Sir Dracks entered his quarters and closed the door behind him.

  The room was simple. Always had been. No trophies. No banners. Just stone, wood, and memory. He crossed to the far wall and pushed his bed aside, revealing a hidden hatch carved directly into the floor.

  He opened it.

  Warm golden light spilled upward.

  Sir Dracks descended into the chamber below, the air thick with ancient power. At the center of the room floated a golden orb, slowly rotating, etched with symbols older than language. It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.

  He reached out and held it.

  For one second.

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  That was all he allowed himself.

  Images flashed—other dragonborns. Fire. Water. Acid. Lightning. And then yellow. His kind. His people. Gone. Reduced to echoes and ash.

  He released the orb and stepped back, steadying himself.

  “I am the last,” he said quietly. Not with pride. With fact.

  Golden energy climbed his arms, coiling around him like living flame. He ascended back into the dojo, eyes burning—not with rage, but resolve.

  Sir Dracks placed both hands against the shattered stone.

  The dojo answered.

  Power surged outward, reconstructing walls, pillars, floors—ancient magic stitching history back together. Cracks sealed. Structures reformed. Not perfect. Never perfect. But standing.

  Lucky’s eyes widened. “Whoa…!”

  Fang smiled faintly. He’d seen this before.

  Sir Dracks stepped back, breathing heavier now. “It will hold.”

  Lucky clapped once. “That was AWESOME.”

  Sir Dracks didn’t respond.