They came together like twin storms.
One wreathed in flame, burning with the heat of fire-born will. The other, a ghost of frost, gliding with the silence of death. Their clash cracked the sky wide open.
High above the snow-veiled north, where the wind howled louder than any voice and the air itself threatened to freeze breath solid, Vezdaryon and the ice dragon locked once more no longer circling, no longer testing. This was the final bout. The moment that would decide who reigned over this sky.
They struck in midair with a sound like thunder wrapped in steel.
Talons locked, jaws snapping, their wings beat furiously as they tumbled through the clouds. Vezdaryon's body burned, heat searing from his core outwards in a desperate push against the cold assaulting him. The ice dragon's freezing breath struck his flank again, numbing it, ice creeping over already damaged scales.
But pain had stopped mattering.
Vezdaryon roared and sank his claws deep into the soft meat beneath the ice dragon's shoulder. The creature shrieked and twisted, slamming its tail into his chest — once, twice — knocking the wind from his lungs. They spun through the sky, snapping, tearing, trying to end each other midair.
The ice dragon went for Vezdaryon's throat — a flash of teeth so fast it barely registered. But Vezdaryon moved at the last second, the bite raking across his jaw instead. Blood flew, steaming where it touched the wind. He retaliated, jaws wide — fire blazed from his throat, point-blank, into the ice dragon's face.
The scream that followed tore through the clouds.
The blast had scorched its eye, blackening one side of its skull. It reared back, stunned — and Vezdaryon didn't hesitate. He shot forward with a guttural roar, teeth bared, and latched onto the ice dragon's neck.
He bit down with everything.
The ice dragon bucked wildly, slamming into him with wings, claws, trying to break free. But Vezdaryon held fast. Blood poured into his mouth, cold, thick, like biting into frozen meat. The taste was foul. But he did not let go.
They fell together.
Through the sky, down past the thinning clouds, into the open blue where the white world below awaited. Vezdaryon held on as the ice dragon thrashed, its wings beating frantically, its talons carving desperate gouges into his shoulders and back.
Still — he did not let go.
He could feel the heartbeat in its throat, feel it slow.
The blood flow was weakening. The movements frantic, then jerky, then sluggish. A gurgling growl choked from the ice dragon's throat. Its frost-breath faded. Its wings flapped weakly, then hung limp in the air.
It stopped moving.
Only then did Vezdaryon release his hold.
With a final wheezing breath through his bloodied jaws, he let the lifeless body fall spiraling away into the distant mountains below. A great pale mass, vanishing into the cold from which it had risen.
He tried to flap his wings.
Once.
Then again.
But his strength was gone. His muscles burned, torn and trembling. Gashes lined his side, one eye blurred with blood. One wing faltered, damaged by the impact of their fall. The cold bit deeper than before, not just on his scales but inside him. Exhaustion hollowed his limbs.
He dropped from the sky.
The descent was not graceful. He didn't spiral like before, didn't glide. He crashed.
The impact rang through the mountains like a bell made of glass shattering.
Snow exploded in every direction. Frost and ice cracked beneath his weight. Trees splintered. Stone groaned. A quake rolled through the ground as Vezdaryon collapsed into a ridge of frost-covered rock and shattered ice. For a long while, he didn't move. Just breathed.
Each breath sent steam curling from his nostrils.
He was alive.
But only just.
The sky above him was still. His body was a map of wounds blood, frostburn, missing scales. His right wing ached sharply with every twitch. But he breathed. Slowly. Deliberately.
He had won.
He had killed an ice dragon.
And in that silence, with the body of his opponent shattered on a distant peak and the wind easing just slightly around him, he realized the weight of it. Not just the physical toll but what it meant.
He hadn't fought for territory. Or food. Or even to protect something.
He had fought because he was challenged.
And he had answered.
He lifted his head slightly, gazing into the pale northern sky.
His reflection stared back at him in a pool of thawed snow, bloody, burned, scarred. Wiser. Meaner. A beast born of fire, forged by survival.
Vezdaryon.
He didn't feel fear.
He didn't feel triumph.
He felt right.
He pulled himself up slowly, each movement dragging pain behind it like a chain. His wings unfurled, trembling slightly, but still able to catch the air. The warmth of his fire flickered inside him again, weak but returning.
He would fly again.
He would live.
But the North would remember today.
It would remember the day flame met frost.
And flame won.
———
Hope you enjoyed the chapter