Slyrak was dead. Davion had hunted the dreaded Eldwurm for years. He knew his nemesis' every move, his every tactic. He had lived that hunt. But now Slyrak was dead, and Davion was returning home a hero.

His armoured boots clanked on the cobblestone pathways. Inside his armour the sound of his breathing echoed, metal plates clanging against each other with every movement. Outside crowds were chanting his name, but he would not hear them. Davion had never been one for ceremony, and now even less so. There was a fire burning deep inside him. An raging essence willing to be let loose, to fly free.

He approached the royal throne, and descended upon one knee. Both hands on the hilt of his sword, he placed it firmly tip down in front of him, scratching the marble floor. Somewhere in front of him a liege rose from his throne and approached. He was saying something, but Davion would not hear. He contemplated his sword, so flat and bland and uninteresting. Now dragon forms, those were something of beauty and power. And nobody appreciated the forms of dragons the way Davion did.

'Now... what if I could wield a dragon wing?' Davion wondered...