The South didn't just smell like death; it smelled like failed life.
I pushed through the surface of the Black Tides, my crimson scales hissing as they met the oily, violet-streaked water. For three days, the sky had been a bruised purple, and the sea had been a churning graveyard. Most dragons fear the deep—it's a place where wings are useless and fire is stifled. But I am a Bloodweaver. Wherever there is a pulse, I am the master.
Yet, as I dove deeper into the Abyssal Trench, my own pulse felt heavy, like lead.
"Nerathis!" I roared into the water, the sonic vibration rippling through the dark.
No answer. Only the clicking of Void-Sharks and the distant, rhythmic thrumming of the Obscura Spire.
I closed my eyes, letting my mana bleed out into the surrounding currents. My specialty isn't just killing; it's Resonance. Every living thing has a "blood-song," a unique frequency of life. Nerathis's song should have been a clear, crystalline melody—the sound of a mountain spring.
