[Writing Contest] Continue the Tale. Book 4. Chapter 2

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And so they charged—fire against steel, vengeance against guilt, a final reckoning written in smoke and fury.

The sky split open as Zhyvorn's roar shook the heavens, his descent a meteor of wrath. Ardan leapt from the spire as it crumbled beneath him, landing hard on scorched stone. The air screamed with heat as the dragon’s first breath scorched the ruins behind him, melting stone like wax.

Ardan rolled to his feet, cloak aflame, eyes locked on the titan hurtling toward him. He braced his blackened sword with both hands, whispering a name no one else could hear—one long buried beneath armor and silence.

Zhyvorn slammed into the earth, claws gouging trenches into the mountainside. The shockwave threw Ardan back, crashing through jagged rubble. Blood marked his brow, but he rose, staggering, defiant.

“You fight with fire,” Ardan growled, “but I have burned before.”

The knight surged forward, blade cleaving through a jet of flame. It glowed red, fed by old dragonblood still clinging to its edge, humming with stolen magic. He struck at the wing, forcing Zhyvorn to recoil, wings folding to shield his chest.

But Zhyvorn’s fury knew no wound. He lunged, jaws snapping shut just inches from Ardan’s head. The knight ducked and drove his sword deep into the dragon’s forelimb. Zhyvorn screamed, more in rage than pain, and hurled him across the battlefield with a sweep of his tail.

The mountain trembled with every strike, every cry, as storm and fire danced around them.

“You fight like her,” Ardan coughed, dragging himself from a crater, “but you’re not her.”

“No,” Zhyvorn hissed, voice cold as a tomb. “I am worse.”

And from his throat, a flame darker than night erupted—black fire, deathfire, the breath of true vengeance.

Ardan had one chance. He raised his sword high and charged again—not to win, but to end.

The next clash would decide not just life or death—but whether legacy was forged by blood… or redeemed by it.