And thus, the world held its breath.
Or so he... they thought so.
"Get up… get up… get up!"
The voice echoed like a whisper at first, distant and distorted, as though coming from the bottom of a deep chasm. But with each repetition, it grew louder—sharper—until it pierced through the veil of unconsciousness.
"Who wants to die this early in the morning…" Ascalon muttered, voice hoarse, cracked with fatigue and laced with annoyance. His tongue felt like ash, dry and heavy, and every breath he took tasted of burnt soil and smoldering wind.
"You're alive… Ahh! We're alive!" came the prince's voice, brimming with unfiltered joy and disbelief. "Thanks to all might for this miracle!"
The sheer force of emotion in the prince's tone jarred Ascalon from the haze clouding his thoughts. His eyelids fluttered, resisting the blinding onslaught of light that poured in the moment he tried to open them. "Why so much light… wait, Prince—!"
Reality crashed down on him like a tidal wave. That wasn't sunlight filtering through treetops. The trees were gone. All of them. The volcanic forest, once thick with twisted trunks and smoke-veiled canopies, had been reduced to nothing.
Ascalon's eyes snapped open, pupils contracting from the radiant burst of dawn that now reigned over the wasteland. He inhaled sharply, and the breath hit his lungs with a strange clarity—clean, untouched by the sulfuric venom that had plagued the volcanic lands. His chest rose. His muscles, though sore, responded. Pain lanced through his ribs, but even that was proof.
Proof that he was alive.
Alive.
A strange, almost foreign laugh tore from his throat. His body ached. His ears still rang. His vision wavered. And yet, all of it confirmed the impossible truth: He survived.
He pushed himself off the scorched earth with trembling arms and stood—unstable, but resolute. The land that sprawled before him was no longer recognizable. Once a domain of roaring lava and ancient trees, now it was a barren, charred basin—scorched flat like a battlefield abandoned by gods.
Morning had arrived. Somehow, the sun still rose.
"Ascalon… do you remember what happened?" The prince's voice surfaced again, this time softer, but tinged with urgency. He sounded like a man who had glimpsed the afterlife and needed someone—anyone—to confirm it wasn't a dream.
"The dragon… it swallowed us," Ascalon murmured, eyes drifting across the barren land as if trying to find proof of that monstrous maw. "And then… I used the suicide card."
He stared at his hands, fingers curling and uncurling. No burns. No wounds. Not even a scar. Just ash-stained skin and the overwhelming sense that something… had changed.
He blinked slowly, expression vacant. "Am I dead…? Alive…? Dead or alive…?"
The weight of the moment finally settled in when a cold breeze brushed against his skin.
His eyes dropped.
"Oh for the love of—"
He was naked.
Utterly.
The realization hit him like a slap across the face. not a thread of fabric left clinging to him. The prince's silence made it worse.
"You saw nothing," Ascalon grumbled.
"I—I SAW everything!" the prince gasped, half in horror, half in wheezing laughter. "Even your—wait, that's what I'm sharing a body with?"
"Oh shut up."
But even as they bickered, the undercurrent of truth remained:
They had defied death. Again.
The Crimson Dragon—obliterated.
The suicide card—used.
The body—unexplainably whole.
The question remained: Why?
Something shimmered in the daylight.
It was faint—barely noticeable amidst the layers of soot and ash that carpeted the ravaged ground—but Ascalon's eyes caught it. A glint. A sliver of gold reflecting against the rising sun's gentle rays. It wasn't far.
Still shielding his modesty with both hands, Ascalon staggered across the scorched terrain, stepping over cracked stone and molten debris, drawn toward the light like a moth to flame.
"Let's see what's here…" he muttered, crouching down. He used his fingers to brush away the grime, each movement slow and deliberate.
From beneath the dirt, a familiar object revealed itself—a small golden locket, circular and engraved with ancient etchings. Embedded at its center was a deep blue gem, now pulsing faintly with an inner glow.
"This locket…" Ascalon whispered, lifting it from the ground. His voice was wrapped in wonder. "I was wearing this the whole time. Prince… what is it?"
A moment of silence passed before the prince spoke, his tone gentle, almost reverent. "It's my royale locket—passed down through my family for generations. An heirloom of the Bloodline of Light. It contains the crest of my house, and something more…"
Before Ascalon could ask what that more might be, the prince's voice shifted—firm, commanding, tinged with ancient cadence.
"Ardentem Lux Regalis — Vestis Exsurge!"
The air vibrated. The locket glowed with a blinding brilliance.
White light burst outward from the gem, circling Ascalon in a spiral of luminous threads.
The armor shimmered under the ashen sky, pristine white like divine marble, unmarred by soot or flame. Elegant blue patches adorned the shoulders, knees, and gauntlets—markings of nobility, not just of house, but of spirit. Its design was ceremonial yet combat-ready, woven with enchantments only royalty could awaken.
His eyes, burning with resolve, were framed by the silver-like neck-guard that gleamed like the first dawn after a long night.
When the light finally dimmed, Ascalon landed gently back on the earth—no longer naked, no longer bare. The armor shimmered under the morning sun, regal yet battle-worn, pristine in its craftsmanship.
Ascalon stared at himself, stunned. "This is the armor… the one I was wearing the whole time?"
"Yes," the prince responded with pride. "This is the Royal Aegis."
Ascalon examined it further, running his hand along the engraved shoulder guards. "But where's the golden embroidery… and the cape?"
A soft sigh echoed in his mind. "Those were embellishments… ceremonial attachments to the armor. They must've been burned away in the explosion. But the core… the armor itself, remains intact."
Ascalon stood still for a long moment. "Did this armor… save us?"
"I don't know," the prince admitted. His voice now carried a hesitant uncertainty. "I only know that the armor answers to the spell. Nothing more. Its true limits… I was never taught."
Before another thought could form, something else caught Ascalon's eye. Another glint beneath the dirt—this one darker, more violent in color. It pulsed faintly, red and silver dancing beneath the surface.
"What's that?" he muttered, stepping toward it.
He knelt again and brushed away the ash, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from instinct. The texture, the energy—he already knew what it was. But he had to see it.
And when he did…
His breath caught in his throat. He held the object gently in both hands, raising it to the light. As the dust cleared from its intricate face, a surge of energy bolted through his spine.
His heart skipped.
His voice trembled.
"I-It's… a DRAGON CARD."
The words fell from his lips like a revelation. The prince didn't speak, but Ascalon could feel the spike in his emotions—excitement, awe, disbelief—all echoing through their shared consciousness.
The card's surface was etched with draconic sigils, and the image that shimmered upon it was unmistakable: a great crimson wyrm, its wings unfurled, eyes glowing like embers of a dying star. The Crimson Dragon.
What did it mean? Had the card absorbed the beast? Was this the price of the suicide spell—or its unintended reward?