They came at dusk, cloaked in twilight and whisper.
Elaria stood on a ridge overlooking the newly risen city of Solcrag, her banner snapping in the wind behind her. A black sun on crimson silk. Her dragon-bonded soldiers sharpened blades and chanted war rites, drunk on recent victories. But she felt it—something colder than steel, darker than night, watching.
"He's coming," Kael said from behind her.
She didn't ask who. She already knew.
The Hollow Prince.
A myth to some, a punishment to others. Once a god's favorite son, now cursed to walk between life and death. They said he wore no face, only a silver mask, and beneath it—emptiness.
He moved like silence, killed without blood. Where he walked, flowers withered. Hope recoiled.
He was the final blade of the Order.
And he had been summoned to kill the dragon queen.
"Let him come," Elaria said.
Kael's eyes burned. "You don't understand what they've unleashed. He was made for this. Made to kill dragons."
Elaria's mouth curled. "Then I'll show him what happens when prey learns to bite back."
She stepped down into the war council chamber, where flame-light flickered over maps, blood sigils, and warlock eyes.
"We hold the Wastes. We control the Eastern Reaches. But this Prince—he's not coming with armies. He's coming alone."
She pointed to the shadowy line drawn across the map, beyond even Kael's ancient memory.
"Here. The Shattered Vale. The last place a dragon bled and lived. That's where we make our stand."
Kael nodded. "Then I'll bleed beside you."
Her gaze was fire. "No. You'll burn for me."
They rode hard, their vanguard cutting through bandits, wild spirits, remnants of broken Orders. They did not stop for sleep. They did not wait for prophecy.
They chased it.
But as they neared the Vale, the world changed.
Time slowed.
Sky fractured.
Voices murmured in Elaria's ear that were not her own.
Kael flinched. "This is no land. This is a wound."
The Vale yawned before them, endless stone and whispering ash.
And there he stood.
Tall.
Masked.
Silent.
The Hollow Prince.
He wore silver armor that did not reflect the world. His sword was thin and black, like night sharpened to a whisper. His voice came not from lips, but from the air itself.
"You carry the flame of a godless age. Surrender it."
Elaria laughed. "I am the flame. Come take it."
Kael shifted, scales crackling, wings rising.
The Hollow Prince moved.
Faster than wind.
His blade cut through Kael's fire like silk. The dragon stumbled, bleeding starlight. Elaria screamed and lunged, her blade ablaze, clashing with the Prince's in a thunderclap of raw force.
Sparks flew. Bones shattered. The world trembled.
He did not tire. He did not breathe.
But neither did she yield.
Elaria burned brighter. She became fire.
Hours passed. Or seconds. Time twisted.
Kael watched her fight—a symphony of rage and light. Each movement a declaration of defiance, of power earned.
Then the Prince pierced her side.
Blood spilled like molten gold.
Elaria gasped, faltered—
And Kael struck.
He tackled the Prince, dragging him into the earth, wings crushing stone, fire melting sky. The two ancient forces clashed in silence, locked in a spiral of death.
Elaria crawled, blood pouring. She reached into the Vale's cracked soil, into something deeper than magic—
And touched the bones of the first dragon queen.
A scream rose in her throat.
Power answered.
Flames erupted from the ground, spiraling around her. Her eyes went full gold. Her wounds closed.
She rose.
"You want fire?" she said.
The Hollow Prince turned.
She flung her arms wide—and unleashed a storm.
It was not fire. It was memory. Rage. Soul.
The Vale howled.
The Prince was hurled back, his mask cracked.
And beneath it—
Nothing.
No face. No soul.
Only a void that screamed.
He vanished into the dark.
They stood in the silence that followed, Kael wounded, Elaria panting, scorched.
"He'll return," Kael said.
"Then let him."
She touched the wound he gave her. "He took something from me."
Kael gripped her hand. "Then we take everything from him."
They kissed, their mouths bloodied, their breath ragged. He tore open her armor. She pushed him down in the scorched grass.
Their bodies met like thunder.
There was no gentleness. No mercy.
Only fire.
That night, Elaria dreamed.
Of dragons chained.
Of a child born of both flame and shadow.
Of a crown not made of gold—but of ash.
She woke gasping.
Kael stared at her. "You saw it, didn't you?"
"Yes," she whispered. "The end."
He wrapped her in his wings.
"Then we will burn our way through it. Together."
Far to the west, the Hollow Prince knelt before a shadow.
It whispered. "You failed."
The Prince said nothing.
The shadow grinned. "Then we send the girl. The one she once called sister. Let them destroy each other."
Lightning cracked.
The next hunter stepped forward.
And she wore Elaria's face.