The Iron Islands - Pyke
Third Person
The longship cut through the dark waters with desperate speed, its oars churning foam as exhausted sailors drove themselves beyond their limits. Of the twelve vessels that had fled the disaster at Vaes Drakarys, only eight had made it home—the others claimed by storms, sea monsters, or sheer misfortune.
Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow, his face a mask of barely contained fury as Pyke's jagged towers emerged from the mist. The kraken banner of House Greyjoy hung limp in the still air, a mockery of the devastation they'd just witnessed.
He'd led sixty ships against that city. Sixty ships crewed by the finest reavers the Iron Islands had to offer, sailing under the blessing of the Drowned God himself. They should have been unstoppable.
They'd been slaughtered.
The docking was rough—his crew too exhausted for precision—but Euron barely noticed. He was already moving, his boots striking the stone pier with purpose as he headed toward the ancient keep where his older brother waited.
Balon Greyjoy sat in the hall of Pyke, surrounded by advisors and priests of the Drowned God. The old man's face was unreadable as Euron entered, but his eyes tracked his younger brother with an intensity that suggested he already knew the news was bad.
"Brother." Euron stopped before the high seat, refusing to kneel despite tradition. "The attack failed."
"Failed." Balon's voice was flat. "Explain."
"The harbor defenses were stronger than our intelligence suggested—siege weapons we've never encountered, enchanted bolts that exploded on impact or burned with fire that couldn't be extinguished. But that wasn't what destroyed us." Euron's jaw tightened. "There was a creature in the water. A sea monster larger than any ship in our fleet, covered in blue scales and capable of calling lightning from clear skies."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled Ironborn. Some crossed their arms in the sign against evil; others gripped their weapons as if the monster might burst through the walls at any moment.
"It emerged beneath our formation without warning and destroyed three galleys before we could react. Then it began calling down lightning—not from clouds, but from its own body, chains of electricity that leaped from ship to ship. We lost forty-eight vessels in less than an hour." Euron's voice carried the bitterness of a man who had never known defeat before this day. "The fleet never even reached the harbor."
"And the city itself?" one of the priests asked, his seaweed-draped robes marking him as a senior member of the Drowned God's clergy. "Did you observe their defenses?"
"Stone walls reinforced with something that glows faintly in certain light—magical wards, most likely. Towers with siege weapons that can rotate to track moving targets. And soldiers... creatures with scales instead of skin, moving with discipline that would shame any mainland army." Euron shook his head. "They conquered that city less than three years ago. It was called Qarth before they took it. I don't understand how they built those defenses so quickly—Qarth had nothing like that when it fell to them."
"Magic," Balon said simply. "Their dragon brings magic wherever it goes."
"Then we need magic of our own. Greater magic. The Drowned God—"
"The Drowned God has given us much," the senior priest interrupted smoothly. "But even gods must conserve their strength. The enemy has dealt our lord a blow by destroying his Apostle. Time is needed for recovery."
Euron's eyes narrowed. "The Kraken. They killed the Kraken?"
"Consumed it," the priest corrected, his voice carrying undertones of something that might have been fear. "The red dragon fought the Lightning Kraken for ten days and emerged victorious. She took its power into herself, severed its connection to our lord before the killing blow. It was... unexpected."
The silence that followed was heavy with implication. Euron had sailed under what he believed was divine favor, confident that the Drowned God would protect its chosen warriors. Instead, he'd led his men into a massacre against an enemy that had already defeated divine power.
"I will have my revenge," Euron said finally, his voice soft and dangerous. "The Wyrmborne will burn for what they've done. Their dragon will learn what it means to challenge the Iron Islands."
"In time," Balon agreed. "But not today, and not tomorrow. We'll rebuild and learn. And when we strike again, it will be with the full might of the Drowned God behind us—not a probing attack, but a killing blow."
Euron accepted the dismissal, though his eyes promised that his patience had limits. He turned and strode from the hall, his mind already churning with plans for vengeance.
When the doors closed behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows behind Balon's throne.
The Drowned God's avatar was subtle in this form—a humanoid shape made of flowing water and barnacle-crusted stone, its features shifting constantly like the surface of a troubled sea. It had remained hidden during Euron's report, conserving what strength it had left after the loss of its Apostle.
"The dragon is dangerous," the avatar said, its voice carrying the echo of crushing depths. "More dangerous than we anticipated. She did not simply kill my Kraken—she absorbed its essence, made its power her own. Such things are not supposed to be possible."
"What would you have us do, my lord?" the senior priest asked, prostrating himself before the divine presence.
"Wait. We'll Watch and learn from this failure." The avatar's form rippled with something that might have been frustration. "I am weakened. The severance of my connection to the Kraken cost me greatly, and consuming its power has made her stronger than she was before. Direct confrontation now would be... unwise."
"And if she expands further?" Balon asked, his pragmatism overriding his religious awe. "The Wyrmborne control four cities now, with forces that grow stronger every month. If we wait too long—"
"Then we will adapt. I am ancient, Greyjoy. I have survived threats greater than one ambitious dragon." The avatar's form began to dissipate, returning to whatever realm the Drowned God called home. "Let her think she has won this battle. When the time comes to strike, she will learn that the sea remembers its grudges."
The avatar vanished, leaving behind only the smell of salt and the distant sound of waves.
Balon Greyjoy stared at the empty space for a long moment, then turned to his advisors.
"Double the shipbuilding efforts. Recruit from the mountain clans—we need fresh blood for what's coming. And send word to our contacts in Volantis and Pentos. If the Wyrmborne are making enemies, we should know who might be willing to stand against them."
The Iron Islands would have their revenge. It was just a matter of time.
Vaes Drakarys - The Next Day
The Lesser Wyvern Hunt
Ciri - First Person
The hunting party assembled at dawn, larger than the griffin expedition had been.
Thirty Draconians in light armor, a dozen Dragonborn serving as the assault element, six mages with their Chaos-Forged staffs, and three guests who had somehow talked their way into active participation rather than mere observation.
"You're certain about this?" Commander Vaelos asked, his copper scales catching the early morning light as he studied us with professional skepticism. "Yesterday was griffins. Lesser wyverns are considerably more dangerous—faster, smarter, and capable of breath attacks that can melt armor or freeze flesh solid."
"We've fought wyverns before," Yennefer replied coolly. "On the Continent, they're one of the more challenging monsters a Witcher or sorceress might face. We're not unfamiliar with the threat."
"Lesser wyverns," one of the Dragonborn corrected—a fire variant with deep crimson scales and easy confidence that suggested significant combat experience. "Lady Angelus is particular about the terminology. The creatures you're familiar with from your homeland are offshoots—degraded descendants of the wyverns that Valyria bred and used in war. True Valyrian wyverns carry potent dragon blood in their veins, making them far more powerful than their lesser cousins."
Triss's eyebrows rose with academic interest. "What's the distinction, exactly? On the Continent, wyverns are already formidable—two legs, venomous tails, capable of flight and crude breath weapons. What makes Valyrian wyverns superior?"
"Size, intelligence, and magical potential." The crimson Dragonborn—I noticed the others called him Sergeant Korrath—seemed pleased by the question. "A lesser wyvern is dangerous because it's a predator with natural weapons. A Valyrian wyvern is dangerous because it's a predator with natural weapons AND the capacity for genuine cunning. They can be trained, bonded with riders, and their breath weapons are true elemental attacks rather than the weak imitations lesser wyverns produce."
"Like Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch," I said, pieces clicking together. "The three wyverns that serve Angelus."
"Dragons now, actually—they've evolved past the wyvern stage, in blood at least." Korrath's voice carried obvious pride. "Lady Angelus enhanced their eggs before they hatched, gave them true dragon blood rather than the diluted Valyrian variety. They're something the world hasn't seen in centuries."
"And the creatures we're hunting today?" Yennefer asked.
"Pathetic offshoots." Korrath's tone made his opinion clear. "Useful for resources—their scales, venom glands, and wing membranes have practical applications—but nothing compared to what Valyria once bred. Lady Angelus has been quite vocal about her disdain for them. She calls them 'echoes of a legacy they can never claim.'"
The march to the wyvern nesting grounds took longer than our previous hunt—nearly four hours of travel through increasingly rugged terrain. The Draconians maintained their fluid formation throughout, adapting to the landscape with the practiced ease I'd observed before.
Triss fell into step beside me partway through the journey, her expression thoughtful. "Their magic is remarkable. I've been studying it all week, and I'm only beginning to understand the underlying principles. Did you know their weapons grow stronger over time? The blood used in the forging creates a sympathetic link to Angelus herself—as she evolves, everything connected to her evolves too."
"That explains why their equipment seems so effective." I glanced at a nearby Draconian whose sword pulsed with faint crimson light. "It's a living connection."
"Exactly. And the implications are staggering. On the Continent, magical items degrade over time, requiring maintenance and recharging. Here, they're essentially self-improving. The longer the Wyrmborne exist, the stronger their entire arsenal becomes."
"Contact ahead," one of the scouts reported, her voice cutting through our discussion. "Wyvern nest in the canyon, approximately five hundred meters. Eight adults visible, possibly more in the caves. This is a larger colony than we anticipated."
Commander Vaelos raised his hand, halting the formation. "Larger numbers mean we adjust tactics. Mages, I want overlapping containment barriers—these things are faster than griffins, and we can't afford gaps. Assault element, prepare for aggressive engagement. Our guests..." He turned to face us directly. "You've requested participation. I'm granting it, conditionally. Stay with the assault element, follow Sergeant Korrath's lead, and do not pursue targets into the caves. The confined spaces favor the wyverns, and we don't know what's waiting deeper inside."
"Understood," I replied for all three of us.
The approach was textbook Wyrmborne efficiency. The mages spread out to establish their barrier perimeter, crimson threads of power weaving together in patterns I was beginning to recognize. The assault element moved forward in a wedge formation, their Chaos-Forged weapons ready.
Yennefer's hands moved in subtle gestures, preparing her own magic. "Their barrier spell works by disrupting flight—I observed that during the griffin hunt. But wyverns are more magically resilient than griffins. Will it hold?"
"It'll weaken them," one of the mages replied—a young Draconian woman with silver scales and a focused expression. "Lesser wyverns rely heavily on aerial mobility. Ground them, and they're still dangerous but manageable."
The first wyvern spotted us and screamed its challenge.
It was larger than the griffins—perhaps twenty feet from snout to tail tip, with leathery wings that could span twice that distance. Its scales were a mottled grey-green, nothing like the vibrant colors of Wyrmborne forces, and its eyes held a predatory cunning that was unsettling in its depth.
Three more launched from the canyon walls, and then four more, and suddenly we were facing eight airborne predators diving toward us with obvious hostile intent.
"Barriers now!" Vaelos commanded.
THRUM!
The mages released their spell, and the air itself seemed to solidify around the diving wyverns. Wings that had been carrying them in graceful attack patterns suddenly seized, membranes refusing to respond to their owners' commands. The lead wyvern tumbled out of control, crashing into the canyon floor with a shriek of confused rage.
But these weren't griffins. Even grounded, the wyverns recovered faster, their magical resilience fighting against the barrier's effects. One managed to get partially airborne again, its wings beating erratically as it lunged toward the assault element.
"Engage!" Korrath bellowed.
The Dragonborn met the charge head-on. Chaos-Forged spears punched through scales that would have turned ordinary steel, and the wyvern that had been leading the assault collapsed with three weapons buried in its chest.
I drew my sword and moved.
The wyvern nearest me was still struggling against the barrier, its movements uncoordinated but no less dangerous. I came in low, ducking under a wild snap of its jaws, and drove my blade into the soft flesh beneath its chin. The creature convulsed, and I twisted the blade before pulling it free.
Yennefer's magic flared beside me—a concentrated burst of force that sent another wyvern tumbling before a pair of Dragonborn could finish it. Triss followed up with flames that were different from what I was used to seeing from her—hotter and more focused, clearly influenced by her studies of Wyrmborne pyromancy.
The battle was brutal but brief. Eight lesser wyverns against coordinated Wyrmborne tactics and three experienced fighters from the Continent proved to be a mismatch. Within five minutes, six of the creatures lay dead, and the remaining two had fled into the caves where we'd been ordered not to follow.
"Check the nest," Vaelos ordered. "Sustainable harvest—take what we need, leave enough to replenish. And someone make sure those two survivors don't double back to ambush us."
"Impressive," Korrath said, approaching us with obvious respect in his expression. "You three fight well together. The coordination, along with the way you cover each other's weaknesses aren't something you develop overnight."
"We've had practice," Yennefer replied, wiping ichor from her hands with a cloth. "Usually against things trying to kill us."
"The best teacher." He grinned, showing teeth that were slightly sharper than human normal. "Your fire magic, Lady Merigold—I noticed you've been incorporating some of our techniques. The heat intensity was higher than the standard Continent pyromancy you've told me about."
Triss looked pleased despite herself. "I've been studying your methods. The internal power generation approach is fascinating—instead of drawing energy from outside sources, you channel it from within. I've been experimenting with adapting the principle to my own spells."
"Lady Angelus would probably enjoy discussing that with you. She's always interested in magical theory, especially when it involves synthesis between different systems."
The return journey was more relaxed than the approach had been—the threat neutralized, the harvest secured. I found myself walking beside a group of Draconians who were discussing their mounts with obvious enthusiasm.
"Those creatures you ride," I said, interrupting as politely as I could manage. "The smaller, faster ones—what are they called?"
"Dracoraptors," one of them replied—a young male with green scales and an infectious grin. "D-Raptors for short. Lady Angelus created them for scouting and swift-strike operations. They're faster than horses by a considerable margin, smarter too, and they can fight alongside their riders in close combat."
"Created them?" Yennefer's interest sharpened. "How does one create a new species?"
"Magic, blood, and materials from hunted monsters." The Draconian's grin widened. "Lady Angelus combined her own essence with components harvested from creatures with desirable traits—the speed of certain predators, the intelligence of others, the elemental affinities she wanted to pass along. The result was the D-Raptors and the Drakes."
"The Drakes being the larger mounts we saw the cavalry using?" Triss asked.
"Exactly. Most of the original Drakes were actually horses before their conversion—war horses that the Dothraki had bonded with during their years of riding. Lady Angelus transformed them, and the bonds they already had with their riders became even stronger. Now the Drakes can sense what their riders are feeling, anticipate their movements, and coordinate without verbal commands."
"And the new ones?" I pressed. "The Drakes and D-Raptors being born now?"
"Born from eggs, naturally. Once Lady Angelus established the species, they could reproduce on their own. Same with the Siege Beasts—the Z-Rexes and Shield Beasts and Titan Carriers. The first generation was created; every generation since has been born." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "It's strange, when you think about it. A few years ago, none of these creatures existed. Now they're as much a part of our forces as the Dragonborn and Draconians. Lady Angelus doesn't just conquer territory—she also creates entire new forms of life to serve her vision. It's amazing to see."
The conversation continued as we walked, covering topics ranging from the Siege Beasts (which the trio had heard about but never seen) to the various elemental variants of Drakes and D-Raptors. By the time we reached the gates of Vaes Drakarys, I had a much clearer picture of the depth and breadth of Wyrmborne capabilities.
And a growing conviction that whatever decision we made about Angelus's offer needed to be made soon.
The Audience
Third Person
Angelus received them in her courtyard, her massive form arranged comfortably on the raised platform that served as her resting place.
The three women approached together, their body language suggesting they had reached some consensus during their journey back from the hunt. Ciri walked slightly ahead, her role as informal spokesperson apparently accepted by the others.
"You wished to speak with me," Angelus said, her mental voice warm but businesslike. "I assume you've come to a decision regarding my proposal?"
"We have." Yennefer stepped forward, her violet eyes meeting Angelus's golden gaze without flinching. "I accept your offer. I would be honored to join your harem—though I should mention that I expect proper courtship before anything becomes... official. Dates, conversations, the chance to know each other beyond political convenience."
"A reasonable request." Angelus's chest pulsed with inner light—amusement, perhaps, or pleasure. "I'm old, but I'm not so old that I've forgotten how courtship works. You shall have your dates, Yennefer of Vengerberg."
"As for us," Ciri continued, "Triss and I would like to propose a trial period. We're interested, but we're also cautious—too many things in our lives have seemed promising at first and turned sour later. We'd like time to see how we fit into your world before committing fully."
"Also reasonable. Take whatever time you need—I have no interest in pressuring anyone into bonds they're not ready for." Angelus's head tilted slightly. "Was there something else?"
"Questions, actually." Triss stepped forward, her academic curiosity evident. "During the hunt, the Wyrmborne explained their terminology—lesser wyverns versus Valyrian wyverns. They said you were quite vocal about the distinction. We wanted to understand your reasoning."
"Ah." Angelus's mental voice carried a note of something that might have been irritation—not at them, but at the subject matter itself. "The creatures you hunted today are what I call echoes. Shadows of a legacy they can never claim."
She shifted her massive form, crimson scales catching the light in ways that emphasized her otherworldly nature.
"In Valyria's height, wyverns were bred for war—intelligent, powerful, capable of forming bonds with riders that went beyond mere training. They carried dragon blood in their veins, diluted but genuine, which gave them magical potential that set them apart from ordinary beasts. The wyverns of your Continent are descendants of those creatures, but millennia of separation from true draconic influence have degraded them. They're predators, certainly. Dangerous, absolutely. But they're pale imitations of what wyverns should be."
"And the distinction matters because...?" Ciri prompted.
"Because I am building something that will last for millennia, and I refuse to settle for inferior stock." Angelus's golden eyes gleamed with intensity. "Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch are what true dragons should be—I enhanced their eggs with my own blood before they hatched, gave them the full potential that Valyrian breeding could never quite achieve. They're not wyverns anymore except in form for now. They've evolved past that stage into something greater."
"Like you," Yennefer observed. "Your current form is different from the wyvern shape you wore when you first arrived in this world."
"Exactly." Angelus spread her wings slightly, the gold-orange veins in her membranes pulsing with inner light. "This is what a true dragon looks like—four legs, two wings, a body designed for both aerial and terrestrial supremacy. The wyvern form served me well during my recovery, but it was always a stepping stone to something greater. Lesser wyverns are incapable of such evolution. They're trapped in their degraded state, which is why I feel nothing but disdain for them."
Before any of them could respond, Angelus's head suddenly turned toward the eastern sky, her golden eyes narrowing with recognition.
"Speaking of evolution," she said, her mental voice carrying new warmth, "it appears you're about to see your first Valyrian wyvern—or rather, your first Valyrian dragon."
"What?" Ciri followed Angelus's gaze but saw nothing unusual. "I don't—"
"Wait for it." Angelus's tone had shifted to something between amusement and maternal pride. "He's coming fast. Faster than he should be, actually."
Yennefer's eyes widened, her magical senses detecting something approaching at tremendous speed. "That's... that's an enormous amount of power. The energy signature is—"
"Strong," Triss finished, her own senses now picking up the approaching presence. "Very strong. And getting closer rapidly."
A shape appeared on the horizon—green and bronze, wings beating with powerful strokes, growing larger with alarming speed.
ENOCH! Angelus's mental voice thundered with sudden authority. SLOW DOWN BEFORE YOU SCARE YOUR POTENTIAL RIDER OR CRUSH HER BY ACCIDENT! I WILL NOT HAVE YOU INJURING SOMEONE THROUGH SHEER ENTHUSIASM.
The approaching dragon's flight pattern changed immediately, speed bleeding off as he transitioned from urgent rush to controlled descent. He was still moving faster than was probably wise, but at least he was no longer a green missile aimed at their position.
Enoch landed in the courtyard with considerably more grace than his approach had suggested—his massive form settling onto the reinforced stone with a THOOM that shook the ground but caused no damage. He was enormous, nearly as large as Angelus herself, with scales the deep green of ancient forests and bronze-colored wing membranes that caught the light beautifully.
"Mother." His mental voice was sheepish, carrying the tone of a child caught doing something he knew he shouldn't. "I apologize for my haste. But I felt something—someone—and I had to—"
"I know what you felt," Angelus replied, her earlier sternness softening. "We'll discuss proper approach protocols later. For now, meet our guests."
Enoch's attention shifted to the three women, and Ciri saw the moment his gaze locked onto Triss.
The dragon went utterly still, his massive form frozen in place as his golden eyes studied the auburn-haired sorceress with an intensity that bordered on reverence. Triss, for her part, had stopped moving as well—her expression shifting from surprised to confused to something that might have been wonder.
"What..." Triss's voice was barely a whisper. "What is this feeling? It's like... like something is reaching out to me. Something inside him is calling to something inside me."
"The rider bond," Angelus explained gently. "Enoch has been sensing you since his healing completed—he flew from Vaes Meereen to find you, driven by an instinct he didn't fully understand. What you're feeling now is the potential for partnership, the recognition of compatible souls."
"Compatible how?" Yennefer's voice was sharp with concern. "What exactly does this bond entail?"
"A connection deeper than any normal relationship. The rider and dragon share emotions, can communicate mentally across vast distances, and draw strength from each other in ways that enhance both parties. It's not slavery or compulsion—the bond only forms if both parties accept it willingly. But when it does form, it creates something... profound."
Triss was still staring at Enoch, her breathing slightly unsteady. "I can feel him. Not just his presence—his personality. Curiosity, mostly. So much curiosity, like he wants to understand everything about everything. And beneath that, a steadiness. A desire to protect and serve something larger than himself."
"You perceive me clearly," Enoch said, his mental voice carrying surprised delight. "I sense similar things in you—the hunger to learn, the pleasure of discovery, the way knowledge brings you joy. Mother said we might be compatible on my way here. I see now what she meant."
"This is actually happening," Ciri murmured, watching the exchange with wide eyes. "A dragon is bonding with Triss."
"Not yet," Angelus corrected. "They're sensing the potential for a bond. Whether it forms is entirely up to them—Triss must choose to accept, and Enoch must choose to offer. Neither is obligated."
"But there's a complication." Yennefer's voice was careful, her analytical mind already working through implications. "Triss is still affiliated with the Lodge of Sorceresses. If she bonds with a dragon from your empire, her loyalties would be... divided, at best."
"Yes. That is the difficulty." Angelus's tone was matter-of-fact. "If Triss accepts the bond, she would need to join the Wyrmborne—undergo conversion, become part of our people in truth rather than just in alliance. Her ties to the Lodge would need to be severed. I cannot have a dragon-rider whose primary loyalty lies elsewhere."
The silence that followed was heavy with implication.
Triss stood motionless, her eyes still locked with Enoch's, her mind clearly racing through everything this choice would mean. The Lodge had been her home for years, her community, her purpose. To abandon it would mean cutting ties with sorceresses she'd known for decades, rejecting a political structure she'd helped build.
But as Ciri watched her friend's face, she saw something else emerging—a kind of relief. As if this impossible choice was actually simpler than it appeared.
"The Lodge," Triss said finally, her voice steadying, "has never truly felt like home. They took me in after the pogrom, gave me purpose and protection, but they never trusted me completely. I was always the idealist, the one who believed we could be more than manipulators and kingmakers."
She turned to face Yennefer, her expression carrying a mix of apology and determination. "You know what they did to Ciri. What they planned to do. The schemes, the manipulations, the way they treated her like a resource to be exploited rather than a person to be protected. I went along with it for too long, told myself it was necessary, that the greater good justified the methods. But it didn't. It never did."
"Triss..." Yennefer's voice carried complex emotions.
"This is an opportunity to be something different. To use my abilities for purposes I actually believe in, serving people who have been honest with me from the beginning." Triss's chin lifted with newfound resolve. "I'm tired of politics and schemes. I want to study magic, to learn and grow and actually make a difference. And if that means leaving the Lodge behind..." She turned back to Enoch. "Then I'm ready to do it."
"You're certain?" Enoch's mental voice was gentle, almost reverent. "This is not a small thing you're choosing."
"I'm certain." Triss stepped forward, reaching out with one hand toward Enoch's massive snout. "I accept the bond. I accept you."
What happened next was difficult to describe.
The moment Triss's hand touched Enoch's scales, something shifted in the air—a resonance that Ciri could feel even though she possessed no magical training. Golden light flared briefly around both of them, and Triss gasped as the connection formed, her eyes going wide with sudden awareness.
"There you are," Enoch's voice echoed through the bond, now carrying directly to Triss in ways the others couldn't fully perceive. "I've been looking for you."
"And I didn't even know I was lost," Triss replied mentally, wonder coloring her thoughts. "Until now."
"The bond is formed," Angelus confirmed, her voice carrying satisfaction. "Welcome to the family, Triss Merigold. Now we need to complete your transformation—the rider bond works best when both parties share the same basic nature. You'll need to undergo conversion."
"Conversion?" Ciri stepped forward, concern evident. "What does that involve?"
"A ritual that infuses draconic essence into the subject, transforming them into either a Dragonborn or a Draconian. The choice is theirs—Dragonborn become fully draconic, with scaled snouts and dragon faces, bodies built for physical combat. Draconians retain their human faces and forms but gain partial scales, claws, and enhanced magical abilities."
"Draconian," Triss said without hesitation. "I've always valued my human appearance—it took years of magical correction to achieve, and I'm not ready to give it up entirely. Besides, my strengths have always been magical rather than physical."
"Then Draconian it shall be. The conversion pools are ready—we can perform the ritual today, if you're willing."
The conversion chamber was located beneath the administrative complex—a circular room dominated by a pool of luminescent liquid that pulsed with inner light. The Chaos-Forged glow was familiar to Triss now, but seeing it concentrated in this quantity was still impressive.
"Step into the pool," Angelus instructed, her massive form coiled near the chamber's entrance. "The liquid will respond to your presence and begin the transformation. It takes roughly an hour for the process to complete, but you'll lose consciousness partway through—a mercy, I'm told, as the physical changes are quite intense."
Triss nodded, her expression set with determination. She had already shed her outer robes, standing in simple undergarments at the pool's edge. Ciri and Yennefer flanked her, their presence a silent offer of support.
"No matter what happens," Yennefer said quietly, "you're still Triss. The scales don't change who you are inside."
"I know." Triss smiled—a genuine expression that reached her eyes. "That's what makes this easier. I'm not becoming someone else. I'm becoming more of who I already was."
She stepped into the pool.
The liquid rose to meet her, flowing up her legs and torso with an almost eager quality. Triss gasped at the sensation—not pain, but intense warmth that seemed to sink into her very bones. The glow intensified around her, crimson light reflecting off the chamber's walls.
"Relax," Enoch's voice came through the bond, his presence a steadying anchor. "I'm here with you. I can feel what you're feeling. You're not alone."
Triss closed her eyes, surrendering to the transformation.
The process took exactly as long as Angelus had said—one hour of changes that Triss would later describe as the most profound experience of her life. When she emerged from the pool, she was different.
Her skin retained its human appearance for the most part, but scales had emerged in patterns across her body—deep crimson scales that matched the color of fire magic, covering her shoulders, running down her spine, and forming elegant patterns on her forearms and calves. Her eyes had changed too—still their familiar golden-brown color, but with pupils that had become slightly slitted in the manner of all Wyrmborne.
"Fire variant," Angelus observed with obvious approval. "Appropriate, given your natural affinity. The scales will enhance your pyromancy considerably—you'll find your flames burning hotter and lasting longer than before, with significantly less effort required to maintain them."
Triss examined her hands, watching the light play across the scales that now adorned her wrists and fingers. "I can feel it," she said softly. "The fire inside me—it's always been there, but now it's... clearer. More accessible."
"The bond amplifies that," Enoch added, his massive head lowering to examine his partner with obvious affection. "What you feel, I feel. What I feel, you feel. Together, we're more than either of us could be alone."
Ciri stepped forward, wrapping Triss in a careful embrace. "Welcome to your new life, I suppose."
"It doesn't feel new." Triss returned the embrace, her newly scaled arms warm against Ciri's back. "It feels like I've finally arrived somewhere I was always meant to be."
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End of Chapter Twenty-Two