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It takes ten years for the Crystal to hatch.
No one is there to bear witness. The Crystal has been kept safely tucked deep in a crag of a wing-like peak of Angelgard, watched over from afar by the remnant of the Glaives.
(Later, people will come to the island to marvel over the cracked husk of the Crystal, broken open like a geode, with dark splatters of blood to mute its shine and bits of iridescent scales stuck in the cracks between sharp, rocky edges.)
No, no one sees the hatching. But when the dragon inside soars above the island, powerful wingbeats whipping away Scourge-tainted clouds to reveal a patch of starlight in the sky beyond—
When it spreads its massive wings wide, its form silhouetted against the silver of the unveiled full moon—
People see that, and they never forget it.
The dragon flies towards Hammerhead.
It leaves a path clear of daemons in its wake. Sharp talons tear through the armor of Iron Giants like they're made of aluminum foil; massive jaws snap to destroy not-quite-humanoid figures that lurk in the night. A sweep of its tail, as long as a train car, destroys lesser fiends with a whip-snap.
The creature is the night breeze; the crisp, clear midnight of a world where the sun sets and rises. Pure black scales like a coat of obsidian chainmail flash in moonlight of its own making as it swoops and dives to clean the Scourge from the lands below.
Talcott Hester is rattling down the highway in an old pickup truck when he sees the shadow overhead, majestic in the sky. He steps out of his truck to gape at the trail of stars in the great beast's wake, like the cloud trails that the jet planes of his childhood would leave in the air. The slice of starry night lingers until the miasma seeps back to reclaim the sky.
He calls Ignis with shaking fingers.
All the glassware still left in Takka's dinner shakes when the dragon alights outside, powerful wings whipping up gravel and dirt as it lands, folds its wings, and sits to wait.
Gladio and Prompto are struck dumb at the sight. Ignis, having none, is not.
"Noctis?" he calls, tilting his head upwards towards.
The dragon lowers its head, lays upon the ground, and opens a repitllian eye that shines white like the moon, its pupil a sliver of familiar crystal-blue.
Ignis inches forwards, lays a hand on the massive snout. "Noctis," he repeats.
The dragon makes a low, mournful noise, and Ignis rests his head against the scales, soft like fine leather, yet steel beneath.
“We wanted to see you one last time,” he says. “But not like this.”
Prompto takes to chatting at the dragon as they make their way towards the city.
At first, he's not certain how much the creature understands. But when he's finally stopped shaking enough to fall into his old, cheerful narration, and he makes an actual joke, the dragon snorts, smoke curling from its nostrils.
And Prompto allows himself to believe Noctis is really still in there. Somewhere.
The battle for Insomnia is fierce. They’re almost grateful that the city already lies in ruin; if it hadn’t before, it would have by the end.
The Usurper and the Dragon King duel in the sky, sending one another smashing into skyscrapers already weakened by scourge-tainted rain. When they crash into the Citadel courtyard, the Sword-sworn join the fray, a bloody battle of claws and teeth, daggers and swords, broadswoards and bullets.
Adagium fights back with twisted magic. The red mockery of royal arms gash through the dragon's thick hide, eliciting inhuman screeches. At the end, the Lucii come, an army of spectral blue summoned to tear the Accursed into shreds once and for all he fades into nothingness.
When it is over, the dragon crashes to the pavement and does not rise.
Its velvety wings are tattered, broken, and useless, splayed across the Citadel's courtyard. Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto come to rest against his side, feeling the shaky breaths rattling against its enormous ribcage.
As the first faint line of dawn appears on the horizon, the Six appear. Bahamut cracks into existence like a lightning bolt; the other gods waver into being behind him.
"King of Light," Bahamut booms. "You have done well. Now Six become Seven. Take your place with us for all of eternity."
Gladio tenses. They all do. Maybe it's selfish, but he doesn't think it right for Noctis to become another Astral—a cold, undying deity like the ones who have brought him to this fate, transformed so far beyond the man they all loved. The man who loved them, who fought for his people, who wanted to do right by them all.
To be parted from them forever, stretching endlessly in parallel lines, even in death . . . it’s cruel.
But rather than rising to join the Six, the dragon snorts derisively and rolls its eyes.
Gladio has the distinct impression the creature wishes to convey that Bahamut’s idea is the stupidest thing it has ever heard.
"Iggy," Gladio starts, voice an octave too high. "I think he just—"
"You refuse the gift of immortality?" Bahamut booms, majestic and offended. He lifts a gauntleted hand, steps forwards. "You refuse eternal power? You choose to die a mortal creature?"
The great beast curls itself tighter, weakly listing his head towards the Sword-sworn at his side; they step in front of it—of him—protectively.
"I believe the message is clear," Shiva says. And perhaps she sounds pleased. "The Chosen King will wish to meet his companions in the Beyond when all is said and done, after all. As a man, not a god. Or a dragon."
Bahamut steps back, face inscrutable behind the mask. The Six take their leave, fading away in the dim light.
The dragon exhales as they go. Relieved, if his friends had to guess. He stretches out a wing as if to cover them: beneath it, they are in a world of starlit night.
The dawn breaks fully, and the dragon dies.