—Judgment of the Guardian, Smile of the Shadow
The scale in Shawn's pocket radiated a biting chill—so fierce it scalded like dry ice against bare skin.
Neon light from National Guard surveillance drones flickered against the grime-streaked alley walls, painting their path in erratic flashes of crimson and electric blue.
The tang of ozone clung to everything—the residue of the tempest that had driven them from the dragon's grave, as if the thunder itself mourned its stolen heart.
He wasn't alone anymore.
Since the grave, Lindsay had stayed at his side, her presence steady as the winds behind them.
She was no longer an adversary—she was his partner now.
Pressed close to the damp brick wall, Lindsay broke the silence, her voice slicing through the tension.
"Gary already has the Lake Core. Which means—"
"The Wind Core's next," Shawn finished, fingers brushing the scale. It pulsed in response, sending a jolt of awareness through his nerves—not just direction, but warning.
The vision hit—sharp and sudden:
The observatory loomed from the mist like a shattered skull, its domed roof split open, metal ribs clawing at the sky.
Inside, silence reigned—no breeze, no life. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
At the chamber's heart, a single feather floated—spinning slowly in an unfelt current.
Beneath it, the faint blue glow of binding runes.
The Wind Core.
Then, above—something moved.
A shadow darted between rooftops, its motion defying biomechanics—serpentine fluidity paired with mechanical precision.
Lindsay's hand twitched toward her sidearm. "Quinn?"
"No," Shawn murmured, eyes tracking the blur. The scale vibrated against his thigh. "Something older."
The shadow paused.
For one breathless instant, its form caught the light—limbs too long, head tilted at a broken angle.
Then it vanished.
The scale thrummed louder.
Shawn stepped forward—and the stone floor sang beneath his boots.
He froze.
Etched into the ground was a massive seal: a triangle, sharp-edged and deliberate, enclosing a flawless circle.
And at the very center, a glyph—three tiny nodes, connected by fine lines into a Y-shaped structure. Like a circuit diagram… or a symbol of choice denied.
The lines pulsed faintly blue—alive, aware.
The same sigil from the dragon's memories.
Order Conclave's handiwork.
Lindsay's breath fogged in the sudden chill.
"This isn't just a hiding place." Her boot scuffed one of the glowing lines. "It's a cage."
The feather spasmed—once, twice—before the atmosphere erupted with a concussive blast.
Air slammed through the observatory like a shockwave.
The remaining glass in the dome exploded outward as pressure dropped.
Shawn's eardrums spiked with pain.
Debris turned lethal—wood splintered, metal twisted—and through it all, that damned feather remained untouched, suspended in the heart of the chaos.
Lindsay shouted something, but the wind devoured her voice.
The feather vanished.
In its place stood a figure forged from gale and static—slim, gaunt, its outline shimmering like a mirage.
The guardian of the Wind Core. Grace.
The scale in Shawn's pocket pulsed with a biting chill.
The dragon's memory surged:
—Not all guardians died when the Order Conclave came. Some slept. Some hid.—
—And some… changed.—
The figure tilted her head.
When she spoke, her voice was wind given form, laced with fury.
"Thief."
A blade of compressed air sliced past Shawn's throat. He barely dodged, rolling across shattered tiles as lightning sparked at his fingertips—but the guardian absorbed it completely, like dry sand swallowing rain.
Lindsay fired three rounds. The bullets passed straight through.
"It's not solid!" she yelled. "Shawn, what the hell is she?"
Grace's form flickered, briefly resolving into a face—her face, distorted by motion but unmistakable.
She locked eyes with Shawn, cold and unblinking, eyes swirling with stormlight.
"You were not bound by the Rite of Meta Origin," she said—soft, but each word cracked like thunder.
The air stilled—as if the very room paused to listen.
Every syllable twisted the wreckage—rusted beams groaned in protest, glass shards vibrated like clenched teeth.
Shawn didn't move. Not because she called him a thief, but because of what she said.
Rite of Meta Origin.
He'd heard the name before. Thought it was legend.
But now, it stood before him.
"We're not here to steal it!" Shawn shouted. "We're trying to stop the Conclave!"
Grace's form shimmered.
"Lies. The Conclave wore different masks, too."
Every syllable twisted the wreckage—rusted beams groaned in protest, glass shards vibrated like clenched teeth.
Lindsay grabbed Shawn's arm. "She's not just guarding the Core—she's judging us."
The scale throbbed again, heat building.
His gaze dropped to the glowing array beneath them. Realization struck like lightning:
The seal wasn't built to keep intruders out.
It was to keep her in.
"She's not protecting the Core," Shawn whispered. "She is the Core. Or what's left of it."
Grace's eyes narrowed. Her shape began to surge with fury.
"Then you understand nothing," she said.
"And that ignorance will end with your bones scattered to the sky."
Shawn dropped to his knees and slammed his palms against the array.
His Thunder Core surged—electricity raced through the ancient symbols.
The glyphs flared—
Lightning seared up his arms as the array shattered—his own energy, the dragon's scale, burning through its final purpose to sever the bindings.
The gale ceased.
Grace froze mid-lunge, flickering between vapor and flesh.
For one fragile moment, Shawn thought she might strike again.
Then she collapsed inward, condensing into a single feather.
It drifted into his waiting hand.
Silence.
Lindsay exhaled, lowering her weapon. "That shouldn't have worked."
Shawn stared at the feather, its edges pulsing with latent power.
"She recognized me."
The scale in his pocket hummed in quiet agreement.
They didn't see the drone until it was too late.
A sleek black recon unit slid from the shadows near the shattered dome, its lens whirring as it locked onto the feather in Shawn's hand.
No weapons. No voice. It didn't need either.
Lindsay swore. "Gary knows."
The message was unmistakable:We're watching.We're coming.
As they fled the observatory, Shawn caught movement in the alley below—
That same shadow from the rooftop.
Still as stone.
Too fluid. Too silent.
Watching.
Waiting.
And worst of all—smiling.
The scale turned ice-cold in his pocket—not in warning.
In recognition.