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Whispers of the guardian dragon's death, Flilagnio, spread like a raging firestorm, leaping from city to city until they crowned the front pages of every paper across the world.
Yet the question lingered, heavy and unyielding: Was it truth? Or a cruel jest?
The fall of this ancient sentinel—who for centuries had stood watch over the gate between the mortal races and the Ethereons—cast ripples of dread through some lands, while in others it stirred only mocking laughter.
Rumors, like restless shadows, soon multiplied. Many had never believed in the Ethereons to begin with—shapeshifters who could don any guise, masking themselves among humankind as if life itself were but a series of fleeting masks.
Even Flilagnio's existence was long dismissed as myth, for his domain lay hidden in a forsaken wilderness, cloaked in storm-laden clouds and encircled by colossal forests that few dared to trespass.
And those few who returned… told tales with trembling hands, as though the very syllables they uttered rebelled against being spoken.
Thus the origin of the tale remained shrouded in mist. No soul could name the one who first loosed it into the world, nor explain how it found its way into the presses, nor reveal the truth of what had stilled the heart of the guardian dragon.
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In the rain-soaked city of Dimovan, within an elegant hall adorned with oil-painted relics of forgotten masters and furniture carved from dark, ancient woods, a young man sat alone. His hair, black as wet ink, brushed the line of his neck, and a pair of slender spectacles framed eyes that bore the hunger of one devoted to knowledge.
He drank his coffee slowly, as though each sip might reveal a secret, while the rain composed its mournful symphony upon the glass.
Lifting his gaze from the paper, a crooked smile played upon his lips, and he whispered into the solitude:
"Old friend… The world knows you now. Perhaps you are not as alone as you once believed."
But the smile soon withered. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness recalled the dragon's strange, unearthly movements.
"His madness… a riddle without end. All my searching, and still I found nothing."
The foam within his cup swirled like a restless sea, and he breathed a thought into its depths:
"If our fears are true… the Ethereons are loosed, and their prison undone."
He stepped into the night. The wet streets mirrored the glow of lanterns and fractured signs, while the rain kissed his face with cold reminders of reality. The wind tugged hard at his black coat, yet none of it could dispel the image that haunted him still—Flilagnio's eyes, seared with fury and madness, and his voice, resounding in memory like the toll of a funeral bell:
"Darein… this world has already end"