The Mining Expedition
Commander Vaelos - Third Person
The mine entrance gaped like a wound in the mountainside.
Commander Vaelos studied it from a distance, his copper scales catching the afternoon sun as he assessed the tactical situation. The scouts who had discovered this location three days ago had reported promising mineral deposits visible even from the surface—enough to warrant a full expedition.
"Formation?" Ser Brienne asked, her hand resting on Oathkeeper's hilt.
"Standard sweep pattern. We go in teams of four, maintain visual contact with at least one other team at all times, and fall back to rally points if we encounter anything unexpected." Vaelos glanced at the knight who had become an unexpected asset over the past weeks. "You and Ser Barristan will be with my command team. I want experienced fighters at the front."
Barristan nodded, his aged face showing nothing of the nervousness he might once have felt. His time among the Wyrmborne had changed him—not in any visible way, but in the quiet confidence that came from having found a cause worthy of his remaining years.
"What are we expecting to find?" Brienne asked.
"Standard ore deposits—iron, copper, maybe some gold if we're lucky. The geological surveys suggest this mountain range was formed by volcanic activity, which usually means good mineral concentrations." Vaelos paused. "But this is Conjunction territory. Standard expectations don't always apply."
They entered the mine in careful formation, the Dragonborn and Draconian forces moving in coordinated groups. The initial tunnels were clearly natural—carved by water over millennia rather than by intelligent hands—but as they pressed deeper, the character of the space began to change.
"Commander." One of the scouts had stopped ahead, her scales glinting in the light of the magical torches they carried. "You need to see this."
The chamber beyond the scout's position was enormous—a natural cavern that had been expanded and shaped by tools of incredible precision. Veins of metal ran through the walls: bronze, iron, steel in quantities that would have made any blacksmith weep with joy.
But that wasn't what had stopped the scout.
"Valyrian steel," Barristan breathed, his eyes fixed on the distinctive rippled pattern that covered an entire section of wall. "More than I've ever seen in one place."
"And that's not all." Vaelos moved to another section of the cavern, where a different metal gleamed with an inner light. "This is something I've only heard of in Lady Angelus's descriptions. Mithril."
The word hung in the air like a revelation.
"What's mithril?" Brienne asked.
"According to Lady Angelus, it's a metal from another world—one of the realms that likely merged during the Conjunction now that we found this. Lighter than silk, harder than dragon scales, and capable of holding magical enchantments that would burn out any other material." Vaelos ran a clawed finger along the vein, feeling the subtle hum of power within. "If this deposit is genuine, it's one of the most valuable discoveries in Wyrmborne history."
They continued deeper, cataloging deposits that seemed almost too good to be true. But their wonder transformed to horror when they found the bodies.
They were small—shorter than any human, with broad shoulders and thick limbs even in death. Their beards were long and elaborately braided, their hands calloused from centuries of work. And they were everywhere: dozens of corpses scattered through the tunnels, preserved by the cold, dry air in states of violent death.
"Dwarves," one of the older Dragonborn said quietly. "I heard legends about them when I was young. Before the conversion. Stories about master craftsmen who lived beneath mountains and forged weapons that could kill gods."
Vaelos examined one of the bodies. "These wounds weren't made by weapons. Something burned them. Whatever it was had enough power to melt through armor that's survived millennia of exposure."
"What could do that?"
GRRROOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR!!!
The answer came in the form of a roar that shook the mountain.
It emerged from the darkness of the deepest tunnel—a shape that Vaelos's mind struggled to process. Fire given form, shadow made solid, malevolence incarnate. Wings of flame spread from its back, and its eyes burned with the light of captured stars.
"Balrog," Brienne whispered, and the word carried the weight of nightmares.
The creature charged.
Vaelos - Third Person (continued)
The first minutes of the battle were pure chaos.
Vaelos's forces scattered instinctively, their training taking over even as their minds struggled to comprehend what they faced. The Balrog's whip—a lash of pure fire that seemed to exist in several places at once—cracked through the space where his command team had been standing moments before.
"Fall back to the main cavern!" Vaelos bellowed, his voice carrying over the creature's roar. "We need room to maneuver!"
They retreated in fighting order, covering each other's movements as the Balrog pursued. The narrow tunnels that had seemed like adequate workspace minutes before now felt like death traps—the creature's flames filled them completely, leaving no room for evasion.
Brienne distinguished herself immediately. When the Balrog's whip snaked toward a group of younger Draconians, she threw herself into its path, Oathkeeper raised. The Valyrian steel blade caught the fire-whip and held, somehow, the magical metal resisting destruction long enough for the others to escape.
The impact drove her to her knees, but she rose again without hesitation.
"The blade holds," she shouted. "Valyrian steel works against it!"
Barristan was at her side a moment later, his own sword—a lesser blade than Oathkeeper, but wielded with decades of skill—ready for whatever came next. The two knights formed a rear guard that bought precious seconds for the retreat.
They reached the main cavern and spread out, finally having room to fight on something approaching equal terms. The Balrog emerged from the tunnel behind them, its form seeming to expand as it entered the larger space.
"Coordinated attacks!" Vaelos ordered. "Rotation pattern—no one engages for more than ten seconds before cycling out. We're not going to overpower this thing; we need to wear it down."
What followed was a masterclass in disciplined combat against an overwhelming opponent.
The Wyrmborne forces attacked in waves, each team striking before falling back as the next team engaged. Their Chaos-Forged weapons bit into the Balrog's form in ways that conventional arms could not, leaving wounds that healed slowly rather than instantly.
Vaelos himself led several of the charges, his copper scales blackening from the heat but his determination never wavering. He learned the creature's patterns through painful experience: the wind-up before the whip-strike, the subtle shift of weight before a charge, the way its flames intensified when it prepared to breathe destruction.
Brienne fought like something out of legend. She had no special powers, no magical enhancements beyond the quality of her blade—but she had skill honed through years of being the best fighter in any room she entered. She found openings that shouldn't have existed, exploited weaknesses that the Balrog didn't know it had, and survived attacks that should have killed her through a combination of instinct and sheer determination.
Barristan was different but equally impressive. Where Brienne fought with explosive aggression, he fought with patience—reading the flow of battle, positioning himself where he could do the most good, protecting his allies when they overextended. He took wounds: a burn across his left arm, a gash on his thigh from rubble sent flying by the Balrog's thrashing. But he kept fighting, kept supporting, kept being exactly where he was needed.
"We're hurting it," one of the squad leaders reported. "The wounds aren't healing as fast as they were."
"But we're hurting worse," Vaelos replied grimly. He could see the toll the battle was taking: fighters down with burns, others exhausted from the intense exertion. They were winning the exchange rate, but they couldn't sustain this pace. "We need to change the dynamic. Someone get outside and contact Vaes Zaldri—tell them we need air support."
One of the faster Draconians sprinted for the mine entrance. The Balrog tried to intercept, but Brienne was there, Oathkeeper carving a wound across its reaching hand that made it roar with pain and fury.
"Fall back to the entrance!" Vaelos commanded. "We're taking this fight outside. More room, better escape routes, and we can bring our fliers into play."
The retreat was costly but controlled. Three Dragonborn carried wounded comrades, and two more covered their escape with a rearguard action that would be remembered in Wyrmborne histories. The Balrog followed, its rage building with every wound it accumulated, until finally they burst from the mine entrance into the fading daylight.
The Balrog emerged behind them, and for the first time they saw it in full sunlight.
It was smaller than the legends suggested—maybe four meters tall rather than the towering nightmares described in stories—and it lacked the armor that some tales mentioned. But it was still terrifying: a creature of fire and shadow that existed as an affront to the natural order.
"Hold positions!" Vaelos ordered. "Air support is coming!"
They spread out across the mountainside, using natural terrain features as cover while maintaining engagement distance. The Balrog, sensing that its prey was trying to escape, launched itself toward them with renewed fury.
Mikhail - Third Person
Mikhail felt the distress call through the Soul Link before the physical message arrived.
She had been resting in the gardens of Vaes Zaldri, enjoying the peace that came from knowing her position was secure, when the burst of alarm from Angelus snapped her to full alertness.
Mining expedition under attack, Angelus's mental voice conveyed, sharp with concern. A powerful creature—my contacts are confused, frightened. They're describing fire made solid, shadow given form.
Balrog, Mikhail replied, the word surfacing from knowledge that Angelus had shared with her. The corrupted spirits from the world of rings and dark lords.
Can you reach them?
Already moving.
Mikhail launched herself into the sky with a power that surprised even her. The bond with Angelus had grown stronger since the mental conversation where they had acknowledged their feelings for each other, and that connection translated to enhanced capabilities. She flew faster than she ever had before, her white form cutting through the air like a spear of ice.
The mountain range came into view within minutes. She could see the battle from a distance: flashes of fire, the movement of small figures, and at the center of it all, a creature that burned with hatred.
Mikhail didn't slow down.
ZOOM. CRAAAASH!
She crashed into the Balrog at full speed, her momentum driving both of them away from the Wyrmborne forces. The impact would have shattered a lesser creature, but the Balrog was made of sterner stuff—it recovered almost instantly, its whip snaking toward her throat.
Mikhail caught the whip in her jaws and bit.
Her Frostfire surged through her teeth and into the weapon. The fire portion burned; the frost portion froze. The competing energies tore the whip apart, dissipating the flames that had formed it.
The Balrog screamed.
GRROOOAAAAAH!
What followed was a battle between equals—or near-equals, at least. The Balrog had age and power; Mikhail had speed and adaptability. They clashed in the air and on the ground, fire meeting Frostfire, shadow wrestling with light.
Mikhail took wounds. The Balrog's claws carved furrows through her scales, and its flames seared her flesh in places where her natural resistance faltered. But she gave as good as she got, her own attacks leaving marks that the creature couldn't immediately heal.
"Now!" Commander Vaelos shouted from below. "All forces, concentrate fire!"
The Wyrmborne forces attacked in unison—every fighter who could still stand, every weapon that could still be lifted. The coordinated assault caught the Balrog at a moment when it was focused on Mikhail, and the combined damage overwhelmed its ability to regenerate.
Mikhail saw the opening and took it.
She dove at the Balrog from above, her jaws opening to release a concentrated blast of Frostfire directly into its chest. The creature tried to defend itself, but Brienne was there, Oathkeeper carving through its guard, and Barristan was there, his blade finding the gaps in its defense.
The Frostfire hit home.
The Balrog froze and burned simultaneously—its fire quenched by ice even as its shadow was illuminated by flame. It thrashed, roared, tried to regenerate, but the damage was too comprehensive, too fundamental.
With a final, terrible cry, the Balrog collapsed.
Evolution and Rewards
The victory was complete, but the aftermath demanded attention.
Mikhail landed beside the Balrog's corpse, her body trembling with a combination of exhaustion and something else—a building pressure that she recognized from Angelus's descriptions of evolution.
"The creature," she said, her mental voice strained. "It's not just a monster. It's a Maiar—a corrupted spirit from a higher order of being. If I consume it..."
"You'll evolve," Vaelos finished. "Like Lady Angelus did when she consumed the Lightning Kraken."
"Yes." Mikhail looked at the corpse, hunger warring with caution in her golden eyes. "But I should ask her first. This is significant—the kind of change that can't be undone."
Eat it, Angelus's mental voice cut through the hesitation. I'm watching through the Link. The Balrog is exactly what you need to advance—a Maiar-level entity with corrupted divine essence. Consume it, grow stronger, and join me at my level.
Mikhail didn't hesitate further.
She began to feed.
The Balrog's essence was unlike anything she had ever consumed—fire and shadow and ancient power compressed into a form that existed on multiple planes simultaneously. It burned as it went down, fought against being absorbed, tried to corrupt her from within.
But Mikhail was a creature of Frostfire, and her nature was specifically suited to neutralizing fire-based threats. The flame portion of her being absorbed the Balrog's fire; the frost portion quenched its shadow. The divine corruption tried to take root in her soul, but her connection to Angelus provided a anchor that held her true to herself.
The transformation began before she finished eating.
Her body convulsed, grew, changed. Her wyvern form—elegant but limited—began to expand and reshape. Wings broadened, limbs lengthened, and her neck extended into the serpentine grace that characterized true dragons.
When it was finished, Mikhail stood in her new form: a Western Dragon, similar to Angelus but distinct in her own way. Her body had transformed into something magnificent—white scales covered most of her form, pure as fresh snow, but her chest and torso were armored in scales of brilliant gold that gleamed like polished metal. Golden armor-like plating traced down her limbs and back, giving her the appearance of a dragon clad in divine regalia. Her wings had grown massive and powerful, their membranes a stunning icy blue that seemed to glow with inner light. Her claws and horns had turned to pure gold, and her eyes—still that familiar golden hue—now burned with a power that matched her mother-figure's.
"Incredible," Brienne breathed, staring up at the transformed creature.
"Lady Mikhail has achieved her fourth evolution," Vaelos reported, his voice carrying the proper respect for such an achievement. "The first of the original hatchlings to reach true dragon status."
Mikhail stretched her new form experimentally, marveling at the sensations. Everything felt different—bigger, more powerful, more right. She opened her jaws and released a test breath: Frostfire, but changed. The fire portion was significantly stronger now, augmented by the consumed Maiar's essence, while the frost portion remained as potent as ever.
How do you feel? Angelus asked through the Link.
Magnificent. But... unbalanced. Mikhail examined her new powers. The fire is stronger than the frost now. The Balrog's essence tipped the scales.
That can be corrected. You'll need to consume something of equal power with an ice affinity—perhaps one of the frost giants from the northern reaches, or an ice elemental of sufficient strength. But that's a concern for later. Angelus's mental voice carried unmistakable pride. For now, celebrate. You've earned this.
The return to Vaes Drakarys was triumphant.
The mining expedition had not only survived their encounter with a Balrog—a feat that would be remembered for generations—but had done so with zero casualties. Injuries, yes. Burns and broken bones and wounds that would take weeks to fully heal. But everyone who had entered those mines had come out alive, and they had killed a creature that legends said was unkillable.
They dragged the Balrog's corpse behind Mikhail as she flew, the massive form serving as undeniable proof of their victory. The Wyrmborne who saw them pass stopped whatever they were doing to stare, and by the time they reached the capital, word had spread throughout the city.
Angelus met them in the central courtyard, her massive crimson form radiating approval.
"You exceeded expectations," she said, her mental voice reaching everyone present. "Not just surviving, but winning decisively. Killing a Balrog with no casualties is an achievement that would have been considered impossible by any reasonable measure."
Geralt, Arya, and the Trio had gathered to witness the return. Their reactions to the Balrog's corpse ranged from professional assessment (Geralt) to fascinated horror (Arya) to magical analysis (Triss and Yennefer) to quiet satisfaction (Ciri).
"I recognize this creature from Angelus's descriptions," Yennefer said, her midnight scales rippling as she examined the corpse. "A corrupted Maiar—a fallen spirit of fire. In the world it came from, these things were considered almost unstoppable."
"Almost being the key word," Vaelos replied. "Superior tactics, coordinated assault, and a willingness to adapt overcame raw power."
"And air support at a critical moment." Angelus's attention shifted to Mikhail, who had landed nearby and was still adjusting to her new form. "Speaking of which—you've evolved magnificently. The fourth level suits you."
Mikhail inclined her head—a gesture that looked natural on her new dragon form. "I couldn't have done it without the foundation you gave me. This evolution is yours as much as mine."
"Don't undersell yourself. You faced a Balrog and won. That's not something I gave you—that's something you earned." Angelus turned her attention to the assembled forces. "All of you earned this victory. And all of you will be rewarded accordingly."
She began with general acknowledgments: commendations for every warrior who had participated, additional resources allocated to their units, and formal recognition that would be entered into Wyrmborne records. The expedition members received their rewards with the quiet pride of professionals who had done their jobs well.
Then Angelus addressed the exceptional performers individually.
"Commander Vaelos. You led your forces against an unprecedented threat and brought everyone home alive. That kind of leadership is rare and valuable." She extended one massive claw, and golden light gathered around it. "I'm granting you a personal blessing—an enhancement to your existing capabilities that will serve you well in future battles. Additionally, when the Volantis operation delivers the wyvern eggs we've been working toward, you'll have first choice among the hatchlings. Whether any of them bond with you will depend on their individual natures, but you'll have the opportunity."
Vaelos bowed deeply. "I'm honored, Lady Angelus. More than I can express."
"Mikhail. You've already received your reward—the evolution that consuming the Balrog triggered. But I want to acknowledge what you did beyond the physical transformation. You came when called, fought with everything you had, and tipped a battle that might otherwise have been lost. That's exactly what I need from those closest to me."
"I'll always come when you call," Mikhail replied simply. "Always."
Finally, Angelus turned to the two knights who had distinguished themselves beyond all expectations.
"Ser Brienne. Ser Barristan. You've been watching the Wyrmborne train, learning our methods, integrating into our forces. But today you proved that you belong among us—not as outsiders being tolerated, but as warriors who can stand beside our best and hold your own."
Brienne and Barristan exchanged glances, clearly uncertain what was coming.
"You've earned the conversions I offered when you first arrived. If you still want them, I'm prepared to grant them now."
The silence that followed was heavy with significance.
"I..." Brienne's voice caught. "I've been thinking about it. Watching what the transformation did for Yennefer, how it changed her without diminishing who she was. I want that. I want to be more than I am, in service of something greater than myself."
"And you, Ser Barristan?"
"I've served kings and pretenders. I've watched good men do terrible things and terrible men do good things by accident. For the first time in decades, I feel like I'm in the right place." Barristan straightened, the old knight's dignity fully intact. "Yes. I want the conversion."
"Then we'll do it properly. Come to the throne room tomorrow evening—bring anyone you want to witness the transformation. This will be a moment worth remembering."
The Conversions
Angelus - First Person
The throne room had been prepared for ceremony.
I sat in my true dragon form at the chamber's head, my massive body arranged with deliberate majesty. The Soul Link hummed with the presence of my harem—Ciri, Yennefer, Triss, and Mikhail (attending remotely through the bond)—all watching through my senses. Geralt and Arya stood among the witnesses.
Brienne and Barristan entered together, walking with the measured pace of warriors approaching something that would change them forever.
"You've made your decisions," I said, my mental voice filling the chamber. "But before we proceed, I want to be clear about what you're choosing. The conversion is permanent. It will change your bodies, your capabilities, and potentially your perspectives on the world. You'll gain power, but you'll also gain responsibilities—to me, the Wyrmborne, and to the vision we're building."
"I understand," Brienne said. Her voice was steady, but I could smell the nervous sweat beneath her armor.
"As do I," Barristan added.
"Then let's begin." I turned my attention to Brienne. "I've been observing you since you arrived. The way you fight, the way you think, the principles you hold. You're already exceptional—but you're limited by the body you were born with. I intend to remove those limitations."
The conversion pools had been prepared in the chamber's center—identical to the ones used for the Witcher transformations, but calibrated for different purposes. Brienne approached the one I indicated, her movements showing only the slightest hesitation.
"I'm recommending the Draconian conversion for you," I continued. "The form will be more compatible with your existing skills than the Dragonborn option."
"Isn't Dragonborn more martial?" Brienne asked. "The Dragonborn I've seen are all warriors."
"They are. But your fighting style is already exceptional—what you need isn't more raw power, it's enhanced speed, perception, and magical affinity. The Draconian form provides those. And I have... specific plans for how your conversion should proceed."
I had been thinking about this since I first assessed Brienne's potential. Her dedication, her skill, her unshakeable principles—they reminded me of someone from my metaknowledge. Someone who had become a legend in a world that this one had never heard of.
Artoria Pendragon. The King of Knights. The Once and Future King who had been a woman hiding behind a masculine facade. A warrior who had sacrificed everything for her kingdom and been betrayed by those she trusted most.
Brienne deserved that kind of legend. And I was going to give it to her.
"Enter the pool," I instructed. "The process will take several hours. You'll be unconscious for most of it—the transformations I'm planning are extensive."
Brienne removed her armor with methodical precision, handed Oathkeeper to Barristan for safekeeping, and stepped into the luminescent liquid without looking back.
The conversion began.
I poured power into the pool—not just the standard energies that created Draconians, but carefully shaped magic that would mold Brienne's new form according to my vision. Holy light, drawn from the pure part of my nature that I rarely discussed. Iron essence, harvested from the metals I had consumed over millennia. And something else—a template, a memory of what Artoria Pendragon had been in a world that existed only in stories.
Through the Soul Link, I felt my harem's reactions as they sensed what I was doing.
You're basing her transformation on someone from your metaknowledge, Ciri observed. Who?
A legendary warrior from a mythology that doesn't exist anywhere in the fused world. A woman who became a king, wielded a sword of divine providence, and led her people against impossible odds. I continued shaping the conversion, my focus never wavering. Brienne has that same potential. She just needs the right form to express it.
You're giving her the Holy element, Yennefer noted. Combined with Iron. A dual-element Draconian.
The third one I've created. The combination will make her into something unprecedented—a Paladin, in the terminology of some worlds. A warrior of light and steel.
The process continued through the night. When dawn came, the pool began to drain, and the figure that emerged was no longer Brienne of Tarth.
She was beautiful.
Not the awkward, self-conscious beauty of someone trying to fit into expectations that didn't suit them—but the confident, martial beauty of someone who had become exactly what she was meant to be. Her features had refined into an elegant symmetry, her blonde hair now styled with an intricate braid crowning her head while the rest flowed freely past her shoulders. Her eyes, when they opened, were a striking teal-green that seemed to hold both warmth and steel in equal measure.
And her scales—platinum, radiating with subtle holy light—covered her shoulders and arms in patterns that suggested armor even when she wore none.
"What..." Brienne—no, Artoria—looked at her hands with obvious shock. "What did you do to me?"
"I gave you the form you deserved," I replied. "The appearance is based on a legendary warrior from another world—a woman who became a king, led armies against darkness, and was remembered for millennia after her death. Her name was Artoria Pendragon. I thought it suited you."
"Artoria..." She tested the name, feeling how it sat on her tongue. "It sounds... right. More right than Brienne ever did."
"Your element is Holy-Iron—what I'm calling Radiant Iron. You have the protective light of divine warriors and the unyielding strength of forged steel. Combined with your existing skills, you'll be one of the most formidable fighters in the Wyrmborne."
I began explaining the legend I had based her transformation on—the story of King Arthur, the sword Excalibur, the Knights of the Round Table, the tragic fall of Camelot. Artoria listened with growing wonder, clearly recognizing parallels between the legendary king's life and her own.
"She was mocked for her appearance?" Artoria asked.
"In some versions of the legend. She was a woman pretending to be a man, hiding her true nature to lead her people. The deception eventually contributed to her downfall." I paused. "You were mocked too, weren't you? Called 'Brienne the Beauty' as an insult, dismissed because your body didn't match what people expected of a woman."
"Yes." The word carried decades of pain.
"Then consider your new appearance a reclamation. The mocking nickname becomes truth. Brienne the Beauty, indeed—but now the beauty is genuine, earned, and entirely your own."
Artoria was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled—a expression that transformed her new features into something radiant.
"I like that. Artoria Pendragon." She straightened, her bearing shifting into something more regal. "Yes. That's who I am now."
She's going to be magnificent, Triss observed through the Link. And absolutely gorgeous. Are you planning to add her to the harem?
Eventually, I admitted. But I won't rush it. She needs time to adjust to her new identity before I complicate things with romance.
Since when are you patient about these things? Yennefer teased.
Since I learned that some things are worth waiting for.
Servants brought clothing for Artoria—garments that I had prepared in advance, knowing what her new form would require. She emerged dressed in an elegant ensemble: a fitted blue dress with golden accents and trim, the bodice structured to accommodate both her feminine figure and the physical demands of a warrior. A white shawl with blue patterns and delicate fringe draped over her shoulders, softening the martial bearing that her posture naturally conveyed. The outfit was meant for daily wear, comfortable yet regal—the attire of someone who might be called to court or called to battle at a moment's notice.
"This suits you," I observed. "Elegant but practical. The colors complement your eyes."
Artoria examined herself, clearly still adjusting to seeing such a different person in the mirror. "I never thought I could wear something like this. Before, it would have looked ridiculous on me."
"Before, you were wearing the wrong body. Now you match yourself."
Barristan's conversion proceeded differently.
Where Artoria had received the Draconian transformation, Barristan would receive the Dragonborn form—more martial, more obviously powerful, suited to his role as a frontline warrior. And his element would be Sun-Iron: the holy light of protection combined with the metallic strength that had defined his fighting style.
"You've served kings your entire life," I said as he prepared to enter the pool. "Now you serve a dragon. The conversion will make that service literal—you'll carry part of my essence in your blood, bound by magic as well as oath."
"I accepted that when I asked for this," Barristan replied. "I've served honorably and I've served dishonorably, though I didn't always know the difference at the time. Serving you... I believe this is right. The first truly right choice I've made in decades."
"Then let's make it official."
The conversion was faster than Artoria's—Dragonborn transformations were less complex than Draconian ones—but no less dramatic. Barristan's aged body rebuilt itself according to the template I provided, becoming taller, stronger, and covered in scales of brilliant silver with golden accents.
When he emerged, he looked like a knight from legend: noble features, wise eyes, and wings of pure white that spread from his back like a promise of divine judgment.
"The wings," he said, flexing them experimentally. "I didn't expect wings."
"Dragonborn are sometimes born with wings. And on some occasions, they come with the Conversion process too. The wings are functional—you'll need to learn to use them, but once you do, you'll be capable of flight."
"Flight." Barristan laughed—a sound of genuine wonder. "I'm seventy years old, and I'm going to learn to fly."
"Your new body isn't seventy years old. The conversion reset much of the biological deterioration. You're not young, but you're not ancient either. Somewhere in between—experienced but vital."
"And my element?"
"Sun-Iron. The same holy light that Artoria received, combined with metallic essence. Your breath weapon will be molten light—capable of melting through armor or banishing undead with equal effectiveness."
Barristan tested his new form carefully, assessing its capabilities with a warrior's precision. "I feel stronger. Not just physically—mentally as well. Clearer and more focused."
"The conversion enhances cognitive function as well as physical capability. You'll find that your reaction time has improved, your tactical thinking has sharpened, and your emotional regulation is more stable." I paused. "Though your fundamental personality remains unchanged. You're still Barristan Selmy. Just... more."
"More is good." He turned to look at Artoria, who was still adjusting to her own new form. "We've both been remade, Lady... Artoria. How does it feel?"
"Strange," she admitted. "Wonderful, but strange. Like wearing armor that fits perfectly for the first time in your life."
"An apt description."
The forging came next.
I led both of them to my personal workshop—a space that few outside my inner circle had ever seen. The heat was intense, the magic palpable, and the materials waiting on the racks would have made any smith weep with envy.
"Chaos-Forged equipment," I explained, beginning to gather materials. "I'll craft weapons and armor that match your new capabilities. The equipment will bond with you, grow alongside you, and serve as an extension of your will."
Barristan described what he wanted: practical armor that prioritized mobility over raw protection, a sword designed for the precise, technical fighting style he had spent decades perfecting, and colors that honored his past while acknowledging his new nature. Silver and gold, primarily, with white accents that matched his new wings.
The forging took hours. I worked the Chaos-Metal with fire and magic, shaping it according to his specifications while infusing it with properties that would serve him well. The armor emerged first: a full plate design that was lighter than it had any right to be, with joints that allowed full range of motion. The sword followed: a longsword of perfect balance, its blade carrying patterns that shifted in the light.
"It's beautiful," Barristan said when I presented it. "Does it have a name?"
"That's for you to decide. Chaos-Forged weapons are named by their wielders—the bond is part of what makes them special."
He considered for a moment. "Dawn's Edge. For the light I now carry, and for the new beginning this represents."
"Then Dawn's Edge it is."
Artoria's equipment was more complex. I had already reforged Oathkeeper—transforming the Valyrian steel into Chaos-Metal that retained the sword's history while adding new capabilities. But she would also receive a shield and a lance, modeled after the legendary weapons of her namesake.
The shield emerged as a masterpiece: a tower design that could protect her entire body, its center dominated by a magnificent golden lion's face—proud, fierce, noble—surrounded by swirling silver edges that curved like stylized flames or wings. The craftsmanship was beyond anything this world had seen, every detail perfect.
The lance—Rhongomyniad, I called it in my mind—was something else entirely. It emerged from the forge not as metal but as something closer to crystallized light: pale blue-white, almost translucent, with an intricate lattice pattern of interwoven bands forming its base where it would be gripped. The shaft rose to a spiraling point that seemed to glow with holy radiance.
And the armor... the armor was a statement.
White and silver plate in the style of a lion knight, with a helm shaped like a roaring lion's head, complete with a flowing mane of white fur around the collar and shoulders. A dark cape hung from the pauldrons, providing dramatic contrast to the gleaming armor. When she put it on, she looked exactly like the king she had been named for—noble, powerful, and utterly commanding.
"The weapons are called Excalibur and Rhongomyniad in the legends I drew from," I said as she examined the equipment. "But again, the names are yours to choose. They'll answer to whatever you call them."
Artoria lifted the reforged sword—its hilt wrapped in blue leather with a golden pommel shaped like a lion's head, the blade gleaming with inner light—and held it up to catch the light. The Chaos-Forged metal seemed to glow from within, responding to her holy nature.
"Excalibur," she said softly. "That's what it should be called. To honor the legend, and to remind me of what I'm trying to become."
"And the lance?"
She considered the weapon, feeling its weight and balance. "Rhongomyniad. It feels right. Like it was always meant to be called that."
"Then you're equipped." I stepped back, examining both knights in their new armor, carrying their new weapons. "Artoria Pendragon, Radiant Iron Draconian. Barristan Selmy, Sun-Iron Dragonborn. Welcome to the Wyrmborne's elite."
They stood together—two legendary warriors remade for a new age—and the sight of them stirred something in even my ancient heart.
"Now," I said, a slight smile crossing my Dragonborn features. "Shall we see how that equipment performs? The training grounds are waiting."
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End of Chapter Twenty-Seven (Part 2)