The path was long, a serpentine trail weaving through jagged cliffs and forgotten tracks, where loose pebbles crunched underfoot and the wind carried the faint tang of pine. Dragonlord did not tire. His boots moved with mechanical rhythm when he walked, but often he forsook the ground entirely. Rising into the air, his massive frame glided effortlessly, the faint hum of his power stirring the mist that clung to the peaks. His mind, however, drifted far—snared in memories, regrets, and the heavy ache of all he'd left behind.
At last, he descended, his cloak billowing as he touched down at the edge of his sanctuary: the valley he'd found centuries ago, nestled deep in the mountains' embrace, hidden from prying voices and seeking eyes.
The Valley of Echoing Dawn.
It welcomed him not with words, but with a silence so profound it felt holy. Iridescent flowers bloomed in waves, their petals shimmering with soft blues and violets that pulsed faintly, like heartbeats of light across the fields. The river murmured over ancient, moss-slick stones, its waters so clear they mirrored the sky's fleeting clouds. Shimmering creatures—delicate as spun glass—flitted through the air, their wings scattering prisms of color, untouched by war, unscarred by hatred.
Dragonlord stepped softly into the valley, his heavy cloak brushing the dew-kissed grass. Here, the weight of his title dissolved. No longer a god-slayer, no longer a brother, no longer the weapon honed by others' hands. Even the power that let him soar above the world felt distant, unneeded in this sacred quiet.
Just a soul, raw and aching.
He knelt by the riverbank, the damp earth cool against his knees, and gazed into the shimmering water. His reflection wavered—a gaunt, hollow stranger with eyes like smoldering embers. His name, unspoken for centuries, felt like a ghost on his tongue. Not uttered by family. Not even whispered by himself.
He remembered when it had been spoken. When it carried warmth, love, a promise of belonging.
When will they accept me? The question clawed up, unbidden, relentless. Even if they never love me… could they at least care? Could they stop hating me?
Memories surged, sharp as thorns. King Aric, the man who found him, his weathered face softening as he saw not a warrior but a lost child needing a hearth. The day Dragonlord was led to the palace, its marble halls echoing with the promise that he was no longer alone.
And then, Aleron.
The brother who never claimed him. The first time Dragonlord, barely a boy, asked to train with him, Aleron's lip curled, his voice dripping with disdain: "A commoner like you thinks he can stand beside royal blood? Go train with the slaves."
He obeyed. Always. Swallowing the sting, chasing scraps of belonging, believing that if he was good, quiet, small, he might earn a place.
And Seraphina…
She hadn't hated him—not at first. Her voice was gentle, her rare smiles like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. But as his power swelled—a force that let him rend skies and humble gods, a weight others felt like a stone on their chests—she changed. Her hazel eyes grew distant, not with fear but with a weary resignation.
The last time they met, she wouldn't speak. Not from cruelty, but from exhaustion, as if standing near him sapped her very breath.
Was it my fault? he thought, the question a blade in his gut. If I'd never come… would she have been free?
He closed his eyes. A breeze stirred, rustling the silver leaves with a sound like whispered secrets. The glass-winged creatures chirped, their soft trills weaving through the air, unafraid of the aura that had humbled gods, unbothered by the power that let him defy the earth's pull.
Here, in this valley, there was no judgment. No rejection. No demands. Only the quiet pulse of a world unstained by blood or ambition.
A fleeting thought sparked. Could I bring her here? Could I show Seraphina this place?
He pictured her by the river, her pale hair glowing like spun moonlight, her face softening in the valley's peace, her shoulders unbowed by the weight of his presence. Perhaps he could carry her here, flying swift and silent, shielding her from the world's clamor.
But no. She wouldn't stay. She'd speak of it—her voice eager or reverent—drawing others. Or worse, she'd see the valley as a resource to claim, to guard, to wield. It would become another casualty of kingdoms' greed, its silence shattered.
He shook his head, the motion sharp.
Not her. Not anyone.
Some things had to remain sacred, guarded not for power but for their purity.
He would stay alone.
Meanwhile, back in the palace…
Aleron stormed into his chambers, the iron-bound doors slamming against the stone walls with a crack that echoed like a whip. His boots left smears of battlefield mud on the polished floor.
He tore through the room, claws of void energy shredding the crimson velvet curtains, their tatters drifting like dying embers. A polished silver mirror shattered under his fist, fragments glittering as they fell, reflecting his snarling face in a hundred broken pieces. Power crackled at his fingertips—wild, unstable, spitting sparks that scorched the air.
"That weak little god dared to mock me!" he roared, his voice a venomous hiss that seemed to poison the very walls.
"And worse… that damned slave couldn't even kill him!"
His fists clenched, knuckles white, void energy hissing like serpents around them, leaving faint burns on his skin.
"I can tear the void itself! I can kill anyone—anywhere! Even across realms!" His voice cracked, raw with desperation. "And still… I couldn't touch him."
He kicked a golden chair, its ornate frame splintering into jagged halves with a sickening crunch.
The door creaked open, a slow groan of hinges.
King Aric and Queen Selene stepped inside, their faces carved from stone, eyes sharp as flint. They didn't flinch at the wreckage—shattered glass, torn fabric, the air thick with the acrid scent of void-burnt wood. They offered no soothing words, no gestures of comfort.
They spoke in low, measured tones. Of strategy. Of threats.
Of one unyielding truth:
The Dragonlord must die.