In The Eyes of Truth

Vaerith'kora soared over the jagged cliffs and emerald canopies of a world untouched by time, the wind whistling through his ancient, translucent wings. In this realm, the very air shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light, as though the fabric of existence itself pulsed with the echoes of forgotten songs. Yet, even amidst this breathtaking beauty, the dragon's heart carried the weight of a quest unfulfilled.
Vaerith'kora was no stranger to power. His fiery breath had turned empires to ash, and his claws had carved legends into the bones of mountains. But the victories of the past had long since faded into obscurity. Now, he wandered not in search of conquest but of something far more elusive. For in the solitude of his endless existence, he had come to understand that even the mightiest being could be hollow without the warmth of companionship.
As he glided over a tranquil valley, a faint hum resonated in his chest. It wasn't the call of prey or the stirrings of danger; it was something far more profound. It was the same hum he'd felt before, a whisper that crossed the veils of time and space, connecting him to another life. The echoes of his awakening rippled through his soul like distant thunder.
Vaerith'kora's thoughts turned inward, memories of his dreams surfacing like fragments of light in a shadowed sea. He recalled his time as a knight, the bonds he had forged, and the silent oath he had sworn to protect those who mattered.
These memories clashed with his reality as a dragon, a being revered and feared, yet fundamentally alone. How could he reconcile these lives? How could he bridge the chasm between his past and present selves?
The dragon's flight took him to a glade where a crystalline pool mirrored the heavens. The stillness of the place was sacred, and Vaerith'kora knelt by the water, his reflection flickering.
As he gazed into the pool, the hum within him grew stronger. He closed his eyes, letting the connection guide him. In his mind's eye, he saw Greg, young, uncertain, but awakening. The boy practiced movements that Vaerith'kora himself had once perfected, wielding a wooden stick as though it were a blade.
"Greg," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "You're awakening. I feel you. I see you."
But as quickly as the vision came, it shifted. A shadow crossed the pool's surface, and Vaerith'kora sensed something dark approaching. His instincts flared. There were forces stirring, entities drawn to the boy's nascent power. The dragon's golden eyes narrowed, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
The peace of the glade felt fragile now, as though the world itself trembled under the weight of what was to come. Vaerith'kora stood, his presence radiating an aura of quiet strength. He was no longer just a wanderer seeking connection; he was a guardian once more, bound by duty to ensure that his awakening would not face the coming storm alone.
But even as he steeled himself for what lay ahead, a flicker of hope stirred within him. For in Greg, he saw not just the echoes of resolve but the promise of a future where the dragon's search for meaning might finally reach its end.

With a final glance at the crystalline pool, Vaerith'kora shifted back into his true form, his wings unfurling with a majestic sweep. He took to the skies, the hum of connection still thrumming in his soul.
His journey was far from over. But for the first time in centuries, he felt a purpose beyond his own. Somewhere, across the infinite tapestry of worlds, Greg was waiting. And Vaerith'kora would ensure that when the time came, they would stand together against whatever fate had in store.
Greg sat in the back of the math classroom, staring blankly at the whiteboard, his eyes half-lidded. The soft hum of the overhead fan and the droning voice of Mr. Peterson, their math teacher, were like a lullaby. Greg tried to stay awake and he really did but sleep was a sly thief, and it wasn't long before his head dipped, his chin resting precariously on his palm.
Mr. Peterson, a wiry man with an uncanny knack for detecting inattention, noticed immediately. He stopped mid-equation, his chalk hovering over the board. The class sensed the shift in energy, and a few students exchanged knowing smirks.
"Greg," Mr. Peterson said sharply, but Greg didn't budge.
The teacher narrowed his eyes, a mischievous glint forming. He scanned his desk, his hand settling on a particularly well-worn eraser. Without hesitation, he lobbed it toward Greg's desk with surprising precision.
Time seemed to slow as the eraser flew through the air. Just as it was about to hit Greg squarely in the forehead, his hand shot up and caught it in mid-air. The class erupted into laughter and gasps, with a few students clapping in mock applause. Greg, blinking rapidly, stared at the eraser in his hand as if it had materialized from thin air.
"Ah, sorry, sir!" Greg stammered, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. "I, uh, was just… testing reflexes. You know, important skill and all that!"
Mr. Peterson pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation warring with amusement. "If only you'd use those reflexes to solve this equation," he said dryly, pointing to the board.
Greg gave an awkward laugh, glanced at the equation which is something about slopes and intercepts and muttered, "Uh… y equals… math?"
The class burst into laughter again, and Mr. Peterson shook his head with a rueful smile. "Sit down, Greg. Pay attention. And next time, just stay awake."
Greg slumped back into his chair, cheeks flushed, and resolved to focus… for about five minutes.
When Greg got home that afternoon, the memory of his classroom embarrassment still fresh, he didn't waste time dwelling on it. Dropping his bag by the door, he grabbed his trusty stick and headed to the small clearing in the backyard. The patch of dirt was uneven and dotted with weeds, but it had become his personal training ground.
His muscles burned as he practiced the drills he had begun to piece together from his dreams. Striking, dodging, weaving and it was all becoming muscle memory now. Sweat trickled down his face, but he didn't stop. The rhythmic movements felt as natural as breathing, like something his body had always known.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Greg was exhausted. He collapsed onto the grass, the stick still clutched in his hand. As he drifted off to sleep, the familiar sensation of being pulled into his dreams took over.
In his dream, Greg found himself in the knight's training hall again, the air thick with the scent of steel and aged wood. The blurred figure of his master stood before him, a blade in hand.
"You've begun to awaken," the knight said, his voice steady and commanding. "Now, you must learn to wield the power that comes with it."
Greg nodded, his dream-self already holding a sword. He didn't question how or why. This was the way dreams worked for him felt natural, yet surreal.
"Today, I will teach you a technique that will define your path," the knight continued. "Aura is not merely an extension of your strength. It is a force that responds to your intent, your will. To manipulate it is to command not just the sword, but the space around it."
The knight raised his blade, and a faint glow of blue energy enveloped the steel. The aura seemed to hum with life, shifting and flowing like a river. With a single, fluid motion, the knight slashed through the air, and the aura extended from the blade in a sweeping arc, slicing through the training dummies lined up across the hall.
Greg's eyes widened. "Whoa… I want to do that."
"You will," the knight said, lowering the sword. "But it will take discipline. Aura is not something you force. It is something you guide. Now, watch and imitate."
Greg spent what felt like hours under the knight's instruction, struggling to channel the faintest glimmer of aura into his sword. The technique was intricate, requiring him to balance his focus and intent perfectly. His initial attempts were clumsy, the aura sputtering and fading, but he kept at it.
Finally, as he swung his blade one last time, a faint trail of light followed the arc. It was small, unimpressive compared to his master's, but it was there.
"Good," the knight said. "You are beginning to understand. Remember this feeling. It will grow with you."
Greg woke with a start, his body buzzing with residual energy from the dream. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and smiling faintly. The technique was still fresh in his mind, as if it had been etched there.
"I'll get it," he muttered to himself. "One day, I'll master it."
With that, he rolled out of bed, ready to face another day, the echoes of the knight's words lingering in his mind.