The sky above the Valley of Echoing Dawn bled into dusk, its colors too gentle for the war-torn world beyond. Dragonlord lay on his back in the dew-kissed grass, watching glass-winged creatures dance through the fading light. Their fragile forms scattered prismatic shards across the air, untouched by the magic that stained the rest of creation.
Only a day had passed since the battle. His body, once torn and broken, had knitted itself whole again—stitched together by the valley's ancient pulse. But the healing came at a cost. Each mended wound left him emptier, as though pieces of his soul had been traded for survival.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the phantom ache of severed tendons now restored.
How many times can I do this? he wondered. How many times before there's nothing left to heal?
The creatures flitted closer, unafraid. They had no concept of gods or kings, of the power that radiated from him in waves strong enough to make empires tremble. To them, he was just another part of the valley—no more remarkable than the wind or the grass.
For a moment, he envied them.
———
The summons came as the third day faded.
A ripple in the air. A whisper of storm. Reality called him back, as it always did.
Dragonlord stood, his shadow stretching long across the flowers. He took one last breath of the valley's silence, then stepped into the sky.
The capital sprawled beneath him, its gilded towers and crowded streets a stark contrast to the valley's solitude. He could already feel the weight of eyes upon him—the fearful glances, the bowed heads. They called him Dragonlord now, but in their whispers, he still heard the old titles.
Godkiller. Worldbreaker. The King's Blade.
The palace doors opened before he touched the ground. The guards did not meet his gaze.
Inside, the throne room loomed, its vaulted ceilings swallowing sound. King Aric sat upon the high seat, his face unreadable. Queen Selene at his side, her silver-threaded gown pooling like liquid moonlight. Between them, the black throne—his throne—stood empty.
Aric spoke first.
"I need your help."
The words were brittle, dragged from some deep place the king rarely acknowledged.
Dragonlord did not kneel. "What is it?"
Aric's fingers tightened on the armrests. "The Demon Lord has taken the Obsidian Gate."
A lie. Dragonlord tasted it in the air. The Demon Lord was a beast of slaughter, not conquest. He cared nothing for gates or borders.
But the truth didn't matter. Aric had already decided.
"Prepare the army," Dragonlord said.
Aric shook his head. "Aleron marches west. The Iron Maw has broken through the border forts—he needs the legions."
Aleron.
The name settled like a stone in Dragonlord's chest. His brother in blood, if not in name. The boy who had spat at his feet even as Dragonlord bled for him.
And yet.
And yet.
"How many men?"
Aric's smile was a knife. "Three hundred. No more."
Three hundred.
Against the Demon Lord's horde.
Dragonlord's fingers twitched. He could kill the Demon Lord alone. Unleash the storm inside him and burn the monster from existence. But the cost...
The last time he'd wielded his full strength, the land had wept for a decade. Rivers ran backward. Mountains became graves. The scars still pulsed with wild magic where his fury had touched the earth.
With three hundred, it would be a razor's edge. Enough blades to shield the worst of the carnage. Enough bodies to draw the Demon Lord's attention while he worked.
If he was precise. If he was careful.
Maybe—just maybe—some might survive.
But Aleron...
Aleron, who stood between the Iron Maw and thousands of defenseless souls. His blood, though the boy denied it. His responsibility, though the world forgot.
Dragonlord exhaled, the weight of kings and corpses pressing down.
"Very well."
———
The Battlefield
The land was already dead when Dragonlord arrived.
The earth had split open in jagged wounds, blackened by demonfire. The air reeked of sulfur and rotting flesh. And at the center of it all, wreathed in smoke and embers, stood the Demon Lord.
He was a grotesque fusion of man and monster—his upper half still bore the remnants of a human face, though twisted by corruption. One eye burned crimson, the other a hollow black pit. Curved horns, cracked and jagged, jutted from his temples. His torso was still armored in the remnants of a king's regalia, though the metal had fused with his flesh.
But from the waist down, he was pure nightmare—a mass of corded muscle and blackened sinew, his legs ending in cloven hooves that cracked the earth with every step.
"Dragonlord." His voice was gravel and flame. "You return to finish what you started?"
Dragonlord's blade gleamed in the dying light. "I didn't start this war."
The Demon Lord's laugh shook the battlefield. "Liar." He spread his arms, the remnants of his royal cloak fluttering like tattered wings. "Your hands broke the Accords. Your blade cut down my kin. And now you come like some righteous executioner?" His obsidian teeth gleamed. "This blood is on your hands, godkiller."
A flicker of memory—a treaty signed in blood, broken by steel.
But the time for words had passed.
The Fight
The Demon Lord moved first.
One moment he stood across the field—the next, his massive fist was crashing down like a falling star. Dragonlord barely twisted aside, the impact sending shockwaves through the earth.
He retaliated with a slash of his blade, starlight cutting through the smoke. The Demon Lord roared as the edge bit deep into his forearm, black ichor spraying across the battlefield.
"Still holding back?" the Demon Lord snarled. "Afraid of what you truly are?"
Dragonlord didn't answer. He couldn't afford to.
The battle became a storm of steel and claw.
The Demon Lord fought like a force of nature—every strike shattered stone, every roar sent soldiers stumbling back. Dragonlord moved between them like a shadow, his blade a silver flash in the dark.
But he was holding back. Always holding back.
And it cost him.
A moment's hesitation. A misstep.
The Demon Lord's claw found his arm.
The world exploded in red.
His right arm hit the mud before he did, severed at the elbow. Pain—white-hot and endless—scorched through him, but he did not scream. He had learned that long ago.
Instead, he rose.
And killed the Demon Lord with his left hand.
The End
Far away, in the gilded cage of the throne room, three figures watched the battle unfold through the rippling surface of the scrying mirror.
King Aric sat motionless, his fingers steepled before his lips. Queen Selene's face might have been carved from marble for all it revealed. Seraphina stood slightly apart, her knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the obsidian table.
When the Demon Lord's blade severed Dragonlord's arm in a spray of crimson, when their weapon gasped but did not scream—
Aric stood.
"Enough."
A flick of his wrist. The mirror went dark.
They turned away—not in horror, not in pity, but with the casual indifference of gamblers moving to collect their winnings.
The Lie in the West
Dragonlord flew on wings of agony.
His severed limb pulsed with phantom pain. His remaining hand clutched the stump, staunching blood flow through sheer force of will. The wind screamed in his ears, matching the single thought howling through his mind:
Aleron. Must reach Aleron.
The western borderlands spread beneath him—rolling hills of golden grass, the skeletal remains of border forts.
Empty.
No armies. No siege engines. No brother leading a desperate defense.
Just the wind.
Just the lie.
He landed hard, knees buckling. The impact sent fresh waves of pain through his ravaged body. Around him, the grass whispered secrets he couldn't decipher.
Why send me with three hundred?
Why fake a western campaign?
What game are they playing?
The questions cut deeper than the Demon Lord's blade.
The doubt poisoned his mind, but he pushed it down, burying it under layers of duty and hope.
Maybe it didn't matter.
Maybe he was just tired.
He turned, ready to return to the only place where he could find a shred of peace — the valley.
But then, a soft chime.
The Sister's Call
The chime shattered the silence.
Dragonlord fumbled for the crystal orb with blood-slick fingers. When Seraphina's voice emerged—that single word, "Brother," spoken like a confession—his world tilted.
In all their years, she had never once called for him.
"Where are you?" she asked, and something in her voice—a tremor, a fracture—made his breath catch.
Caution warred with longing. "...Why?"
The pause stretched. Then, softer:
"If you're free... can you come to the throne room?"
The light died. The orb went dark.
Dragonlord stared at his reflection in its smooth surface—a gaunt, hollowed-out stranger with sunken eyes and blood-caked armor.
Every instinct screamed trap.
Every scar ached with memory.
Dragonlord stared at the orb for a long moment, confusion and hope warring inside him.
Slowly, he moved — wounded, bloodied, but determined — back toward the palace.
Toward the throne room.
Toward her.
The heavy doors creaked open under his hand.
Inside, the room was nearly empty, the grand thrones looming over the polished marble floor.
Only Seraphina stood there, waiting.
She looked different somehow — softer, more fragile.
Dragonlord stepped forward.
"What is it, Seraphina?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She turned toward him, her expression unreadable.
"I wanted to tell you something, brother," she said quietly.
He drew in a slow breath, feeling the heaviness pressing down on him.
"...Then tell me," he said. "I'm here now."
Andp inside, some part of him — a part he had never listened to before — screamed that this was the beginning of the end.
[End of Chapter 4]