The campfire at the edge of the Obsidian Plateau was a lonely, flickering eye in a world that was rapidly turning to ash. It didn't crackle with the cheerful snap of pine or cedar; instead, it hissed as the grey dust of the Wastelands drifted into the embers, turning the flames a sickly, necrotic green. Around the fire, the silence was a physical weight, a suffocating shroud that made every breath feel like a labor.
I sat on a jagged slab of obsidian, my back to the others, staring out into the grey expanse. The transformation was no longer a slow crawl; it was a rhythmic, surging tide. The red-gold scales had migrated past my elbows, wrapping around my forearms in a pattern that resembled a suit of armor forged from dragon's blood. My skin felt tight, humming with a frequency that made the very air around me shimmer with a heat haze.
