The first thing he felt wasn't fear — it was the Insight.
A jolt of instinctive understanding slammed into him as the void around him fractured, colour bleeding through the cracks like ink spreading through water. The world knitted itself together in violent, shuddering pieces: jagged cliffs, grey stone, a sky bruised with storm clouds. Heat rolled over him in waves, carrying the iron-sharp tang of magic still settling into shape.
And then the presence hit him.
Massive. Ancient. Familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.
Avrae.
Jake didn't need to see the dragon to know he was there. The Insight whispered impressions straight into his mind — unstable, volatile, incomplete — the same warnings every shaping student dreaded. His creation was real now, fully manifested, and dangerously imperfect.
He forced himself to turn.
Avrae loomed only metres away, wings half‑unfurled, molten core pulsing like a second heart beneath his ribs. The dragon's gaze locked onto him with unsettling clarity, as if recognising him not by sight, but by something deeper — the thread of creation that bound them.
Jake's breath caught. He hadn't meant for this. He hadn't meant for any of it.
He swallowed hard. "W‑what's your name?"
The dragon rumbled, a sound like distant thunder rolling through the mountains. For a moment, Jake thought he wouldn't answer.
Then Avrae snapped his jaws shut and snorted. "Oh, relax, little person. If I wanted to eat you, you'd already be a memory."
Jake blinked. He definitely hadn't written dragons to talk like that.
Avrae tilted his head, studying him with unsettling curiosity. "Name. I have no name," Avrae said. "What is a name, little person?"
"I'm Jake."
"Jayk," the dragon repeated, mangling the syllables. "I feel… connected to you. As if I've known you longer than I've lived. But I have never seen another soul. These mountains are… lonely."
Jake's stomach twisted. He couldn't tell the truth — that he'd written this creature minutes ago in a panic.
"How about… Avrae?"
The dragon tasted the word. "Avray. I like it, little Jayk."
A faint warmth pulsed in Jake's chest — a thread of connection forming between them. Avrae's pupils narrowed, sensing it too.
Before he could speak, the sky tore open.
A burning yellow rift split the clouds, spilling creatures into the world — far more than Jake had ever written. More rifts followed.
He had only created three. The rest were someone else's work — and they were everywhere.
One creature lunged straight for him — a mass of claws and shadow.
Jake stumbled back, too slow.
Avrae moved first.
With a roar that shook the cliffs, the dragon slammed into the creature mid‑air. The impact sent both tumbling. When Avrae rose again, the shadow‑thing dissolved — but a long, ragged tear split his left wing, edges scorched and bleeding.
Jake's heart lurched. "Avrae—your wing!"
"A scratch," Avrae lied.
But the Soul‑Link pulsed, and Jake felt the truth: the injury burned like fire.
Something in the world shuddered — external shaping. Someone else was altering Brockwing Vale.
"Avrae," Jake said, "I need your help. Can you still fly?"
"Why don't we find out, little Jayk? Climb aboard."
Jake scrambled up his scales. Avrae shuddered. "Stop it! You're hurting me."
"Oh, stop whining."
Avrae stilled, then released a rough, breathy huff that might have been a laugh if it weren't edged with pain. "Worth a try."
And then they were airborne.
Wind tore at Jake's face. Blood sprayed from Avrae's wing. Jake felt a phantom echo of the pain in his own shoulder — faint but unmistakable.
"Not much longer," Jake muttered.
"None of that soppy nonsense," Avrae growled. "Or I drop you."
Despite everything, Jake smiled. He hadn't meant to create a companion. But Avrae felt like one.
The clouds parted, revealing a sprawling market village glowing with lantern‑light. Jake's breath caught. He had never written a village. He had never written any of these people.
This wasn't just Brockwing Vale anymore.
They landed on a tavern roof. Screams and chaos filled the air. Hooves thundered through the streets. A familiar figure rode at the front, howling with joy.
Violet.
Of course, it was Violet.
But then Jake saw him.
A tiny figure stood on the opposite rooftop, unmoving, watching. Pointed ears. Feathered cap. A silhouette Jake recognised instantly — and one that had no business being in Brockwing Vale.
Even Avrae gasped.
A cold shiver ran down Jake's spine. Someone else was writing.
Avrae shifted beneath him. "Little Jayk… I feel something. A power that stings."
Jake winced. He had shaped without care — rushed, panicked, desperate to finish before the exam ended. And now the consequences were everywhere. He couldn't know if he was the one hurting the dragon.
There was a sudden commotion. Below, villagers scattered as Violet reined in her horse. "Jake? Did you seriously make a dragon?!"
He opened his mouth to answer, but the figure tilted its head, studying him. Moonlight caught its eyes — bright, reflective, too knowing.
A trickster spirit. A wanderer between stories. A character he'd abandoned long before he learned shaping magic.
But here it stood, alive.
Avrae growled. "That creature watches you. Why?"
Jake didn't know. The figure raised a hand — not in greeting, but in warning. A ripple of energy brushed against Jake's senses. The Soul‑Link flared, Avrae's fear and Jake's own mingling.
The figure's voice drifted across the rooftops.
"Creator," it said, "your world is open. And others have noticed."
Jake's stomach dropped.
The rifts weren't random. The creatures weren't accidents. Someone — or many someones — were reaching into Brockwing Vale.
Avrae crouched low. "Say the word, Jayk. We fly, or we fight."
Jake stared at the figure, at the rifts, at the world he had dreamed of building for his family — now twisted, unstable, alive in ways he hadn't intended.
He wasn't strong enough for this. Not yet.
He had wanted to create a paradise.
Instead, he had created a battleground.
He drew a shaky breath. "Avrae… we need answers."
The dragon's grin was all teeth and fire. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."
Avrae shifted his weight, the tavern roof groaning beneath him. "But answers rarely sit still and wait to be found," he added, lowering his head so Jake could slide down. "And neither do the things that want you dead."
Jake landed awkwardly, knees buckling. The Soul‑Link pulsed again — pain, yes, but also anticipation. Avrae was hurting, but eager. Hungry for purpose.
Jake wished he felt the same. His hands shook as he steadied himself. He wasn't ready for this. He'd shaped Brockwing Vale for his family — a place of safety, wonder, peace. Not a battlefield. Not a playground for rival creators.
The trickster spirit watched him still, unmoving, unreadable. Its eyes glimmered with something Jake couldn't name — pity, maybe. Or warning.
"Creator," it said again, softer. "You opened the door. Now you must decide who walks through."
Avrae growled, wings flaring despite the pain. "Enough riddles. Speak plainly or be gone."
The spirit only smiled.
And then it stepped backwards off the roof — and vanished.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. The rifts flickered like dying stars, the air humming with leftover magic. Jake felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders — a responsibility he'd never asked for, but one he couldn't walk away from. Not now. Not with Brockwing Vale unravelling and other creators circling like vultures.
Avrae lowered his head beside him, voice rough. "Little Jayk… whatever comes next, we face it together."
Jake swallowed hard, nodding.
He hoped he was ready.
He wasn't.
But he would have to be.