The empire of Telos had been built upon conquest and fire. Its marble towers glittered beneath the sun, and its people boasted that no realm, not elves nor dwarves nor demons, could match its might. Yet beneath every celebration, beneath every gilded hall, lay the bones of a dragon.
Long ago, Queen Natalia Scarlet, the Goddess-Queen, slew the Elder Dragon Godai. The dragon was not merely a beast but an embodiment of fire, frost, storm, stone, tide, and sky. To kill it was to wound the very balance of Telos.
When Natalia's spear pierced its heart, the skies bled snow and flame for seven days. Mountains cracked. Rivers boiled. And as the dragon's body fell, it cursed her.
"One day, your line will bear a child of ultimate power. That power will come wrapped in endless agony. Through that child, greed shall destroy you all."
The queen smiled even as she bled, for she believed her victory eternal. She had forged her dynasty on dragon-bone and blood, and her children would rule for centuries.
But the curse waited.
It whispered through generations. It festered in marrow and vein.
And fifteen years ago, on a storm-tossed night when lightning split the skies above the imperial palace, the curse found its vessel.
A Boy in Armor
Holt Von Dreki, seventh son of Emperor Kael and Empress Soria, was not born screaming. He was born silent, breath shallow, eyes wide with frost clinging to his lashes. The midwives whispered. The priests muttered prayers. His mother only frowned and turned away.
From the moment Holt drew breath, pain consumed him.
It was not the pain of a wound nor fever. It was deeper woven into his blood and bones. His body twisted against itself, as though fire and ice warred beneath his skin. His heart beat in uneven bursts, and every breath scraped his throat like glass.
By his fifth year, he could not walk without stumbling. By his seventh, he was forced into armor forged from the bones of Godai itself. Polished black and white, etched with runes, the armor eased his torment just enough to let him move, to let him breathe.
It was not a gift. It was a prison.
And his family made sure he knew it.
At feasts, they smiled as they clapped his armored shoulder, transferring their pain into him through runes only the Dreki bloodline bore. At councils, they praised him as "resilient" while loading more of their own torment upon his body. In private, they whispered that he was cursed, an unlucky seventh son.
Holt never complained. He watched. He listened. He endured.
Shadows of the Palace
On the morning of his fifteenth year, Holt stood at the edge of the training courtyard, armor steaming faintly in the cold. The clang of swords rang around him as his brothers sparred with gleaming blades.
"Are you not joining us, Holt?" sneered Prince Aldren, the third son, sweat gleaming across his brow. His sword hissed as he lowered it. "Or will your armor buckle before you raise a blade?"
Laughter rippled among the gathered princes and knights.
Holt tilted his head, his pale eyes steady behind his helm. "I prefer the spear."
Aldren barked a laugh. "The spear? A farmer's tool. Dreki fight with swords. That has always been our way."
Holt said nothing. He turned and walked to the far end of the courtyard, where a long, black shaft leaned against the wall. His fingers closed around its familiar weight.
Twilight.
Forged from Godai's remains, its shaft was smooth and cold, runes carved deep into its length. The spear's point shimmered faintly, an edge of pale silver with veins of red and blue.
Holt spun it once. The air around him shimmered, frost and flame flickering together. The laughter stilled.
His brothers stared, unease flickering across their faces. But before Aldren could retort, a trumpet blast split the air.
The emperor had summoned them.
The Black Dogs
The Hall of Banners was vast, its pillars carved with the battles of generations past. Holt stood among his brothers as Emperor Kael descended from his throne.
"You are all sons of Dreki," the emperor's voice thundered. "Sons of conquest. Sons of dragon-blood."
His gaze fell on Holt, lingering for a heartbeat too long. "And now, one of you must prove his worth."
Holt's gut twisted.
"You, Holt Von Dreki," Kael declared, his tone smooth with feigned pride. "Today, you are given command. One thousand soldiers. Your first taste of leadership."
A murmur ran through the hall. Aldren smirked. The eldest brother, Daeron, folded his arms with disdain.
The emperor raised his hand. "You will lead the Black Dogs, a legion of outcasts and criminals. Men unfit for service. No commander wants. You will march to the border at Fortress Karthis, where the demons press hardest. Hold it… If you can."
Holt bowed his head, voice steady. "As you command, Father."
But in his chest, his curse burned hotter. He understood. This was no honor. It was an exile, a quiet execution.
Brothers in Pain
The Black Dogs waited outside the palace gates, shackled men, scarred faces, eyes hard with defiance or despair. When Holt approached, their jeers rang out.
"Look at the tin prince!"Another Dreki lamb comes to slaughter us."Better run home, boy!"
Holt lifted his helm, revealing his pale face. His eyes were not cruel, not mocking, but steady, haunted by a pain none of them could see.
"I do not ask for loyalty," Holt said, voice quiet but cutting through the din. "I ask for survival. Fight with me, and you live. Abandon me, and you die. It is that simple."
Silence.
Then one grizzled soldier, missing an eye, spat into the dirt. "A cursed prince. Hah. Maybe you're mad enough to keep us alive."
The men laughed, not with scorn but with grim amusement. The bond was small, but it was enough.
Fortress Karthis
The fortress loomed black against the horizon, its walls cracked, banners tattered. Beyond the hills, smoke rose. Holt felt the heat before he saw them.
Demons.
They poured across the land like a tide, eyes burning red, bodies twisted by fire and shadow.
The Black Dogs shifted nervously, some gripping their weapons too tightly.
Holt raised Twilight. "Form ranks. Shields to the front. Archers to the wall. Do not break."
The demons roared, slamming into the fortress like a storm.
The battle began.
Fire and Frost
Holt fought like a shadow of the dragon itself.
Every thrust of his spear ignited flame, then froze into shards that tore through the horde. His armor glowed with runes, absorbing the pain of his men, letting them fight beyond mortal limits.
The Black Dogs rallied behind him, roaring defiance. For the first time, they were not outcasts. They were soldiers.
Hours blurred into blood and fire. The demons fell in heaps, but Holt's body screamed with each strike. His lungs burned, his skin split beneath his armor, his veins lit with frost and flame.
Still, he endured.
Still, he fought.
By nightfall, the fortress still stood.
A Whisper of Freedom
When silence fell, Holt climbed the wall. His armor cracked, blood dripping from its seams. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes were fixed on the horizon.
"I do not fight to conquer," he whispered. His voice trembled, but the words held steady."I fight… to be free."
Unseen by his weary gaze, a figure lingered beyond the battlefield. Cloaked in silver and black, her eyes glowed faintly with dark-light magic.
Princess Metahtha Beda Freya Fortis.
She studied him in silence, her lips curving in the faintest smile.
"The seventh son lives," she murmured. "Perhaps… he truly is the one."