Siege stared at the familiar ceiling of Vault 17—flat, metallic, and riddled with pale fluorescent lights that hummed statically.
They hadn't changed. Neither had the stale, grimy air. It clung to him like wet gauze, pressing down on his chest as he blinked back the blur of memory.
He was alive.
That much, at least, was clear.
His eyes swept across the chamber. The reinforced room still looked more like a mausoleum than a supposed medical ward, save for the two guards watching him with barely concealed awe.
The taller of the two—lean, straight brown hair cascading to his shoulders—stood stiff as a blade, while the other, dark skinned and stockier, bore a jagged scar across his cheek and droopy eyes.
They looked at him the way one might look at a long-buried corpse clawing its way back from beneath stone.
"You... you actually did it," the scarred man whispered. His features, carved in suspicion, now bloomed with disbelief and something like joy.
"Protocol, you idiot. Get Sergeant Raul." The lean one's voice was sharp, cracking the spell. He spun on his heel, dragging the other with him.
As they left, they kept glancing back, as though Siege might turn to ash if they looked away.
He remained strapped down—coffin-bound by padded restraints, the metal bed as unforgiving as ever.
But something was different. Something inside. The world seemed clearer now. Not brighter, but more etched—as though reality itself had sharpened around the edges.
His fingertips tingled. His breath came easy but deep.
*Did I get bigger?*
The restraints certainly felt tighter. He flexed his fingers—stronger, steadier. The sensation of growth wasn't just in muscle or frame, but in essence. As though something ancient had been lit inside him, and was now quietly burning.
He shut his eyes, and for a brief moment, saw the cave again—saw the dragon Fafnir, eyes like twin suns watching him, not with hatred, but interest. The Trial had left marks. Some, perhaps, were meant to stay.
*Dad must've been worried sick.*
The thought steadied him. Even if he didn't know how long he'd been gone, Siege knew one thing: he'd made it. He had survived what most did not.
He was going to see his father again.
The steel door of Vault 17 shrieked open. Footsteps echoed—confident, unhurried.
A man entered, younger than Siege expected, no older than twenty-seven. He wore a tailored grey suit, crisp and clean despite the drabness around him. Twin silver bars gleamed on his breast pocket. But what caught Siege's attention were the man's eyes—calm and cold, yet reassuring.
"Sergeant Thaddeus Raul," the man introduced himself with a bow of the head, not without dignity. "Rank 2. Congratulations on surviving your Trial."
His tone was formal, but beneath it, something shimmered—curiosity, maybe even respect.
*Rank 2, huh? He's really Hero level?
Thaddeus continued.
"Not many make it out. More make it back... changed. But first, we'll need your full account for documentation purposes." He took up a pen, though his hand slightly trembled with eagerness.
Siege recounted it all. The hunt. The madness. The betrayal. The dragon. He didn't embellish—he didn't need to. As he spoke, Raul's eyes widened, his jaw gradually descending like a drawbridge giving way.
"A Titanic Aspect," he finally whispered, almost to himself. "A Goliath level dragon? And you slayed it?"
Siege shrugged. "Technically, I got really lucky though."
"Technically, my grandmother's ass." Raul muttered. "You—you fought it. Gods…"
Siege had a sinking feeling that his Trial was harder than most.
Sergeant Thaddeus coughed then recomposed himself with the mechanical grace of a man used to horrors.
"You've suffered much, and I won't insult you with shallow praise. But know this: the Oracle has spoken. You are now to be inducted into Anatheon."
The word tasted strange on the tongue, like old stone and burning oil.
"Anatheon is where gods are born... or broken," Raul continued. "Its halls were carved from the marrow of decades of struggle against corruption. There, you will be shaped into a weapon. A blade of principle forged to cut into the rot of the world."
Siege sighed.
"Sounds lovely."
Raul smirked. "You'll hate it."
More guards entered, their armor glistening like obsidian shells. With an akwardness born of unfamiliarity, they unfastened Siege from his bed.
The floor creaked under his weight as he stood. Taller. Broader. The world felt... smaller.
*So I did get taller.*
He wasted no time finding a mirror. The bathroom's cracked light flickered as he stepped inside, half-expecting the glass to reject his reflection. It didn't.
His ash grey hair remained, but his skin was paler now, cooler—ivory almost.. His eyes, once brown, now glowed faintly like molten copper.
Reptilian slits sliced through the irises. Around their corners, faint scales shimmered beneath the surface of his skin.
Even his smile looked different—sharper, less human. His canines had grown. Longer. Predatory.
He didn't mind. Not one bit.
---
Down in the reception level of the Ward, Siege sat in a chair comically too small for his frame. The seat groaned with his every movement.
Around him, the Ward's sterile design tried to fake comfort—beige walls, potted plants, cheap coffee machines humming in a corner. But nothing could fully disguise what this place was.
It was not a hospital.
It was a tomb for the unfinished.
Beneath the surface, the Ward stretched for dozens of stories. Hundreds of Vaults like his own were embedded into its veins, each sealed shut with layers of sigils, steel, and silence. Some housed failed ascenders—those who had taken the Trials and returned... wrong. Others, perhaps, hadn't returned at all.
The purpose of the Ward was not to keep things out.
It was to keep them in.
Siege shifted uncomfortably, aware of every fluorescent flicker, every buzz of the miscellaneous lights.
The door to the waiting room creaked.
"Siege?"
His father's voice cracked, choked with disbelief.
Siege turned.
There he was.
Calloused hands. Faded denim jacket. Eyes sunken with worry and nights without sleep. But smiling—oh gods, smiling.
He rose.
They stared at each other for a beat.
"You look... different."
"Thanks, Dad. You look like you haven't eaten in three days."
They embraced.
For the first time since slaying a dragon, Siege felt small again.
And safe.