The silhouette slowly opened the door. The faint creak of the latch sounded unnaturally loud in the enveloping darkness, as though it echoed through an abyss. It slipped inside.
It approached Noa's bedroom.
Noa slept peacefully, unaware.
The silhouette raised its dagger. The steel drank in the cold light. It paused for a moment—then struck with all its force.
In that instant, the silver amulet around Noa's neck flared with blue radiance. Just as the dagger was about to touch his throat, the light exploded outward, forming a transparent barrier.
Steel met protection.
Sparks flew.
The assassin recoiled from the impact.
The barrier expanded. Blue light flooded the room.
Noa jolted awake.
Within the glow, the silhouette became clear—a figure in black robes, crowned with two dragon-like horns. An assassin.
Noa sprang up from the bed. His voice trembled, yet fury burned beneath it.
"Again…?! Why do you keep trying to kill me?!"
The assassin gave no answer. It began raining blows against the barrier. With every strike the blue light rippled, the walls of the room shuddered.
Noa knew the attacks could not reach him.
Yet each assault awakened memories in his mind—memories that had long ago turned into his most terrifying nightmares.
On the day Noa turned one year old, the Dragon Ceremony had been held.
The hall was packed—elders, nobles, warlords. Everyone had gathered to witness the new prince's potential.
The Dragon Stone shone in twelve colors. The deeper and richer the hue, the greater the talent.
Black and violet—the highest grade. Such light had appeared only among the supreme dragons.
The lowest was pale pink.
Noa had been filled with joy. He placed his hand on the stone.
The stone did not shine.
The hall fell silent.
One second.
Two seconds.
Nothing.
Then the murmurs began.
"This child is cursed!"
"He has shamed our clan!"
"He is no prince—he is a calamity!"
Noa pressed his hand to the stone again and again. It had to be a mistake. But the result never changed.
Zagn sat motionless on the throne.
He did not intervene.
"This boy will never become strong until he breaks," he thought.
The pressure fell directly on Noa.
He looked around. Every gaze was filled with contempt. Slowly he sank to the floor, clutching his head with both hands.
"Don't look at me… don't talk about me…" he said, his voice weak and broken.
Tears began to well in his eyes. In that moment all his dreams were shattering.
Then a voice cut through the hall.
Clear. Commanding.
"Silence, all of you. Anyone who utters another word about my brother will beg for their life."
The hall froze into utter silence.
At the doorway stood a girl.
Long black hair with white tips. Eyes deep and cold.
She stepped forward. Her footsteps dominated the hall.
She came to Noa and gently lowered his hands.
"It's all right, little brother."
A soft, gentle smile.
Noa raised his head and threw his arms around his sister.
The princess had manifested three colors—black, violet, and red. One of the rarest talents in history. Most believed she would be the future ruler.
Even the elders did not dare oppose her.
But that day she ignited the fury of every noble.
And that very night the first assassination attempt occurred.
When the assassin struck at Noa, his sister shielded him with her own body.
She saved Noa.
But she could not save herself.
As Noa continued to remember—
Crack!!
A fissure appeared in the barrier.
Noa was torn from the memory.
His sister's death. His own powerlessness at birth. The reasons he had come to hate strength itself, to hate war itself.
The cracks spread.
With the next strike the barrier shattered completely.
The assassin roared:
"Die!!"
It leaped forward to strike.
Noa instinctively recoiled and fell off the bed.
In the next instant half the room exploded. The entire balcony side was obliterated.
Noa looked toward the doorway.
Zagn stood leaning against the frame. Two fingers pointed into the room.
This was his attack.
The assassin rose from the rubble. It glanced once at Zagn, once at Noa. It tried to flee.
"Impossible… you weren't supposed to be here," it said, voice thick with fear.
Zagn turned his palm toward it.
"Come here."
The assassin's body began to be dragged forward as though an invisible hand had seized it. Its head slammed into Zagn's palm.
Zagn did not even look at it.
He clenched his fist.
The sound of bones crushing rang out.
He crushed the assassin's skull.
Then he looked at Noa.
"Go sleep in another room."
That was all he said.
Then he turned and walked down the corridor.
This was not the first time.
But it would not be the last.
Noa had grown somewhat accustomed to such things—because sometimes his brother or father, or the guards, would arrive just in time to save him, and that had given him a measure of confidence.
Noa went to another room and lay down. His thoughts were tangled.
"How much longer will this continue?" he whispered.
From early morning the sun rose and spread its veil over the palace.
Its rays slipped through the window and gently brushed across Noa's face, waking him from sleep.
He raised his hand to shield himself from the light and muttered in a tired, slightly irritated voice:
"Morning already…?"
He sat up. The same stillness filled the room—sometimes peaceful, sometimes unbearably dull.
Rising from the bed, he walked toward the wardrobe and changed his clothes.
A knock sounded at the door.
Noa turned toward it, his face completely expressionless.
The door opened, and a red-haired maid stepped inside, bowing her head respectfully.
"Good morning, my prince."
Noa gave a faint smile.
"Good morning to you too," he said.
The maid continued in a calm tone:
"After breakfast, you are to attend the throne hall. His Majesty requests your presence."
Noa scratched his head thoughtfully.
"Do you know why?"
The maid hesitated slightly.
"I don't know, my prince."
Noa sighed.
"…Very well. You may go."
The maid bowed once more.
"Yes, my prince."
She curtsied and left. Noa remained standing until the door closed behind her, then turned back to the window.
Why would they summon me so early? he wondered.
Perhaps… they finally plan to strip me of my title. Of course, who would ever want a prince like me?
He turned away from the window and stepped outside.
As he headed toward breakfast, the same question circled endlessly in his mind—why was I summoned?
Then he stopped.
"No… I'll go before breakfast," he decided.
He changed direction and walked toward the throne hall.
At the massive golden doors, the guards bowed deeply and swung them wide open.
Inside, his father—Emperor Zagn, the Black Dragon King—sat upon the towering throne.
Noa swallowed hard and approached.
Zagn's cold eyes remained fixed on him.
When Noa reached the foot of the stairs, he bowed deeply.
Noa, anxiety ringing in his voice:
"You called for me, Father?"
Zagn, in an icy tone:
"Do you know why?"
Noa, surprised:
"I couldn't guess."
Zagn's fists clenched; his voice thundered like a storm.
"Noa, even though you carry the blood of the Supreme Dragon, you remain weak! You don't even desire to grow stronger!"
The words struck like lightning.
Zagn continued:
"Tomorrow, you will prove yourself—or you will lose your title as prince."
Cold sweat rolled down Noa's neck.
"As you command… Father."
Zagn's voice rang out sharply:
"You may leave."
Noa lifted his head slightly, turned, and began walking away.
Behind him, the golden doors slammed shut with a resounding crash—sealing his father's harsh words deep inside his heart.
I've disappointed him again…
The thought weighed heavier than any crown.
Everyone else can already transform… but me? I'm still stuck between forms. It's only natural that they would be disappointed in a failure of a son like me. I would feel the same way.
Doubt clawed at his chest.
Even though Zagn knew Noa was untalented, he continued to demand strength from him. Everyone else considered it pointless, yet Zagn never tired of it.
Lost in these thoughts, he wandered through the palace corridors for a while before stepping into the royal gardens—calm and breathtaking, where white flowers swayed gently in the cold mountain breeze. The sky was clear, yet the air carried the solemn, unique stillness that belonged only to dragons.
But Noa's heart was far from calm.
Why must childhood, joy, laughter—all of it—be traded for endless training and pain?
Still, deep inside, he felt something shifting—the faint yet undeniable weight of truth pressing upon his young soul.
At the end of the path stood an ancient tree.
Beneath its shadow waited his mother—Arya, Queen of the Frost Dragons.
Her silvery hair shimmered like falling snow, and her glacier-blue eyes radiated both profound wisdom and gentle warmth.
As Noa approached, her expression softened.
In a soft, soothing voice:
"You returned early, my son."
He ran to her and threw himself into her arms—for a moment becoming just a little boy again, safe in her embrace.
Noa's face brightened.
"Yes, Mother…" he whispered.
Arya gently stroked his hair.
"What did your father say?"
Noa's fists trembled as he clutched her robe tightly.
"He scolded me. Said I was too slow… too weak. But Mother, is it really necessary? My father knows, yet he keeps demanding it even though he understands how meaningless it is."
Her eyes trembled softly. She cupped his face in both hands, her touch cool yet filled with tenderness.
"Listen carefully, my son. In ancient times, dragons waged wars that painted the skies in blood. They fought one another, other races, and all manner of legions; they lost families, kingdoms, hopes. Through that pain, they learned one truth: survive, or perish.
Strength, speed, transformation—these were sacred."
Noa's chest tightened. Each word wrapped around his heart like chains forged from history itself.
But Arya's voice grew even gentler:
"Yet you are not weak, Noa. True strength does not lie in haste—it lives in resolve. Some dragons are born blazing like fire, others grow quietly, like a river carving stone over centuries. You are the latter. Your time will come. And when it does…"—her voice trembled with unshakable faith—"…everyone will acknowledge you."
Noa's breathing shook. A spark ignited within him.
He clenched his fists, looked straight into his mother's eyes, and whispered with real conviction for the first time:
"I will prove myself, Mother. I will train harder than anyone. I will make both you and Father proud."
His words were rough and unpolished, but a true fire burned behind them. Arya smiled, though sorrow glimmered in her gaze. She pulled him into a tight embrace and whispered:
"Remember, Noa… every dragon forges his own path. Yours has only just begun. And it will not be like any other dragon's path."
Suddenly the wind shifted.
A strange, cold ripple passed through the air.
Noa lifted his head and looked up at the sky.
"Mother… what was that…?"
Arya's smile faded, replaced by a grave expression.
"Just an ordinary wind… yet within even this wind lie many meanings."
Noa's heart pounded like a war drum.
He didn't understand yet—but his mother's words seared themselves into his soul like molten fire.
After lunch, Noa resolved to go to the training hall.
The moment he stepped inside, heat struck his face—the sharp scent of sweat, the roar of flames, the echoing cracks of impacts against stone walls.
Dragons trained in their humanoid forms; some were partially transformed, scales glinting like polished metal as they clashed.
Noa paused for a moment—small and uncertain.
But the spark in his chest refused to die. His gaze hardened.
One dragon noticed his entrance.
A figure covered in thick, iron-like scales—still in dragon form—was suddenly enveloped in crimson mist. When the mist cleared, he stood in human shape. Seeing Noa, he blinked in surprise.
"Prince Noa… what brings you here?"
Noa looked straight at the warrior.
"I want to train. Tell me where to start."
Silence fell. Darion studied him—not as a prince, but as a dragon.
Darion, with a hint of doubt:
"Very well. Then let us begin. Body and spirit must become one first. Are you prepared to endure pain, Your Highness?"
Noa clenched his fists.
"I am ready."
Respect flickered in Darion's eyes.
"Then come. Let us see… what kind of fire truly burns inside you."
At that same moment
In the throne hall
Golden pillars rose high overhead while the council of elders whispered like serpents.
The first elder spoke in a dissatisfied tone:
"The boy is cursed—everyone knows it."
The second elder joined in:
"Even common-born dragons surpass him. And yet he still holds the title of prince."
The third elder snorted derisively:
"He is right. The best choice is to exile him. We have already bowed our heads before the other dragon clans."
Emperor Zagn sat motionless upon the throne. His gaze was cold steel.
When he finally spoke, silence swallowed the entire hall.
"He will prove himself. Or he will lose everything."
The words fell like iron. No one dared to object.
Yet inside Zagn's heart, a storm raged.
They doubt him—the clans, the elders, the people. They have tried to assassinate Noa many times, and yet they stand here with straight faces saying these things. Soon all of you will become fuel and sacrifice for Noa. I hope neither of my sons turns out like me.