“How do you prove you’ve utterly wiped out the Undead?”

That was a thorn in the road, a briar snagging the hem of reason.

There was no clean way to prove it, no seal or sigil to settle the dust.

No one knew what “utterly” meant in that claim, where the horizon of “complete” truly ended.

When Alicia and the others struck the Undead nest, they hadn’t packed recorders; no echoes, no crystal reels, only silence.

Only Alicia’s team had gone underground, into the stone throat and bone-dark tunnels; the Dragon King didn’t descend.

So every shard of proof lived in their minds, a lantern’s flame behind ribs—yet you can’t testify for yourself and expect the storm to bow.

Even if they did, the Dragonfolk wouldn’t be foolish enough to take it; their scales weren’t that soft.

In short, all that talk boiled down like tea leaves to one taste: they were teasing, needling Alicia’s group for sport.

The urge to fly up and plant a fist on that thick skull didn’t burn in the Ninety Nine Maiden alone; Ling’s knuckles ached like thunder too.

Ling rose, a spark ready to leap, but Alicia’s hand caught her sleeve like rain on a match; Ling settled back, sulking like a cat by a window.

She still measured the dragon who asked, eyes like knives cutting fog; she wanted a face for this tail-thorn.

One look, and her annoyance thinned like mist at dawn.

It wasn’t kindness blooming, nor pity for a tragic face.

She had seen that dragon: when she’d played the show-off and dropped from the sky like some blond uncle, a little Black Dragon had stood beside a larger one.

Yes.

The one heckling them now was that big dragon, the cliff-shadow at the hatchling’s side.

Back then, the big one had eaten the headwind to shield the small, got blown off like a leaf in a gale; the hatchling, ignorant, thought he’d held firm and never noticed his guardian vanish.

This visit and these barbs were likely about revenge, a pebble thrown back for being flung by the wind.

Ling didn’t know how he’d pinned her as the one who fell from the clouds, but who cares—clouds don’t answer stones.

Back to Alicia, the river-mind returning to the present shore.

“You’re saying you need proof we defeated the Undead, right?”

The big dragon didn’t nod; he shook his head like a bell, ringing denial.

“No, miss, you’re mistaken. It’s not ‘I’ who need proof, it’s ‘all Dragonfolk’—a whole mountain asking for a sign.”

Inside, his laughter curled like smoke from damp wood.

He trusted no one recorded battle; no mirrors of memory, no images caught in ice. Alicia would have nothing to show but words.

Her move to debate only fed his certainty—he’d win by making speech a mire, sticking her feet in muck.

He savored the scene already, her stumble replaying the moment he was blown away; embarrassment mirrored as if in a lake.

He couldn’t stop the Dragonfolk from joining the Mystic Realm, but pleasure’s a small fire—warm enough for one.

Alicia watched that unmasked glee, that grin like a fox under temple eaves, and her tongue went cold.

She disliked those who drape themselves in righteousness to bully, wolves wearing priestly robes.

“Arthas!”

Her anger rose like a red kite and snapped into a shout.

Arthas lay on Edmund’s back, eyes drifting like clouds, still and distant.

At Alicia’s call, she sprang down without a second thought, a slight whoosh cutting the heat.

“I’m here…”

She landed by Alicia, voice foggy with sleep, like a night river slow to wake.

Frostmourne on her back didn’t sleep; rough cloth wrapped the blade like burlap on a gravestone, yet the sword leaked a chill.

It breathed a faint omen, the cold of a cemetery at dawn, a death-scent curling like frost.

The Dragonfolk saw Arthas, and their eyes sharpened like spears lifting.

They’d thought Edmund carried a foul odor from the Undead nest, a stain like smoke on fur.

But here, in the daylight of their valley, stood an Undead, a winter among scales.

“All dragons, ready!”

The big dragon shouted first, a horn before the Dragon King, his voice cracking stone.

He held weight in the flock; the others shifted as one, stances locking like shields.

“Miss Alicia, what is this? You bring an Undead into our land—what game are you playing?”

“I…”

Alicia saw the ripple of alarm and moved to speak, a hand reaching into water.

The big dragon gave her no room; his words hammered like hail.

“Are you so narrow-minded? If you can’t win by counsel, you’ll force it by strength? How can we—”

“Shut up!!”

Alicia stopped holding back; her roar split the air like a lightning seam.

The big dragon choked on his own wind, excitement dying like a candle in rain.

Alicia rubbed her brow, weary as a traveler at dusk; she couldn’t fathom it—so many races joined the Mystic Realm like streams finding the sea, yet with Dragonfolk, every step met stone.

Patience is a cup with a rim.

Even spirits have limits; Alicia’s temper flared, a brazier kicked.

She had meant to give him the proof he wanted, a clear mirror; he sprayed spittle like a storm and left her no breath to speak.

Pressed under that clamor, how could she not burn?