The sound of bone meeting flesh echoed through the tent as a fist collided with the Noble's cheek. Blood sprayed across the floor. Agheel, his arm still corded with draconic scales, gripped Samuel's collar with a white-knuckled fury. His eyes burned like coals.
"I will ask you once more," Agheel hissed. "Your name, your rank, and the name of the master who sent you!"
With his supernatural strength suppressed by the dragonfire seals, Samuel's physical form had reverted to that of an ordinary man. Beneath the grotesque hood lay not a monster, but the weathered, handsome face of a middle-aged man. Yet he was like a doll with its strings cut. No matter how Agheel struck him, the captive merely swayed with the impact. His eyes remained as dull as stagnant water, devoid of any flicker of emotion or defiance.
Moments earlier, Elder Atok had returned with the final casualty report. Of the thirty Dreadwyvern warriors, three were dead and two were gravely wounded. Of the five hundred Storm Knights, thirty-seven had perished and twenty remained in critical condition. Every leader in the tent, Luthier included, felt a cold desire to see Samuel ground into the dust.
"That is enough, Agheel," Luthier said quietly as the captain prepared another blow.
Agheel stepped aside immediately. He watched as his young lord paced slowly toward the Godskin Noble, stopping to look him directly in the eye.
For a long minute, neither spoke. Finally, Samuel shifted his shoulders, unable to maintain his stoic facade. There was something in Luthier's glacial blue gaze that made him profoundly uncomfortable. It felt as though his every weakness and every secret were being laid bare under a cold, analytical light. The sensation was not imagined; Samuel still could not comprehend how this boy had managed to bring him down.
"A Godskin Noble," Luthier mused, his voice trailing off as he turned his back to pace.
Suddenly, he stopped. He looked back over his shoulder with a sharp, mocking smile. "The world believes Her Majesty perished in her struggle against Queen Marika. It seems she is still scratching for life in this era. Tell me, does she truly believe that by murdering an Ancient Dragon demigod and sparking a war between Farum Azula and Leyndell, she can crawl out of the gutters to reclaim her lost dynasty?"
The air in the tent vanished. The four retainers stood up in shock, their weapons half-drawn. Samuel's mask of indifference shattered. His face twisted into a mask of pure terror and disbelief. His lips trembled as if he wanted to scream a question.
Then, the world shifted. A massive, crushing will descended upon the tent, acting with the suddenness of a falling guillotine. It forced Samuel's eyes and mouth shut with a violent snap.
A heartbeat later, his eyelids slid open. His pale grey eyes were gone, replaced by a swirling, hypnotic violet that shimmered like a starless night.
"Ah..." A soft, melodic laugh escaped his lips. The voice was no longer the raspy, arrogant tone Samuel had used during the raid. It was ethereal and seductive, carrying an ancient, intoxicating charm.
"To think that someone in this age still remembers me," the entity said through Samuel's mouth. "Tell me, as a relic of a forgotten era who has the honor of being remembered by a newborn demigod, should I be grateful, Luthier Saux?"
Luthier stood frozen. His mind raced. He had intended to bluff the Noble with his meta-knowledge, hoping to squeeze out a few clues, but he had never expected a direct divine possession.
The Gloam-Eyed Queen—the mistress of Destined Death who had once hunted gods and challenged Marika the Eternal—was indeed alive.
"Protect the Prince!" Agheel roared, his shock finally breaking. He blurred into a shadow, interposing himself between Luthier and the possessed Noble.
Greyoll and the two Elders moved instantly, forming a living wall of steel and scales around Luthier. Though they knew little of the Gloam-Eyed Queen, the sheer pressure of her presence told them everything they needed to know about the danger.
Less than ten paces away, the entity who had paralyzed the room with fear simply watched them. The silence was absolute, the tension in the air like a lute string tightened to the point of snapping. One wrong move would ignite a storm of violence.
Then, the possessed Noble let out a long, weary sigh.
"To meet you for the first time in such a place. How ironic, and how very dull." She looked past the wall of warriors to Luthier, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. Her violet eyes held a flicker of something obscure and unreadable.
"I do not understand," Luthier said, his voice hesitant but steady. "Is this meeting not the result of the assassins you sent to kill me?"
Despite his fear, his tactical mind was already working. He was probing for her intent, her current state, and whether this ambush had been her personal design.
The Queen did not answer his question.
Instead, she sighed again and looked at him with strange sincerity. "Young dragon, if you have the strength for it, try your best to survive this coming age of ruin."
As the words left her lips, Samuel's body—still bound by the dragonfire seals—erupted into a pillar of roaring black flame. The enchanted chains shattered into ash. Before the vessel disintegrated entirely, the Queen's final words drifted through the smoke.
"As long as you live, all things remain possible."
The silence that followed was heavy. Greyoll stared at the pile of scorched ash on the rug, her voice filled with confusion. "What... what was she talking about?"
Not a soul in the tent, nor perhaps in the entire world, could truly grasp the meaning of those words. To call this era an "age of ruin" sounded like a madman's delusion. This was the peak of the Golden Order. Between Leyndell, Caria, and Farum Azula, the Lands Between was experiencing a period of unprecedented prosperity and peace. More than eighty percent of the population lived in a world of abundance.
How could this be a time of ruin?
But Luthier knew.
He knew that this golden summer would vanish as quickly as a mortal's breath. He knew the Shattering would turn the continent into a graveyard of mindless husks. He knew that every high-seated demigod would be swallowed by the coming catastrophe, emerging as twisted, wretched monsters if they survived at all.
"To survive," he whispered to himself. "A difficult challenge indeed."
In that moment, a faint, invisible wisp of energy drifted from the ashes. Unseen by the others, it glided through the air and vanished into Luthier's chest.