Eruhaben

The air around him was thick with burning and the scent of ozone—the remnants of the magic the White Star's minions had just used. Cale Henitiou, breathing heavily, wiped the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand and looked around. The rubble of the warehouse in which they had trapped their enemies lay scattered all around.

"Are you alright, human?" Eruhaben stepped closer, his golden eyes scanning the space. The ancient dragon looked irritated: his immaculate attire was slightly rumpled, and a thin scratch graced his cheek.

"Alive," Cale said curtly, kicking a piece of broken board. "Those bastards were clearly guarding something. They wouldn't have defended an empty warehouse so desperately."

Eruhaben chuckled and headed toward the far corner, where something shimmered faintly beneath a pile of heavy canvas sheets. He waved his hand, and the fabric flew off with a hiss.

There stood a massive iron box, covered in complex mana suppression seals. Cale approached, feeling the Ancient Power stirring within him, warning him of danger.

“This...” Eruhaben’s voice, usually calm and mocking, suddenly became frighteningly quiet.

Cale peered inside. In the center of the box, on a soft black velvet cushion, lay an egg. It was the size of a human head, with a smooth, almost matte shell of a gray-blue color. Faint silver veins ran across its surface like veins, pulsing in time with someone's faint heartbeat.

“Dragon,” Cale breathed out.

Eruhaben slowly extended his hand, but didn't touch the shell, merely hovering a few centimeters away. His fingers trembled slightly.

"It's cold," the dragon whispered. "They were draining it of life to power their artifacts. Those madmen... they were trying to use the dragon's power as a battery."

Cale felt a cold, calculating rage boiling within him. He looked at the egg, looking so defenseless in this filthy, death-soaked place.

“We’re taking him,” Cale said without even asking.