Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Mir, there lived a Hwarin king who was brave, kind, and deeply beloved by the people of the land. His name was whispered with reverence in every household, and his reign was marked by peace and abundance that stretched across the valleys and rivers of the realm.
The Hwarins were known to be mystical beings that looked no different from any other ordinary person. The only glaring difference lay in their blazing golden eyes, shimmering like twin suns, impossible to miss even in the darkest of crowds.
It is said that their eyes were capable of delving into the future, travelling beyond the present to warn of impending disasters and offer glimpses of fate's ever-shifting path. This sacred gift not only preserved their kingdom's safety but also aided them in ruling over vast territories for centuries with unmatched wisdom.
Additionally, this ability helped Mir maintain strong relationships with neighboring lands, built on mutual trust and foresight. When hardship struck, they could seek aid and receive it without hesitation, bound by years of prosperous alliances and shared goodwill.
Everything was prosperous in the world around that time. Fields bloomed, trade flourished, and harmony danced through the streets like an ever-singing wind.
But one day, the king–restless in spirit–grew bored of the familiar monotony and longed for the thrill of discovery. So he set sail on a journey to faraway landso in search of adventure, carried by a fleet gilded in silk and hope.
And he didn't come back empty-handed either. Along with scrolls of ancient knowledge and gems from the sunless caves, he returned with many unseen treasures. But the rarest of them all was a pearlescent dragon egg.
"Ooh, I want a dragon egg too, Grandma!" the elder girl suddenly interrupted, bouncing on her seat with wide, gleaming eyes.
The younger one quickly chimed in with the same enthusiasm. "Yeah! I want one too!"
The old woman simply patted her granddaughters' heads with gentle endearment, smoothing their hair as her laughter rumbled low and hearty. "People always want many things that are beyond reach," she mused wisely. "But only those with courage, bravery, and perseverance can touch upon such desires."
Then, softening her voice to a conspiratorial hush, she added, "If my lovelies want to earn a dragon egg one day, you must grow up strong and kind. And that means finishing your vegetables and not being too picky at dinner."
The girls reluctantly nodded, their backs slouching at the mention of greens, but the old woman smiled in quiet satisfaction before continuing with her tale…
….
The dragon egg was kept sealed in a special chamber within the palace walls ensconced upon soft silks and watched over by golden lamps that never dimmed. The Hwarin king visited it every day, tending to it with the tenderness of a father, whispering affectionate words to it as if the creature inside could already hear him.
But not all hearts in the palace beat in joy. The queen, once the sole recipient of the king's affection, grew jealous of the attention he now lavished on the unborn dragon. A shadow slithered into her heart, fed not by her own doubts, but by those eager to see the throne unseated.
They were ministers draped in false loyalty, and jesters who knew how to sharpen words like daggers. These schemers longed to overthrow the king and saw the queen's growing unease as the perfect foothold.
They sowed seeds of distrust in her mind, whispering that the king's love was short-lived–that should another woman, more powerful or exotic, come along, he would not hesitate to cast the queen aside and replace her.
And just like that, the once-harmonious palace began to tremble, not with thunder or rebellion, but with invisible fractures as the seed of doubt took root and continued to grow into a sapling that stretched its tendrils into every corner of the royal heart.
So did the cracks in the dragon egg. Thin as hairlines at first, they grew wider with each passing day until one morning, a resounding snap echoed from the chamber. The king, upon hearing it, rushed in, and his eyes widened in wonder.
The newborn dragon was a miracle unlike anything he had ever witnessed. It was a magnificent creature with two heads split at the neck, possessing a single body with blurred, seamless lines connecting both halves.
On the left side, there was the fiery red dragon, its scales glowing like molten embers welded fresh from a rising volcano, blazing with every breath it took. And on the right side was an icy blue dragon, its skin like glacial crystal, shimmering in the light like carved glass. Together, they embodied the balance of flame and frost–chaos and calm in perfect harmony.
The dragons, as if guided by fate, swore undying loyalty to the king. They followed him wherever he went, silent and proud, turning heads in every court they passed through. Ministers, who once sat relaxed in their positions of power, began to grow restless. They watched with tightening jaws as the king spent more time with the dragons, his strength and popularity swelling like a stormcloud on the horizon.
The ministers grew nervous that the king would become too powerful at this rate–and they needed to do something before that happened.
So they preyed on the one person vulnerable to their whispers. The queen.
They goaded her on to claim a power of her own. Poisoning her mind with suggestions, they said, "Tell the king to prove his love for you. Ask him to split the dragon in two and give the other half to you."
"But won't the dragons die?" she asked in hesitation.
But the ministers were devious men, draped in falsehood, and they told a dangerous lie with confident smiles. "Dragons are mystical creatures," they said. "They wouldn't die from a mere sword. In fact, when the two-headed dragon is split, it will form two separate dragons. It is only fair that the king and queen, rulers together… each possess one."
Their words were as sweet as honey but carried the venom of betrayal.
Foolishly, the queen did as she was told and gave the king an ultimatum. She looked into his eyes, and spoke with venom-coated softness: "If you do not comply with what I am asking of you, I'd rather end my life than remain in a fruitless marriage."
Faced with the fury and desperation of his queen, the king was forced to choose. And so, heartbroken but bound by her vow of despair, he raised his blade and, with trembling hands, sliced his beloved dragon in half.
But instead of transforming into two majestic beings, the severed body lay limp and lifeless upon the silken floor.
Just as the ministers had planned.