When it had wandered freely. When it had done battle. Even longer ago than that, when it had been confined.
Once, it had been less than what it was. But the process of growing, of becoming, had taken something away as well. The Weeping Dragon was technically capable of thinking at a level far beyond the ordinary human, but it had been centuries since it was more than a beast.
Once, the Dragon had thoughts, plans, ambitions.
Once, the Dragon had a name.
The Dragon dreamed of these times, and in its sleep, it wept for what was lost. Rain fell from its bed of clouds, watering the land.
Then its dreams changed.
More memories came: of its predecessor, its form beautiful and white and hungry. The one who had infected it with the hunger that could never be satisfied. In its dreams, the Dragon was furious at its ancestor for passing on this curse. Though it knew that the original’s fate was far worse than its own, the Weeping Dragon couldn’t resist its own anger.
Until it woke, and then its thoughts would retreat back into haze, and it would revert to a predator prowling on instinct. Just food and sleep.
While it dreamed, the Weeping Dragon feared waking. But…not this time.
It found that its dreams grew clearer and clearer. First they were dreams of the past, and then they were memories. And then they were thoughts, realizations, knowledge. Plans.
What it had lost was coming back. And the Weeping Dragon realized that it was becoming whole.
It woke, and this time, it really woke.
The Dragon’s cry of joy alone killed thousands of people. It was aware of this, though it didn’t care.
Distantly, it knew that something must have happened to its predecessor. The Slumbering Wraith had died, or at least released what it had been holding.
The Dragon would check on that later. There might be something to learn.
But for now, it would relish being in control of its own body. It wanted more than just food, it wanted shelter. A domain. Children. Servants. Treasures.
Countless serpents of madra rained from its cloud, crackling with its lightning and carrying its will.
It wanted…everything.
Deep in the jungles of the Everwood Continent, the Silent King crouched in its den.
Unlike its siblings, the King had never lost use of its mental faculties. It would have been impossible to control dream madra otherwise. It was its body that had suffered.
It had never carried as much devastating destructive power as the others, and was only as big as one of these human houses, but for the last several centuries, it could be overpowered even by the average human Herald.
While it was almost always better to avoid dangerous combat, the Silent King still considered this unacceptable. It was a Dreadgod. Except by its own siblings, it should be unequaled in all respects.
The Silent King’s mind was rarely focused on its own body. Even now, it tended to its mental web. Its subjects filled the jungle for hundreds of miles. They lived in cities, talked, joked, created art. Remnants crept by newborn sacred beasts and both traded respectful nods. Neither should be as intelligent or aware as they were, but thanks to their King, they could live up to their full domain.
In these lands, there was true peace.
But this was as far as its domain would ever extend.
The thought filled it with fury, and back in its den, it opened its jaws. A waiting sacred artist plunged willingly into its teeth, and the King chewed. The snack helped a little, though of course no amount of food could ever fulfill the curse of its hunger madra.
That was a problem it could solve, though. If only it was allowed to.
For the hundred thousandth time, the Silent King ran its spiritual perception around the boundaries of its kingdom. Roots stretched all around it, roots under her command. Its greatest enemy.
The Silent King knew that its sibling, the Dragon, often lost itself in dreams of the past. But its dreams were…crude. Simple. It didn’t know how to dream. The King knew, and sometimes its dreams were so vivid as to be indistinguishable from waking.
Whenever it dreamed, it liked to imagine the elaborate revenge it would take on Emriss Silentborn. It dreamed of revenge even more often than it dreamed of plans to restore its power. The only reason for achieving its full potential was for revenge.
That, and to spread its peace over all the world.
Satisfying its hunger would be a nice side effect, but it had willpower the likes of which mere humans could not comprehend. It could withstand its own urges forever without losing itself. It wasn’t a barbarian, like its siblings. It could endure.
But when the wave of hunger aura passed over it, the Silent King drank it in with absolute delight.
While it luxuriated in the sensation, it never stopped thinking. Who had killed the Wraith? Who could have breached that prison? The Silent King had tried personally, centuries ago, and failed.
Whoever it was, the Dreadgod owed them a debt. One day, if it was so inclined, it would repay that service. Perhaps this mysterious savior would enjoy a continent in thanks.
They had granted the Dreadgod’s greatest wish. Its will drew tight, more potent than ever, and the wills of everyone in its kingdom focused as well. Some died of exertion, blood running from their eyes, but most could handle this slight burden of will.
All that willpower focused on the tip of the King’s claw. And it slashed once through the air.
The roots wrapping around the kingdom were neatly sliced. The organic script-circle failed, and Emriss Silentborn’s madra drifted away like so much smoke.
Finally, the Silent King was free to rule.
24
Information restricted: Personal Record 5716.
Authorization required to access.
Authorization confirmed: 008 Ozriel.
Beginning record…
Ozriel reached out to a shard of his power, created long ago: a beacon left behind in Cradle. It contained a dare, a challenge, an invitation for anyone talented enough to join him.
He changed the message.
He shared the situation of the heavens with them and expanded their viewpoint beyond the world. He included his weariness and his vision for the future.
No longer did Ozriel want descendants who would prove worthy of him. Now, he just wanted help. Someone who could share his burden.
He layered more memories beneath his message. Personal records, to one day be accessed by his heir.
Even so, as the years stretched on, none of his descendants used the black marble. The Court of Seven, again and again, denied his request to recruit. He had started off pleading, then reasoning, and now his meetings with Makiel had become openly hostile.
When their conflict destabilized the surrounding Iterations, forcing the intervention of Suriel, she had made them swear to stay separated.
Ozriel felt somewhat guilty for that.
The longer the situation went on, the more worlds the Reaper was forced to take, and the greater his burden grew. Even so, he continued doing his duty.
Until one day, he realized he couldn’t take it anymore. If the Court wouldn’t act, he would do it himself.
They had gotten along without him before, and they could do it again.
He looked ahead into Fate and prepared. Ozriel spread false trails throughout existence, so that even the Hound couldn’t track him. He even left messages for Suriel, presuming that she would be the one to hunt him.