When Judgment Learned to Kneel

I was not fully awake.

That was the mercy of it, if mercy can be used for something so fucking obscene.

Consciousness came in fragments. A voice here. A touch there. Light bleeding through sealed glass. The taste of alchemical fluid in my mouth and lungs. The distant hum of machinery I did not recognize, woven through with divine spellwork and the cold arithmetic of mages who had learned to call cruelty research.

I floated somewhere between dream and violation.

Voices moved around me.

Council members. Healers. Artificers. Bahamut.

“The vat is completely sealed,” someone said, smug enough that I wanted to tear his tongue out. “The council refreshes the blessing once every hour. The ichor is being expunged from his body and funneled into the containment vessels. Its power remains massive, but Abjuration Master Korokanas and Livella are maintaining suppression so you and the others may continue analysis.”

Ichor.

They meant my blood.

No. Not blood. Something deeper. The gray-black force they had named Miasma because naming a thing makes stealing it feel scholarly.

I knew then why I felt weak.

They were draining me.

Bahamut’s voice followed, calm and near enough to burn.

“Keep him sedated. Maintain the enfeeblement. I do not want him waking and thrashing about. He believes that power is his alone. I saw it in his eyes.”

Because it is mine, you sanctimonious bastard.

The words did not reach my mouth. Nothing did. My body hung limp in the vat, pinned by spellwork, drowned in healing fluid, softened by sedation until even rage had to crawl through me on broken knees.

Another voice asked, “How long do you want this to continue, sir? It has already been two years since the arena incident.”

Two years.

I had been under for two fucking years.

And everyone was fine with it.

The thought should have shattered the stupor, but the spells held me down. I drifted, furious and helpless, while the room blurred around me.

Then I heard her.

Not in the chamber.

In me.

Tamara’s voice slipped through the dark like a knife finding an old wound.

I told you that you would regret this.

My body jerked inside the vat.

Fluid surged around me. Runes flared. Someone swore.

Bahamut stepped closer. I felt his presence, vast and radiant and maddeningly controlled.

“I said keep him sedated. Gods damn you all.” His voice hardened. “I will keep him under until every last drop of the First Dragon’s Miasma has been extracted from this successful vessel. Then we will return him to the world as he was meant to be. A martyr, if necessary. A symbol of justice, if he can endure it.”

Successful vessel.

That was what I had become.

Not son.

Not god.

Not even Lendys.

A vessel.

They plunged me deeper after that.

Sleep swallowed me, but it was not peaceful. It was an endless, engineered dream where centuries passed in brief moments of half-waking. Sometimes I heard the click of containers being sealed. Sometimes I felt needles withdrawing from my spine, my ribs, my heart. Sometimes Bahamut spoke over me like a priest at an altar, explaining containment failures, purification thresholds, residual divine response.

The extraction grew more efficient.

Of course it did.

Give a room full of clever monsters enough time, and they will improve the knife.

Their calculations were flawed, but accurate enough for their purpose. By the time they finally allowed me to wake, only a sliver of Miasma remained inside me.

My body had become a temple of radiant holy energy.

The feeling was familiar and foreign at once. I had carried holy force before. I had shaped judgment from light and law, raised verdicts that could split armies and drag tyrants to their knees. But this was different. Cleaner. Thinner. Obedient in a way that made my skin crawl.

My eyes had reverted to the sky-blue hue they wore before the blackness first manifested.

My muscles had wasted down to almost nothing.

When the vat opened, I slid out like something born wrong.

I tried to stand.

My legs folded.

Hands caught me before I struck the floor. The chamber stank of metal, sanctified fluid, and restrained power. Strange machines surrounded me—glass columns, rune-scribed funnels, celestial coils, containment engines, devices too new for the old palace and too cold for any true healing hall.

I coughed liquid from my lungs.

It came out silver-white, streaked with black.

“How long?” I rasped.

The dragon holding me went still.

That was when I recognized him.

Otigen.

My old teacher in this new life. The patient bastard who had instructed me when I was young enough, or pretending to be young enough, for others to believe Bahamut’s lie.

His face carried too much sorrow.

“Five hundred and twenty-four years,” he said quietly. “Since you entered the healing chamber.”

Healing chamber.

Even half-drowned and hollowed out, I looked around.

This was not a healing chamber.

This was a sacred syringe.

A room built to make me weak and turn what was stolen from me into something Bahamut could study, catalogue, and hide behind words like necessity.

“Take me to my room, Otigen.”

I did not ask.

He understood.

“Yes, sir.”

There was pity in his voice, but also restraint. He knew better than to offer comfort where rage was the only thing keeping me upright.

The teleportation spell folded around us.

A breath later, we stood beside the bed in my old room.

Darkness swallowed the chamber. Not gentle darkness. Neglect. The room had been abandoned so completely that dust layered the furniture like burial ash. No servants. No fresh linens. No sign anyone had remembered I existed except as a thing suspended in glass.

Otigen flicked his wrist.

Lights warmed to life.

A second spell swept through the room, cleaning dust from stone, bed, shelf, and floor in a single glittering wave.

“I will leave you to gather yourself,” he said. “I would tell you to rest, but we both know you will ignore that. So I will say this instead. Bahamut returns from the Faerûnian Council of prime deities within a month. By then, you are expected to stand before him on your own and greet your father.”

My jaw tightened.

Father.

“If you need help preparing,” Otigen continued, “you may call on me. But I will not lift a hand unless you ask. I know how stubborn you are.”

He let me hobble to the bed.

I collapsed onto it without dignity.

“Thank you, Otigen,” I said, though the words felt scraped raw. “The only thing I ask is this: do not let a single soul enter this room until Bahamut arrives. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

He nodded.

“Very well.”

The door closed behind him, and magic sealed the chamber.

For a little while, I let myself wallow.

Not long.

Self-pity is a room with no exits if you stay past mourning.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I forced myself upright before my body was ready. The air of the palace was saturated with celestial energy, thick with prayers, divine residue, and centuries of power soaked into crystal and stone. Most dragons in Bahamut’s court had forgotten how to drink from it directly. They relied on blessing, spell-form, ritual, patronage.

I was older than all of that.

So I breathed.

I pulled power from the air.

Slowly at first. Then with more precision. Healing muscle, bone, tissue. Teaching my body to remember itself. Rebuilding what five centuries of sedation had stolen. I meditated until sweat slicked my skin and holy force shook through the walls. I trained until my hands stopped trembling. Until I could stand. Until I could walk. Until I could strike.

And beneath all of it, hidden under radiant obedience, I reached for the sliver of Miasma left inside me.

Small.

Faint.

But mine.

They had not taken everything.

That would be their mistake.

A few weeks later, Otigen knocked gently.

I came out of meditation soaked in sweat, shirt pooled at my waist, chest heaving from the effort of dragging a ruined body back toward war.

“Enter.”

He stepped inside and froze.

For once, Otigen looked genuinely stunned.

“Otigen,” I said, wiping sweat from my chest with the discarded shirt, “I assume Bahamut has arrived?”

His mouth remained slightly open before he remembered himself.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am simply… impressed. You were skin and bone weeks ago. What devil did you conjure to regain your prowess?”

I laughed.

A real laugh.

It surprised us both.

I slapped him on the back as I passed and summoned fresh clothes around myself—dark fabric, fitted cleanly, enough dignity to cover the lie that I was still held together by spite and stolen light.

“No devils,” I said. “Just perseverance and dedication to returning to service.”

Otigen’s expression flickered.

He did not believe me.

Good.

He guided me through the palace, keeping one step ahead like protocol required, though I could feel him watching from the corner of his eye. We entered the throne chamber where the divide between dragons and gods had already been marked. The council lined the dais. Consorts waited like polished blades. Champions stood among the gathered flights.

When I entered, every head turned.

Surprise moved through them like wind through dry grass.

Even Bahamut’s golden consorts failed to hide it. Fear hid beneath their shock, and that pleased some unkind part of me more than it should have.

I took my place beside Garyx.

The Burning Verdict did not turn his head.

“So glad for you to join us again, wyrmling,” he rumbled.

Hot air spilled from his mouth, sour with smoke and insult. Typical Garyx. Yet beneath the jeer, I heard something else.

Relief.

Odd, coming from him.

“Did you miss me so badly,” I said, “that wyrmling is the only insult you could manage?”

Garyx stared forward, trying very hard to look like a proper draconic god and not a creature who enjoyed brawling more than breathing.

“As much as I play at your expense, Lendys,” he said, quieter than usual, “I do not wish harm to anyone in this chamber. We all have a duty to uphold.”

For a moment, sincerity sat between us.

Then he ruined it.

“Besides, I still intend to fight you one day with nothing held back.”

I rolled my eyes.

Selfish bastard.

Still, warmth settled briefly in my chest. Simple dragons like Garyx were either a curse or blessing, depending on the age. At least he was honest about what he wanted.

Then Bahamut entered.

The chamber settled.

He walked to the throne and sat above us all, platinum light gathering around him like a crown pretending not to be one.

“My kin,” he began, voice carrying through the hall, “I bring good tidings. The Faerûnian Council has agreed to incorporate me into their fold. With this change comes a new direction for all who have served here.”

A murmur started at the edges.

Bahamut continued.

“The draconic castle will remain. But most flights will be relieved of duty. Those who wish may pass into the afterlife, or begin rebirth upon Faerûn and live among mortals once again.”

The murmur became a storm.

Dragons argued. Some shouted. Others wept. A few began pleading before anyone had even told them what hope was left.

Bahamut stood.

Magic amplified his voice until it struck the chamber like a bell.

“Quiet.”

The hall obeyed.

“Each god seated here will be permitted to retain a flight of dragons for their service. Exceptions will be made for Lendys, and for the two absent draconic goddesses, Kereska and Tamara.”

The room erupted again.

Not argument this time.

Panic.

Dragons called to patrons. Pleaded to gods. Bargained with names, service, deeds, old loyalty. Hope had been dangled before them and then rationed like wartime grain.

I heard almost none of it.

Why was I excluded?

What, exactly, was I now?

Bahamut raised one hand.

Silence fell again.

“We will conduct a tournament in the Flight Ward. All who wish to be considered will be battle-tested. Afterward, the council will name their chosen flights.”

That changed the sound in the room immediately.

Cheers rang out.

Dragons loved combat, even when their futures were being decided by it. Perhaps especially then. Wagers were already forming. Rivalries waking. Desperation sharpening into excitement.

Bahamut dismissed everyone except the council and his consorts.

I stood still until the last dragon left and the great doors closed.

Then I looked at him.

“Why am I not allowed a flight of followers, Bahamut?”

He lifted one hand, as if I should wait.

Garyx spoke before he could.

“He is back in power. He is equal to us, even if he is the youngest. Why is he being treated like this?”

Bahamut’s eyes snapped to him.

A small bubble of silence formed over Garyx’s mouth.

The ruby god’s expression became murderous.

Bahamut turned back to me.

“He has no followers,” he said to the council, though his eyes remained on mine. “And because of how I brought him into this world, the Faerûnian gods do not recognize him as fully divine.”

The words struck harder than I expected.

Not a god.

Me.

Even if they did not know I was the original Lendys returned, I held power equal to most of them. More than some. I had bled for dragonkind before these new divine arrangements had language.

“You cannot be serious,” I said. “How am I—”

“You will be granted status equivalent to a demigod within the new Faerûnian order,” Bahamut interrupted. “You will still perform duties. But you must expand your number of believers and establish yourself, as we did before the Sundering.”

As we did.

I almost laughed in his face.

I remembered that time. Bahamut called it gathering believers, but that was too clean a phrase. He had healed them during cataclysm and war, had appeared bright and merciful when mortals were desperate enough to worship any hand that pulled them from fire. They flocked to him like starving beggars to a bread stall giving away scraps at dusk.

Was he good for them?

Yes.

Was it as noble as he remembered?

No.

Memory is flattering to gods who survive long enough to tell the story.

The rest of the council said nothing.

No surprise there. Before the arena incident, some of them had enjoyed my company. After seeing what my power could do, their caution had fermented into fear. Perhaps the old stories of the previous Lendys had given them enough imagination to hesitate before putting followers, authority, or military power into my hands.

Bahamut moved to the next matter as if stripping me down in front of them was merely administrative.

“Regarding Lendys,” he said, “you are to remain off duty for now. I was given permission to allow you to roam Faerûn, but you are forbidden to use your powers except in self-defense, and even that has limits.”

He rose from the throne and descended the dais.

A sigil formed beneath his fingers. Before I could step back, he pressed it into the center of my chest.

Pain flashed once.

The mark vanished into my skin.

“This will allow you to remain on Faerûn without upsetting the balance,” he said. “You are to relax, recuperate, and return here when called.”

He paused, searching my face.

“Do you understand, Lendys?”

I wanted to nod.

I wanted this farce over.

But one question pressed too hard to ignore.

“Why am I allowed to roam Faerûn,” I asked, “but not remain here and participate in the arenas until the flights are decided?”

Astilabor answered.

Not Bahamut.

“Because you are dangerous, Lendys.”

Her voice was flat, but not cruel.

“I do not know everything Bahamut did, but you have been absent for five hundred years. What we saw in that arena had the makings of even our deaths. Do not mistake this decision as light. Aside from Garyx, who argued for you to stay with us, the council wanted your ending.”

My ending.

They wanted me dead.

The chamber seemed to narrow.

“Then why am I still alive, Astil—”

Her lips pressed together.

Bahamut snapped a command to one of his little birds, and silence closed over her mouth before she could finish whatever truth she had nearly given me.

Then he placed a hand on my shoulder.

Consolation.

As if touch could soften treachery.

“Because you are my son,” he said. “And because I removed that power from you while you were under. It has been taken and sealed in the deep recesses of the Astral void, where only three gods know its resting place.”

He looked concerned.

Maybe he even was.

But pity from a jailer still smells like a locked door.

I could feel the truth humming faintly beneath his lie.

The Miasma was not in the Astral void.

Not all of it.

Something called from within his wing of the palace, weak but unmistakable. Suppressed, hidden, buried under wards.

But not gone.

“When am I allowed to leave, sir?” I asked.

There it was.

A modicum of respect.

A thin veil over the hatred underneath.

Bahamut’s face softened. “You may leave now, if you wish. Though I would hope you remain for the rest of the meeting. We have a few more matters to discuss as the last draconic council.”

I shook my head.

Then I bowed slightly to them all.

“I am unwelcome here. Too dangerous to follow. Too dangerous to remain. Too dangerous, it seems, to exist comfortably among you. I think it best I leave now.”

Bahamut wore sadness well.

I hated him for that too.

I turned and pushed through the double doors.

Dragons still waited beyond them, clustered in anxious knots, already trying to curry favor before the tournament began. Some moved toward me out of habit, perhaps hoping to flatter the god who had just been publicly denied the right to keep them.

I shoved through them.

A few stumbled back.

“Fuck off,” I snapped.

They parted.

I walked at a steady, furious pace toward the gate.

The mark on my chest warmed as I pressed my hand to the sigil granting passage. Light gathered around me, too bright, too clean, too much like absolution.

Then it swallowed me.

Faerûn opened beneath my feet.

I breathed mortal air again.

I was back.