The Grand Citadel of Lioren glimmered beneath the waning sun, its white marble walls drinking in the light like a chalice of gold. From a distance, it was beautiful. Up close, it reeked.
The banners that draped its spires spoke of peace. The stones beneath them told the truth—each slab laid upon the bones of a thousand dead.
Inside, the council chamber breathed wealth. Every inch was polished, perfumed, perfected. It made the air feel heavy, as though truth itself could not survive here.
At the crescent table's head sat King Albrecht Veylor of Avarinth. Silver hair framed a face too handsome to be trusted, his gaze cutting through the chamber like a blade wrapped in silk. Regal crimson adorned him, but it was his voice—measured, warm, deceitful—that held the room hostage.
On his right stood Prince Daeron, eyes as still and cold as black ice. On his left, Princess Selira, smile sweet enough to hide the poison on her tongue.
Before them knelt Captain Mersic, armor dented, boots still muddy with blood.
"It's done, Your Majesty," Mersic rasped. "The Vale is ash. Every beastman, woman, child-burned or buried. The winged ones fled. Cowards."
Applause followed. Not relief but of hunger. A feast on someone else's corpse.
High Lord Tharn leaned forward, his words slick as oil. "Then the land is ripe for the taking. Fertile fields. Rich mines. All waiting to be claimed."
"And the Chaos Dragon?" a lesser noble asked.
"He's just a myth by now," Daeron said flatly. "Or a corpse. Either way, irrelevant."
No one mentioned the treaty humanity had shattered.
The golden-robed clergy arrived next, led by High Bishop Calloran. He blessed their slaughter with a smile. "God's will has been done. Demons spread like rot. It is righteous to burn them from the world."
The younger bishops nodded. Behind them, "Heroes" from other realms stood in gleaming armor, their eyes empty save for the thrill of the hunt.
Sir Raikard. Broad, golden-haired, reeking of wine and grinned. "The ogre canyon lies east. Give the order, and I'll bring you their heads. Perhaps you'll even carve me a statue."
Laughter rippled. Someone muttered, "Monsters die like dogs. Mercy is a blade to the neck."
They were all liars.
The king, feigning duty while plotting for the Emperor's favor.
The nobles, already dividing the spoils in their minds.
The church, turning murder into tithe.
The Heroes, drunk on the theater of blood.
None remembered the screams. None saw the smoke still curling from the Vale. None thought of Vael'Zaryt's kin, their bodies left for crows.
A scout burst in, armor scorched. "Your Majesty! One escaped us. Violet flame, eyes like dying stars. She slaughtered a dozen men, then vanished."
Selira's smile faltered for half a heartbeat.
King Albrecht leaned back, his voice soft. "Find her. Kill her. End this."
"You want her gone?" Raikard sneered. "Promise me your daughter's hand, and I'll make sure her head decorates your gates."
Selira's laugh was sweet and cruel. "Father, your dogs are noisy." She left with her maids without waiting for dismissal.
Daeron followed, bored. Raikard left last, dragging a terrified maid by the arm into his room.
The bishop made his farewells, muttering about the Emperor's summons.
All of them just needed excuses to save themselves from engaging into a second war againt the monsters.
The king sat alone for a moment, fingers drumming against the armrest. His eyes were sharp but they're now empty. "Fools," he muttered, and rose.
Far from the Citadel, in the black silence of the cave, Vael'Zaryt lay unconscious. Power thrummed beneath his skin, the Chaos Dragon's gift pulsing with a heartbeat not his own.
And in that darkness… a vision came.
The Dragon—whole, unbroken—kneeling before a figure shrouded in lightless shadow. Words passed between them, lost to the roar of some faraway storm.
But Vael'Zaryt felt one thing.
That being is still alive
And it was waiting. For him..