"What the hell is that?! A dragon? Is Keltullis attacking us? I thought the Ferenc clan paid tribute to that beast!"
"You idiot—you're dumber than an elf! It's not Keltullis—it's a drake! But this isn't even their hunting season!"
The creature plummeted from the sky, its membranous wings spanning as wide as five horses lined up head to tail. Its body was cloaked in pale, snow-blended skin, covered in a dense layer of small, jagged scales. Its mouth gaped wide, a maw filled with uneven, dagger-like fangs, while its tail—nearly a third of its entire length—bristled with sharp, hand-long spines that sent a chill through anyone who saw them.
There were no eyes on its head. Whether it had adapted to life in the lightless depths or undergone some grotesque mutation, no one knew. But blindness didn't make it helpless—its senses were razor-sharp, effortlessly locking onto prey.
Fire tore through the snow as the massive beast landed. With a single sweep of its tail, it sent several charging dwarves flying. The jagged spines scraped through the exposed gaps in their armors, and in an instant, dark, almost black blood began to seep from the wounds.
The tail was poisonous.
A creature this massive, capable of flight, breathing fire, and laced with poison—this thing was a living engine of slaughter.
"Help... me..."
A dwarf, caught in the blast of the drake's earlier attack, crawled across the ground, one trembling hand reaching for his comrades.
But the others didn't move. Some even looked on with something close to satisfaction. That was unnatural—dwarves were known for their unity.
Only then did the truth become clear—the warriors bore the emblems of different clans.
The fallen dwarf's heart sank. His own kin were too far away—thirty paces at least. There was no way they could reach him in time.
Then—
The dwarf, who thought he was going to die, only noticed a gust of black wind pass by him.
"Neighhh!"
A warhorse, its amber eyes blazing with fierce intensity, charged forward with a speed and power no one had time to process.
"A... horse?" The downed dwarf thought he was hallucinating from fear. "On this terrain? At that speed? With that kind of force?"
Yet the impossible had happened. A single horse had rammed the drake mid-charge, sending the massive beast flying backward.
But the battle wasn't over. Midair, the drake twisted violently, its tail snapping forward like a whip.
[Swoosh!]
"That's a drake!" Geralt hissed from behind Lann. "The closest thing to a true dragon among all dragon-beasts!"
Geralt, a seasoned expert in monster lore, summed up the horror before them with chilling precision—it was the deadliest thing short of an actual dragon.
It was an apex predator unlike any other.
While most dragon-beasts relied on tough scales and brute force, the flying drake had evolved beyond them. It was larger, stronger, and faster. It could breathe fire, unleash sonic attacks, and its tail spines dripped with venom. A perfect, all-around killing machine.
Even a griffin could end up on its menu.
Lann grasped the sheer terror of these creatures far better than Geralt—because in another timeline, the School of the Viper had been all but destroyed in the years to come. Kolgrim had met a grim fate in White Orchard. Letho had spent years struggling in the South, barely keeping the remnants of his school together, until he and his last two brothers-in-arms, Auckes and Serrit, headed north in search of a better future.
That was when disaster struck.
They had run into a flying drake.
Despite their skill, the three witchers had been caught off guard. What should have been a routine hunt turned into a nightmare. The drake had driven Letho—the strongest among them—to the brink of death.
A single creature had nearly wiped out the entire Viper School.
Yes, it had been an ambush. Yes, the witchers hadn't been fully prepared. Their strength lay in careful planning, not in sudden encounters. But the fact that one drake had nearly erased an entire Witcher school spoke volumes about its power.
It was the undisputed king of dragon-beasts, second only to true dragons.
Had it not been for Geralt, who happened to be passing by at just the right moment, the Viper School might have been lost that day. Fighting alongside the last two Vipers, he had barely managed to bring the beast down.
That battle had forged an unbreakable bond between Geralt and the Vipers.
But now, the fate of the school has changed. Letho and the others were safe. And through an unexpected twist of fate, the Vipers and the White Wolf had still become battle-forged brothers, entrusting their backs to one another. There was no longer any need to worry about their survival.
What they needed to worry about now—was how to kill the flying drake standing right in front of them.
If Mahakam didn't already have a red dragon, this flying drake would be the region's uncontested ruler. Nothing would escape its lethal grasp.
Blackwind's charge was as devastating as a war chariot, an unstoppable force on the battlefield. But against a predator several times its size, that kind of impact barely made a difference.
The drake reeled from the surprise attack, sent hurtling backward at an unnatural speed. Yet even mid-air, its instincts and honed muscle memory kicked in—it flared its wings, stabilizing itself almost instantly.
At the same time, its venom-laced tail lashed out like a shadow slicing through the air, too fast to dodge.
A sickening tear echoed.
Even with a desperate attempt to evade, Blackwind's hind leg was slashed open, dark blood spilling out and turning black within moments. Fortunately, the mutations it had inherited from the witchers granted it strong resistance to toxins. Though its body wobbled from the venom, the sturdy steed refused to collapse.
Still, its mutated physique wasn't enough. Due to its species limitations, the Follower System rarely provided suitable quests for Blackwind's growth. In a battle of this scale, the horse's usefulness was already reaching its limit.
Unless it could truly learn signs like a witcher—or undergo a second, more powerful mutation.
…
Weakened by poison, Blackwind couldn't retreat in time. Meanwhile, the drake, having regained its balance, had now locked onto the steed.
Fueled by rage, it also noticed something else—this horse's flesh seemed far more tender than the iron-clad nuisances crawling on the ground.
Its jaws parted, revealing rows of razor-sharp fangs. Deep in its throat, a fiery glow flickered to life. The beast intended to roast Blackwind on the spot before devouring it.
But it had failed to notice one thing.
Not far away, a certain lion-eyed witcher had gone completely, murderously silent.
[Blink!]
A burst of golden light flared between the drake and its prey.
Lann materialized in front of Blackwind, his expression dark. Without hesitation, he raised one hand, forming a Sign.
[Aard Sign - Piercing Cold]
[Boom!]
"Grrrh!"
Blistering flames and a bone-chilling gale clashed in midair, colliding with brutal force. In an instant, the battlefield split into two extremes—one scorched by heat, the other frozen solid.
The nearby dwarves, who had been about to charge forward, immediately scattered, screaming. Some felt their armor searing against their flesh like a branding iron, while others recoiled as their skin threatened to freeze against their metal plating.
Lann's fury burned hotter than the dragon fire spewing toward him. He exhaled sharply, pouring even more magic into his left hand. The surge of frost overwhelmed the flames, engulfing the drake entirely in an icy storm.
Then his gaze flicked sideways, catching sight of several dwarves who hadn't managed to escape in time. If he kept channeling his power, they'd end up as lifelike ice sculptures.
"Tch!"
[Piercing Cold] is too restrictive in a chaotic fight.
Better to take his time dismantling this monster—and put on a little show for the dwarves while he was at it.
Lann let out a low breath and suddenly shifted his magic sign. The freezing winds vanished, replaced by a pure telekinetic shockwave.
No more holding back.
A thunderous force blasted through the battlefield. The drake was flung backward even faster than before, this time with no chance to recover. The dwarves who hadn't fled in time were sent rolling across the ground like scattered marbles. Even the distant Shaelmaars slowed their charge, wary of being caught in the sudden storm.
Round one was over.
Lann exhaled, lowering his left hand.
The moment he did, he felt a warm, familiar weight press against his back.
Blackwind.
The horse gazed at him with big, pitiful eyes, clearly seeking comfort. Lann let out a quiet sigh and reached down, gently stroking its wounded hind leg.
"Don't worry, I'll make it pay."
Lann flipped his left hand, pulling out a bottle of Superior Golden Oriole for detoxification and another of Superior Swallow for wound recovery. As he gently stroked Blackwind's neck, he guided the steed to drink.
"Geralt, take our men and hold off the Shaelmaars. Gabor, explain the situation to your kin—they need to focus on stopping the Shaelmaars. This drake is mine."
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