My head swiveled when the silence got fractured. A violent noise terrorized Aslakahm, as if a thousand stars cried in unison, desperate to wake up those in the deepest of slumbers. I shift my head to trace it, and my eyes fall victim to twitching. I could barely sense the nest’s serenity anymore, while another sentiment, far more powerful, rose to take its place. Dread.

  What sort of power fabricates such noises? I shift sideways, arms chasing the enclosure around me. “Let me emerge!” I cry and leave a series of thuds. “Are you all safe? Is the mighty king alright?”

  I receive no answer, apart from the deafening noise continuing. The more I listen to it, the more I sense irregular patterns within. Occasional moments of falter break its rhythm, as if a tempest of waves crash against each other, only to then linger before converging again. Each wave desires victory, each wave fights to attain it. Each wave grows in intensity and hunger, the more I stand to perceive.

  A new series of thuds emerge from my limbs. “Please! Be merciful to me. I haven’t been successful in the quest of my king,” I say, a tremor seizing the last of my words. “There is no reason for me to be locked in this nest. I must stand beside the king.”

  I resign with a sigh. It is futile to expect anyone to hear me over the ravaging waves outside. As I remember the mission entrusted upon me, my eyes shift downcast. Not even in such a wondrous place, were my powers willing to show themselves. I understand why they would flee within the Jila, but here, inside the kingdom of glory? No amount of reasons could protect my strength from its deserved contempt. No amount of tasks placed upon my wings could erase that resentment. And now, what am I pursuing? Aslakahm fears losing its hearing, while I squirm within this nest without any form of success. There is no place for a dragon who is supine.

  A new round of attempts begins: my body quivers as I force the powers within me to reveal themselves, my wings shake as I urge them to show me a path through which I can glimpse my strengths, my face scowls and contorts, while the outcome doesn’t change. I stomp the ground beneath. “Creators, why make me as such?! Grant me the needed response!”

  I dash forward, scratching the egg’s walls, pushing and pulling, straining myself to find an exit. I know what sort of response Nurielon will give upon witnessing how I’ve treated his home, but I can’t ignore the brutality and the vitality of the monumentality that is that rageful echo. Inaction to such a distraction would be rash.

  My arm scratches downward, and in doing so, I manage to switch something on. The nest lets out a note, and one section of the enclosure withdraws itself into minuscule bits. Upon my exit, a beam of light reduces my eyes to a squint. The Throne erupted in waves of unprecedented glint that were creating a barrier around Aslakahm. Then I realize with a shudder what is happening: the Walls of Creation are being pulled from the Throne itself and channeled to wrap the kingdom. In order for such a thing to occur, the king must do it himself. Is his mighty essence capable of sustaining them? The corners of my eyes catch concerned gazes from nearby brethren, as well as tense bodies or arms thrown in protests. Some grimace when gazing up, and then I notice the reason. An army of Lightstealers enclose upon Aslakahm, a ring of fog desperate to devour the newly raised Walls. Calamity is displayed in the movements of their dark wings, rage boils in the whiteness that carves their muscles, and a storm brews in their narrowed eyes. What is the reason for such an intrusion? How can the Lightstealers betray their own kin and bring destruction, when a disease is already in that process? This is inexcusable! I must protect my kin. I can’t allow the mighty king to suffer any harm.

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  Wings extending, I throw myself toward the Throne. With one final convulsion, the beam vanishes, and cries arise all throughout Aslakahm. As I reach the king’s seat, a frenzy of wings, arms and tails greet me, all shifting in terror. King Alghamior is held upon the limbs of his councillors, one section of his body faded away. The spectacle of colors and dots painted on his body were now reduced to a sorrowful pale. Within me, a vast portion of my essence plummets in the Materium, lost to eternity. “Mighty king!” I cry and rush to hold his great body.

  Wrathful eyes latch onto me in an instant, and I halt. “Is this what you show for the sacrifice of our king, Error?” Councillor Garkalon asks, his voice struggling with a burden beyond what it can endure. “Defiance to his mission?!”

  My words stumble upon their exit. “Why did our great king do this? He should’ve never chosen such an option!”

  “Enough!” Councillor Garkalon cries. “Spare the mighty king your opinions and thoughts, you lack the wisdom to understand his choices.” His body trembles, rage and tiredness in a visible battle against him. “Have you completed your task?!”

  From atop, the Walls roared as the Lightstealer’s fog was now touching them. Figures of Lightstealers stirred like nightmares granted life for the sole purpose of strife. I spin my head sideways. “What are our kin doing?”

  “Make haste, councillors!” Councillor Garkalon says, addressing his fellows. “The king needs a safe place to dwell until we decide how to stand against this calamity.”

  I watch as they rise and soar down toward the opening kingdom. “How can I be of help to the king?” I ask, but the councillors reject the idea of a response.

  More sounds echo throughout Aslakahm, the Walls suffering under the duress they are forced to endure. As if the Materium itself is being torn apart. Starmakers fall into agitation: more dragons emerge from their nests and immediately bellow upon seeing what awaits, while those I’ve noticed before have their bodies seized by convulses and twitches. A swarm of Starmakers ascend to trail the mighty king, urging me to do the same. Could there be retaliation? Existence has taught me that Lightstealers have been gifted with physicality far beyond what dragons usually possess. Open conflict with such a dragon leads only to loss, a thought I can’t bear. How could I allow another of my brethren to fall victim to another of my distant kin? How can I stand and gaze at this storm of horror while my king is suffering and has no strength to open his eyes? War amidst my brethren is an idea I abhor.

  With a determined yet unwilling gaze, I rise to follow the king, in hopes that the council will hear me out. Doom is all I can now see: the Lightstealers hurl whispers of death into my ears, and the more my eyes catch glimpses of them, the more my wings plead with me to be left in peace. I must persevere through such shadows of torment. My quest lies incomplete, and I have no desire to stir more rage into the council for my incompetency. Yet I can’t continue my passiveness, nor can I leave Aslakahm, the glorious light that guides all dragons throughout this thickening darkness, to have its glow stolen. If the Lightstealers desire conflict, I shall be the one they’ll feast upon. Mockeries must be treated accordingly, and I know no worse mockery than myself. This disease is already disrupting everything I’ve come to know in my existence within this Materium. Whatever pain I can take from my kin and break it apart, I will do it forthwith.