has come to Calarata."

Eyes widened. Fists clenched. Shoulders stiffened. They stayed silent.

"It festers even now," he whispered, mana carrying his voice to each hungry soul. "A wretched, rotten thing, living beneath us; feeding on our lives, on our mana. It kills without mercy, without thought or conscience; it comes from a broken world to fill our streets with monsters. You've heard of it."

They had. Even if they hadn't, they had. He commanded it. They stayed silent.

"The dungeon."

Lluc let the spell break and murmurs exploded; brothers not by blood but by Calarata turned to their neighbors, confused, scared, angry. His mana slithered between them all, not heavy, not pressing. It whispered just as they did, inciting lonely little thoughts that added up, pushed them to action.

"It kills us!" He said, and the whispers grew shrill. "Kills the innocent who came here searching for a better life, kills those escaping the grasping hand of Leóro, kills those who wish to make something of themselves!"

With a spark, everyone knew that it was them at risk, that it was their reasons that the dungeon killed, that it was them next on the chopping block. Voices rose to a roar.

He roared back. "The Diving Darling, her crew reduced to splinters, her captain crippled! Nightmarketers, disappearing from the underground, shipments let rampant! Adventurers, teams broken, magic shattered! All stolen from us!"

They shouted and his mana dug in to a knife's edge, stabbing at their thoughts, ripping away those unsuited. They were mad. They were furious. They were raving.

"The Dread Crew always calls for fresh blood, new blood, loyal blood; and the dungeon is full of riches, of the bones of our fallen brethren, of creatures and magic beyond understanding! That which it stole from us, from Calarata, and we can take back!"

The horde erupted.

Lluc stepped forward, the borwood towering overhead, branches angling over his shoulders like wings. This was how he succeeded. He knew what to do. "Reclaim your power! Fight back!"

Varcís Bilaro was supposed to be the one fighting. That was what the taxes were for. He shredded any reminder and made the crowd scream their agreement.

Lluc watched them.

He was Gold now, they knew. Mana thrummed under his veins, bright and eager, snapping to his wizard's call. The gap between him and those lesser Silvers was astronomical. He was stronger than anyone in this crowd. Could crush any of them beneath his heel.

But that wasn't the point. He wasn't here to be the singular attacker; he needed numbers.

Because as strong as he was, he doubted he could take on this entire horde.

So the dungeon, the bloody fucking dungeon that had landed him in this scenario on a knife's edge with a sword to his throat, shouldn't be able to survive it either.

Lluc couldn't afford anything else.

So he swallowed the ache of bruises and cracks and jerked a fist in the air, a wordless roar erupting from his throat. The crowd echoed him, mana burning at their fingers and blades aimed to the sky. Hungry for blood, hungry for power, hungry for gold; everything that a dungeon could provide. Calarata was for the starving, those malnourished and gaunt from a life under Leóro's rules. But they were aimless, tearing at the coattails of society for scraps that were never enough, wanting direction but having no drive to claim it. That was why they were here, listening to him. Nightmarketers, swords-for-hire, desperados.

Fodder beneath Lluc's heel.

They would obey.

He ignored how his ribs creaked and bellowed a rallying cry, swiveling to stab a finger toward the distant cove and the Alómbra Mountains beyond; the horde tracked his gaze, eyes red, teeth bared.

"Together!" He roared, mana erupting from his throat as his words bounced through the open square. "Together, we end this rotten dungeon! For us! For Calarata!"

The crowd howled.