[Purtunah Nightfall.]
I soared above my great kingdom, suspended between mountains that glittered like crowns of the world.
Their slopes gleamed with gems and life, rivers of light winding through them like veins of molten gold.
Below stretched a civilization of beauty and grace, a realm filled with laughter, music, and joy.
No one knew hunger, nor did they tremble beneath the shadow of fear.
Why was it so peaceful? Because I hid myself away.
I worked endlessly, bending my will and body to the brink to secure even the faintest promise of a future for my people.
Ah, how noble dragons are. Born of flame and breath, we are creatures of wisdom and sorrow, burdened with both love and grief.
We exist to soar beyond the clouds, to touch eternity with our wings.
And yet, those who crawl upon the ground mock us.
They see not our hearts, only our strength.
They despise what they cannot match and curse what they cannot comprehend.
I gazed down at Dragonia, the jewel of my reign. Its towers shimmered like lanterns piercing through the clouds.
My wings folded as I descended toward the royal castle, a grand monument of black marble and white stone, flawless and cold.
Its spires spiraled upward as though yearning to break free from mortality itself.
Before its gates lay the resting place I had built for my son, whose body I could never recover.
The grave gleamed softly under the twin moons, a wound carved into the earth that time itself refused to heal.
There, waiting for me, stood Steeva, the woman who was to have been my son's wife, had fate not robbed them of their future.
"I greet thee, great ruler of our grand nation," she said, bowing low, her voice trembling between reverence and sorrow.
I placed a hand on her shoulder, the warmth of her scales trembling beneath my touch.
"You need not use such formality, my daughter. You are family to me. Now, there is something I must tell you."
She looked up, eyes bright with curiosity and dread. "Something?"
I smiled faintly, though my heart was heavy.
Then the smile faded. "Althurius has fallen. Before his final breath, he sent me one last message, his decree: to lay waste to Anstalionah."
Her eyes dimmed, sorrow deepening in their golden hue, before a spark of purpose flickered to life within them.
"I mourn his death," she whispered, her voice steadying, "just as much as I bask in his command."
It was cold and glorious at once, the sound of her voice, her resolve, it made my skin crawl. How easily grief can become conviction.
I wanted little in this world. Perhaps peace. Perhaps the luxury of forever.
Yet I am a Death Dragon, bound to decay and the endless cycle of loss. I can never live forever.
That was until I met him.
He emerged from the shadows of the courtyard with a slow, serene grace that seemed almost divine.
His long, pale hair flowed like silk down his back, the color of moonlight.
His eyes, crystalline and blue as the high heavens, glimmered with unspoken pain.
His skin was pale, flawless, and his robe of white and gold embroidery shimmered faintly as he moved.
He was perfection made flesh, his form lithe yet strong, his expression calm yet heavy with centuries of thought.
Though his face appeared young, the weight of boundless wisdom hung about him like a veil.
When he approached, Steeva bowed instantly.
He smiled faintly and patted her head. "Why do I feel such sorrow here?"
His voice was soft, like wind through glass, but as he spoke, he coughed violently, covering his mouth with his hand.
Crimson stained his palm.
That illness, yes, the same one that plagued Nicholas.
Both bound by different causes, both cursed to linger between life and death.
Harlequin's had worsened ever since his revival. Not even death could release him from it.
In Hell, where agony reigns eternal, he had suffered more than I dared imagine.
That is why I cannot return to who I once was. I cannot go back to being that pitiful, weak creature who dreamed of salvation.
My body, once slumbering, became a catalyst, a trap I set for humanity, a last tether to awaken me from that endless nightmare.
And yes, the nightmares were real. Real and violent, as if torn from the hidden memory of creation itself.
"Please, my love," I said softly. "You must return to rest. In one hour, we aim to end this war in an instant."
He looked at me with those gentle, piercing eyes. "Must a king find solace in his own weakness?"
Steeva stepped forward quickly, shaking her head. "No! You are strong, my king. You are the strongest of all!"
Harlequin smiled faintly and continued to run his hand through her hair. "Yes… perhaps. I am the strongest. So I must be strong, and go."
He lifted his hand from her head and brushed his fingers across my face, his touch delicate and cool.
"Give me one day," he said. "Allow me to prepare. Then we will end this war together."
Steeva's expression faltered with worry, and rightly so.
Nicholas and Harlequin shared more than power; they shared conviction, the kind that consumes everything around it.
My husband, though strong in soul, was fragile in body and heart.
He was a man I wanted only to protect. Yet he insisted on burning himself away for my sake.
I grasped his arm, my voice trembling. "I know my pleas would not move you… so instead, I will simply nod."
I no longer wished to feel pain. I no longer wished to dream of mercy.
If the world demanded a monster, then a monster I would become.
I must be vile. I must be cruel.
I must be me.
***
[Mirabel Anstalionah.]
Nicholas was training again. He did this as if there was nothing else he could do, as if he needed to obtain all methods.
His sword cut through the air with measured precision, each swing trailing droplets of sweat that caught the light like scattered glass.
His body, frail yet refined, moved with the elegance of a man shaped by exhaustion and purpose.
His eyes, however, were hollow, drained, almost detached from the act itself.
I lay back beneath the shade of a tree, watching as Cassio and Miraculum mirrored their father's movements.
Though their swings carried far less power, they imitated him flawlessly.
The training grounds were alive with motion and chatter; even Nicole was there, quietly serving me my drink.
She had once been a soldier, one of Nicholas's finest.
But after he recalled the armies and demanded the kingdom take a defensive stance, she could do nothing else.
Even though they had been sent out, she stayed back, here, just for a while she was feeling lost.
So she returned to what she had been before, a maid.
Handing me a glass of red wine, she bowed deeply before attempting to leave.
I caught her wrist gently. "You don't have to do this. I forgive you… for both events."
She turned back to me with a small, pitiful smile that failed to reach her eyes. "I am… nothing. Nothing without the task I am ordained to do."
And with that, she left, swiftly, silently. I hated seeing her like this. Her suffering mirrored Uhana's, quiet but unbearable.
Still, her burdens were not small. She governed what she could in my absence, overseeing what fragments of order remained.
With Horia taking control of political affairs and Dangu pressing our borders with their invasion, Nicole could offer us little support.
I did not fault her for that. I couldn't.
We were all bound by limits. We could not help her any more than she could help us.
All of this, Nicholas's training, the soldiers, the chatter, was nothing but a distraction. I could still feel it.
The moment Rosaline died, something inside me broke.
The pain echoed through me as if I had been there, as if a piece of my soul had been ripped away.
Now there is a hole in my heart, and I know it will not close for a long time.
The thought of having another child feels distant, almost cruel.
With this war still raging, I could never bring another life into a world so fragile, not when my every thought is consumed by keeping the ones I already have safe.
My eyes drifted back to Nicholas. As he trained, a faint dark aura began to ripple from him, demonic, yet subdued.
Even so, he carefully extended his will to shield me and the twins from its reach.
But it wasn't dangerous. Not truly.
It was warm.
And that warmth frightened me.
Nicholas had always been lazy, so impossibly lazy.
Even now, as he swung his sword, I could feel his emotions clawing at him from within.
Every fiber of his being screamed for him to stop, to drop his weapon, to fall asleep and forget the world.
But when he sleeps… he becomes something else. His dreams twist him, turning him violent, ruthless, unrecognizable.
The Fall of Wrath: Dedecar grants me the ability to bend logic itself, to twist even the illogical into submission.
Yet it pales beside the true nature of Wrath.
For I am its Sin, the Sin of Wrath, and the angrier I become, the stronger I grow.
But there is another truth I rarely speak of: the more anger I direct at someone, the weaker they become in turn.
My rage corrodes them, strips them of will and identity until they are nothing but hollow vessels, puppets moved by my fury.
I had used it only once. On Nicholas.
He had wept afterward, his tears falling silently into the earth. As if it had pained him.
As if he had known I was trying to shape him into something he was not. I told myself it hadn't hurt him, but I knew better.
After that, I swore never to use it again.
I looked up at the sky, the clouds heavy and dim, their edges glowing faintly in the sun.
But deep down, I already knew.
That promise would not hold much longer.