Ashes of Ambition
Editor's Note: The events of this story take place after the Dragon Slayer Quest
The sea was restless as Nyssarra guided her small boat across the dark water, the cliffs of Karamja long since vanished behind her. The air changed as she neared Crandor—less salt, more smoke. Not fresh, but old—bitter and dry, as if the island itself still exhaled the memory of dragonfire.
The ruined peak of the volcano rose like a broken fang above the charred coastline. Nyssarra set her jaw and rowed through the shallows, boots finding slick footing on blackened rock. Crandor, once a jewel of magical ambition, was now a skeleton of stone and silence.
She slung her bow over her shoulder and stepped into the ruins.
Crumbling stone walls still bore faint glyphs, etched by hands long dead. Most were worn smooth by time and wind, but her half-elven eyes caught snatches of meaning—wards, power conduits, fragments of binding circles. This island had once thrummed with magic.
And it had all burned.
Nyssarra knelt beside a scorched patch of ground. The soil here was different—loose, disturbed. Not recent, but not ancient either. Something had moved here. Something still moves here, she thought, eyes narrowing.
She pressed a crystal shard from her satchel to her temple, letting it sing quietly. Lirael, her mother, had taught her how to use such shards as conduits—echoes of memory, if the land was willing to speak.
A low hum resonated through her, the tone sour and heavy. Pain. Rage. Obsession. And beneath it, the faint, mechanical thrum of something unnatural—like a clockwork heart buried beneath stone.
Nyssarra stood. Whatever had been left behind on Crandor was not entirely dead.
By midmorning, the sky had begun to haze with volcanic ash. The sun was pale above her as she climbed a fractured staircase into what might once have been a mage’s spire. Vines choked the remains, but the floor was mostly intact. There, embedded in the basalt floor, was a metal hatch covered in runes.
She brushed ash from the center and the glyphs flared dimly—reactive, but weak. Whatever they had once guarded was long past its prime. With care, she pressed her palm to the metal.
It opened with a sigh like an old breath.
The stairway beneath was narrow and steep, descending into volcanic dark. Nyssarra lit a small crystal from her belt—its pale blue light casting shifting shadows along the walls. They were carved with depictions of dragons—not just Elvarg, but many—some majestic, others monstrous, all crowned with flames. And beneath them: mages, bowing. Worshipping. Controlling.
Hubris made stone.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into a chamber thick with heat and silence. The floor pulsed faintly. A magical engine still beat somewhere nearby.
At the center stood a figure—taller than any man, shaped like a knight in armor forged from volcanic glass and bronze. A construct, unmistakably. Its head was bowed, dormant.
Until she stepped closer.
Its eyes flared open—two points of molten light.
With a grinding hiss, it turned toward her.
Nyssarra sprang back, drawing her bow in one smooth motion. She notched a crystal-tipped arrow and held it steady.
The golem’s mouth opened—not to speak, but to release a burst of arcane energy that scorched the floor where she had stood.
She fired—her arrow striking its shoulder and bursting in a flash of ice and light. The golem staggered, but remained upright, molten eyes locked on her.
"Guardian protocol active," it intoned, voice hollow and metallic. "Intruder detected. Crandorian secrets are not yours."
“I’m not here for secrets,” Nyssarra said, backing toward a pillar. “I came to understand.”
"Understanding is not required. Leave… or be silenced."
It charged.
She rolled aside, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow of its fist. Arrows glanced off its outer plating—she’d need something stronger.
As she ducked behind a column, her hand brushed a glyph—still faintly humming. An idea sparked. If the construct was still linked to this chamber’s power, then perhaps she could overload it.
She reached into her pouch and pulled free one of her mother’s larger crystal shards. It was unstable—meant to channel raw elemental energy. Dangerous, if not deadly.
She whispered a binding word in Elven and slammed it into the glyph.
The chamber screamed.
The walls lit with ancient runes, circuits flaring to life. The golem staggered as if struck by thunder, limbs twitching, voice distorting.
“System integrity—corrupted—override—”
It took one step, then another—now toward the shard.
Nyssarra didn’t wait.
She ran, leaping across a cracked section of floor as molten stone hissed up behind her. She heard the golem collapse—whether permanently or not, she wasn’t certain—and made for the stairs, light flaring behind her as the energy core she’d disturbed began to tear itself apart.
She emerged above ground gasping, ash sticking to her skin. The volcano’s belly groaned, but did not erupt. Not yet.
The hatch sealed behind her on its own.
Later, Nyssarra sat on a half-collapsed wall near the shore, watching the sea foam along the black rocks. Her crystal hummed gently against her chest—calmer now. She’d buried the unstable shard deep in the ash, just in case.
Crandor had once dreamed of ruling dragons.
Now it was a graveyard of lost ambition and buried machines, and she had no wish to become one of its ghosts.
Still, part of her understood them—the mages who’d lived here. Not their cruelty, but their hunger. To tame wildness. To understand the unknowable. Seren had taught her to listen to what the world was saying.
Today, the world had screamed.
Nyssarra closed her eyes, letting the sea wind cool her face.
She would not forget what she had seen beneath the stone.