The night was no longer silent in Elvenwood.
The once-peaceful Heartgrove Shrine stood surrounded — glowing runestones cracked under stray magic blasts, the great oak trees that sheltered the shrine scorched and splintered. Smoke curled into the starlit sky.
Elven defenders crouched behind broken stone and tangled roots, arrows nocked, eyes sharp but weary. Only a dozen of them remained.
Elder Faelar — a silver-haired elf with a long green cloak and a carved wooden staff — stood at the heart of the defense line, his expression carved from stone. His breath was heavy, but his voice calm as he barked quiet orders. "Hold the line. Protect the shrine at all costs."
Beside him, Syllen, a young elven archer with a streak of defiance in his emerald eyes, clenched his bow tighter. "Faelar… they're too many."
Faelar touched Syllen's shoulder, briefly. "Then we buy time. Even a little matters."
Across the clearing, the attackers surged forward — armored brutes in dark leather, masked and swift, cutting through the last barriers. At their lead rode Captain Maldrik, a towering man with ash-gray skin, curved blades on his back, and a brutal grin across his scarred face.
Maldrik raised a hand, signaling his force. His voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough dancing, boys — break them! The shrine's heart is ours tonight!"
A chorus of cheers erupted from his men as they pressed forward.
The elves loosed arrows — a perfect volley. Several attackers fell, but many more charged in, smashing through wooden barricades and magical wards like waves crashing over rock.
Syllen gritted his teeth. "Elder Faelar, the barriers—!"
"I know." Faelar lifted his staff; the runes along its length flickered weakly. "The shrine's magic wanes. We stand our ground."
Another explosion — a barricade shattered. The elves were forced back toward the shrine itself, its ancient stone glowing faintly beneath the moon.
Maldrik laughed as he stepped over fallen elves. "Pathetic. I was promised a fight. This? This is slaughter."
Faelar's breath hitched, but his gaze didn't waver. "So be it," he murmured, readying his staff for the last time.
Syllen shouted as another wave charged, "Elder—behind you!"
Suddenly, the ground trembled.
The attackers slowed. Maldrik raised a hand, eyes narrowing. "What…?"
The elves froze, ears twitching. Even Faelar paused, his staff still lifted.
A sound filled the clearing — a deep, thrumming beat in the air. Not magic. Not war drums. Wings.
The attackers turned their faces upward, puzzled, some squinting into the dark sky.
Maldrik stepped forward, eyes sharp, scanning the stars.
"What in all the realms—"
A shadow crossed the moon.
A massive, winged figure burst through the clouds — fangs glinting, eyes burning, fur rippling like silver fire, claws outstretched. And on its back: figures.
Elves and attackers alike froze.
Syllen whispered, eyes wide, "What… is that?"
Faelar's eyes gleamed, the faintest trace of hope breaking through his grim calm. "Perhaps… not all is lost."
Maldrik's smirk faltered. "Stand ready, you fools!"
And from above, a voice rang out, rich with laughter and wild joy.
Zenjiro had arrived.
With a mighty beat of wings, Griff soared over the battlefield.
And then — like a falling star — Zenjiro leapt.
He slammed into the ground behind the attackers with a crack that shook the earth, sending dust and debris flying. The shockwave rippled through the grass, knocking a few raiders off balance.
Zenjiro rose from his crouch — the perfect superhero landing — brushing dust from his shoulder, a smirk curling on his lips.
"All right," he called out, voice rich with arrogant charm, "I'm going to be generous tonight. You get one chance — drop your weapons, get on your knees, and beg for forgiveness."
The raiders froze, glancing at each other.
Maldrik stepped forward, swords half-drawn, brow furrowed in confusion. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Zenjiro grinned wide.
"I'm Zenjiro, a god." He spread his arms. "This is my world."
He snapped his fingers, a pulse of glowing energy rippling through his fingertips. "Last chance, boys."
Maldrik threw back his head and howled with laughter. "Kill the fucking lunatic!"
Chaos erupted.
***
Zenjiro blurred forward — a flash of motion and light. He smashed through the first wave of attackers, fists glowing with raw power, bodies flung like ragdolls through the air. A sword swung at his back — Zenjiro caught it without looking, twisting it from the attacker's grip and snapping it in half.
Above, Griff swooped low, scattering the enemy lines.
Then came the others.
Lyra and Eva landed nimbly on Griff's back, arrows already flying from their bows — swift, precise, dropping raiders left and right.
Celeste emerged in a storm of light, hands ablaze with magic. With a graceful flick, she sent a wave of crackling energy sweeping through the attackers, hurling them back like leaves in a storm.
Aria charged alongside, flames rippling up her blade, slashing through armor as if it were paper.
For the first time in his life, Maldrik's grin faltered.
He watched as his men fell — scattered like wheat before the scythe. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing — only to snap wide as Zenjiro pointed directly at him.
"You're next, dickhead."
For the first time in his pathetic life, Maldrik felt something crawl up his spine that he had never known before:
Fear.
***
The battlefield fell silent. All eyes fixed on the two figures standing in the ruined clearing.
Maldrik, face twisted in fury, raised his hands — dark energy crackling between his fingers, his mouth curling into a snarl. Black tendrils of magic, gifts from Dreadmour himself, twisted and writhed around his arms.
"You think you can stop me?" Maldrik roared, hurling a blast of seething darkness toward Zenjiro.
With effortless grace, Zenjiro raised his palm — the blast slammed against an invisible barrier, rippling outward like a stone striking still water.
"Cute trick," Zenjiro smirked, tilting his head.
Maldrik roared again, unleashing volley after volley of dark magic — burning shadows, slicing waves, spears of black ice — but Zenjiro dodged, blocked, deflected. His silhouette blurred with speed, his fists shattering the incoming spells before they could land.
Then Zenjiro lunged forward.
Fist after glowing fist, he pummeled Maldrik — each blow cracking through the armor, sending shockwaves through the ground. Maldrik tried to retaliate, but his arms buckled, knees faltered — the dark magic sputtered into flickers.
With a final crushing punch to the chest, Zenjiro sent Maldrik sprawling to the ground in a heap.
The once-proud warlord coughed, spitting blood, his body broken.
Celeste stepped up beside Zenjiro, her eyes calm but firm.
"It's over," she said softly, gazing down at the fallen commander. "You've lost."
Maldrik's lips peeled back in a wicked, bloodied grin.
"Fuck…," he cussed "No… this is only the beginning."
His voice rasped like rusted steel.
"Lord Dreadmour will not stop… until all life burns to ash… and darkness reigns…"
Zenjiro blinked. "Who?"
Suddenly, Lyra's sharp voice cut in from the side —
"Zenjiro! His hands — something's wrong!"
Zenjiro's eyes snapped down — Maldrik's fingers were weaving through a series of tight, frantic gestures, dark sigils igniting on his skin.
"Back!" Zenjiro barked, throwing an arm out as the others recoiled.
A surge of dark magic flared — but instead of lashing outward, it folded inward.
Maldrik's body twisted, contorted — his last scream a hollow, ragged sound as the spell consumed him from within, leaving only scorched earth and a faint, acrid smoke.
The battlefield fell into stunned silence.
From the edge of the clearing, Faelar, the elven elder, stepped forward, his face lined with sorrow.
"They would rather die," Faelar murmured, "than surrender. Such is the madness of the dark sorcerer king's thralls."
Zenjiro exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as the last of the tension drained from the air.
"Right," he muttered, glancing at the smoldering spot. "Well… that escalated."
The heroes starred on — Celeste's worried glance, Lyra's sharp focus, Eva's burning resolve — and then up to Zenjiro, his gaze hardening.
As the dust settles over the battlefield, the air fills with the sound of cheers and soft weeping.
Eva, heart pounding, races across the clearing —
"Syllen!"
Her voice cracks as she throws herself into the arms of her brother, Syllen, who barely has time to brace before she crashes into him, wrapping him in a desperate, bone-tight hug.
Syllen's arms fold around her, trembling, his eyes wet.
"I thought— I thought I'd never see you again," he murmurs into her hair.
Eva pulls back, smiling through her tears.
"It's because of you… because of all of you… that I made it out. You gave me the chance to bring help."
Syllen's gaze lifts, landing on Lyra across the crowd. For a moment, his breath catches — the boyish crush still flickering beneath years of hardship.
"… And you brought her back too," he says quietly, a soft grin touching his lips.
The elven defenders begin gathering, laughter and sobs mixing as they clutch one another, brothers, sisters, friends — a family broken and now, finally, whole.
At the center, Elder Faelar steps forward, his wise eyes fixed on Zenjiro, a grateful smile breaking across his weathered face.
"I—"
WHAM.
A massive thud knocks Zenjiro off his feet as Griff barrels in, tail wagging furiously, tongue lolling.
"AH— Griff! Griff, buddy—!" Zenjiro bursts into laughter, twisting under the enthusiastic assault.
"Aria—! Celeste! Help—!"
He's half-wrestling, half-laughing, pinned to the ground under the giant beast's affection.
Faelar's brows shoot up in astonishment.
"Wait… is that the Beast of Blackroot?"
Celeste, hands on her hips, lets out a dry laugh.
"That's Griff now."
The Elder turns to Lyra next, his expression softening. He steps forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her.
"Thank you… for coming home, for saving us."
Lyra stiffens for a heartbeat — and then melts, returning the embrace.
"Despite everything… this is still my home. And it always will be." She tilts her head with a small, proud smile.
"But if anyone's the hero today… it's Zenjiro."
Zenjiro, now flat on his back as Aria awkwardly tries to pull Griff off, her small hands gripping the fur, laughing breathlessly.
Celeste watches from the side, arms folded, lips twitching into an amused smirk.
***
The first light of dawn spills across the river, its surface shimmering like molten gold. The air is cool and quiet, save for the gentle weeping of the trees and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
A simple raft — woven from branches, flowers, and silk — floats upon the water, carrying the bodies of the fallen elves. Each figure is cloaked in white, their hands crossed over their chests, faces serene as if asleep.
The entire village has gathered on the riverbank.
Elder Faelar steps forward, his staff in hand, his silver hair glowing in the morning sun. He raises his voice, deep and steady, and the crowd falls into reverent silence.
"Brothers, sisters… children of the forest.
Today, we stand not in the shadow of death — but in the light of their lives.
Those we have lost were not only warriors; they were dreamers, healers, lovers, friends.
They were the laughter in our halls, the hands that lifted the fallen, the songs beneath our trees.
And though their bodies leave us now, their spirits… their spirits take root in every stone, every leaf, every breath of wind that stirs the canopy above.
Let us not weep as though they are gone forever.
For today, they join the stars — where no shadow can touch them, and no sorrow can follow."
As Faelar lowers his staff, a soft melody rises — flutes and voices, lilting and pure.
The elves, standing side by side, lift their hands as they sing. Tiny orbs of light begin to dance around the raft. Slowly, tenderly, the bodies shimmer and dissolve into a cascade of starlight, rising into the sky like a thousand fireflies. Gasps and quiet sobs ripple through the crowd as they watch their loved ones ascend.
Zenjiro, Celeste, Eva, Lyra, Aria, and Griff stand respectfully at the edge, witnessing the ancient ritual, the weight of it settling in their hearts.
As the last spark fades into the heavens, Faelar speaks once more, his voice gentler, touched with a small, bittersweet smile.
"Tonight, we will not hold a funeral.
Tonight, we will hold a celebration.
We will drink, we will dance, we will remember their laughter —
And we will remind the world that even in the darkest of nights…
We are a people of light."
Nightfall, the elf village is alive with music and laughter. Lanterns hang from tree branches, glowing like captured stars. Elves dance in circles around crackling bonfires, their graceful movements accompanied by the cheerful ring of flutes, drums, and lutes.
Cups of sweet berry wine and honey mead are passed around, cheeks are flushed, and laughter echoes through the trees.
In the middle of it all stands Zenjiro, a cup barely touched in his hand — because he's too busy fending off two determined rivals.
Aria and Celeste are both clinging to his arms, pulling him toward the dance floor, their cheeks pink from drink and excitement.
Aria teasing and tugging on his arm, "Come on, Zenjiro! You promised me the first dance!"
Celeste intervening with a playful smirk, pulling the other way, "No, he promised me the first dance! You danced with him first last time."
Caught between them, Zenjiro stumbles, laughing nervously as their enthusiasm smothers him — quite literally, as their chests press against either side of his face.
"W-Wait! I can't dance if I can't breathe, you know!"
The girls giggle and practically drag him onto the dance floor, where they end up dancing with him at the same time, spinning him back and forth like a plaything. The other elves watch, amused, some clapping to the rhythm.
A little distance away, Lyra stands under a tree, a small cup in her hands, watching with a soft smile that fades slightly as Syllen approaches.
"Everyone's happy you came back, Lyra. It's… it's good to see you here again." He said with a hopeful and gentle smile.
Lyra, with a quiet smile, eyes on Zenjiro, "It's good to be here, Syllen."
There's a pause, the music filling the space between them.
"Do you think you'll stay? Here, I mean… for good?" Syllen said nervously.
Lyra's gaze drops, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup.
"… I'm not sure yet." She said hesitantly.
Despite the disappointing feeling he had, Syllen tried to smile, he glanced at Zenjiro, "Is it because of… him?"
"I don't know. Maybe.", Lyra with a half-laugh, half-sigh.
Before the moment can turn too heavy, Eva rushes in, laughing as she grabs Syllen's arm.
"Syllen! Come dance, you're terrible at it!"
She tries to tug Lyra in too, but Lyra gently shakes her head, offering a small smile.
"Not tonight, Eva. You two go ahead."
As Eva pulls a protesting Syllen into the chaos of the dance floor, Lyra leans back against the tree, watching the lights, the laughter, the strange new life unfolding around her — and the godlike boy at the center of it all.
***
The music and laughter from the celebration fade into the distance as Zenjiro walks alone through the moonlit forest. Fireflies drift lazily through the trees, and the soft murmur of the nearby river reaches his ears.
He spots Lyra sitting on a large rock near the edge, her silhouette outlined against the shimmering water below.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked.
Lyra smirking without looking back, "Since when do you ask for permission, hero?"
Zenjiro chuckles, stepping up beside her and sinking onto the rock with a contented sigh. They sit in a comfortable silence, gazing out at the peaceful river and moonlit woods.
Zenjiro then inevitably spoke
"It's… peaceful here. Looks incredible, too."
"Yeah. It really does.", She said softly.
She glances sideways at him, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Do you think you could ever stay here? For good?"
Zenjiro thought about it for a while…
"It'd be nice, but… I want to see more of the world. Where I came from felt like… a box. Same routine every day. Same streets, same people, same sky."
"I know what you mean.", Lyra said with a quiet laugh.
She hesitates a moment.
"Syllen—"
"Syllen?", Zenjiro tilted.
"Eva's brother. He asked if I wanted to stay, but… I told him I wasn't sure. I want to explore, too. And… there's another reason."
Zenjiro raises a brow as Lyra shifts slightly, turning toward him.
Lyra, a little nervous, a little bold…
"It's you. Maybe it's shameless for me to say since you already have two girls, but… I can't stop wanting to be with you. I've been thinking about you, even when I try not to… I think I have feelings for you"
Zenjiro blinks, caught off guard for a rare moment. A lopsided grin tugs at his lips as he lets out a small laugh.
"Then why don't you just become my next bride?"
Lyra's eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat.
"I'm serious.", he reiterated.
"Are you… sure you want me? I'm not magical like Celeste or royalty like Aria."
Zenjiro's expression softens.
Zenjiro, quietly, almost looking away, a faint blush touching his cheeks, "It doesn't matter to me. I can choose whoever I want — and it doesn't matter where they come from."
(Pause)
"And… I think you're really beautiful."
Lyra's heart skips, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. She leans in slowly, brushing her lips against his in a soft, lingering kiss.
The world around them seems to hold its breath.
They pull apart just slightly, their foreheads touching.
Lyra with her eyes bright, whispers in his ears, "I would love nothing more than to be your bride… to stay by your side forever."
Zenjiro smiles — and then their lips meet again, deeper, more eager, as they wrap each other in a kiss that feels like it could last forever.
***
As dawn's first light stretches across the treetops, Zenjiro and Lyra walk side by side through the trees, quietly making their way back toward the laughter and music of the camp. The soft glow on Lyra's cheeks hasn't faded, and Zenjiro has a small, satisfied grin that he's trying (and failing) to hide.
Suddenly, Celeste comes bustling toward them, her long hair swaying, a slightly annoyed but relieved look on her face.
"There you two are! We were starting to think you ran off to another world."
"Relax, Celeste. Just went for a walk.", Zenjiro grins.
Celeste crosses her arms…
"Well, the Elder's been looking for you, my love. He's ready to talk — and I don't think you want to keep him waiting."
They head back into the clearing, where the last few celebration fires smolder, and elves lounge in small groups, laughing, singing, and sipping drinks.
As Zenjiro approaches, Aria spots him first.
"And where exactly did you disappear to, Zenjiro?"
Zenjiro smirks, "Just went for a walk."
Nearby, Eva bounds up, eyes glinting with mischief.
"With Lyra? Just the two of you? What happened?"
Lyra's cheeks flush pink as she rubs the back of her neck, looking anywhere but at Eva.
Before Zenjiro can come up with a smart reply, a calm voice cuts through the teasing:
"I see our heroes have returned."
The group quiets down as Faelar approaches. His eyes soften as they fall on Lyra, then shift to Zenjiro.
"We can speak of romantic wanderings later."
(he gives Lyra a brief, knowing smile)
"For now, it's time you hear why the enemy came for Heartgrove Shrine — and what it means for all of us."
The circle of elves grows still, all turning toward the Elder, the weight of the moment settling over the camp.
Zenjiro, Lyra, Aria, Celeste, Eva, and Syllen stand at the forefront. Faelar's presence commands quiet; his tall figure, robed in deep green embroidered with silver threads, looks ageless under the dappled sun.
Elder Faelar, his voice calm, but heavy...
"My friends… you have fought bravely. You have reclaimed Heartgrove Shrine from the shadows. But now, you must understand why this battle was fought… and why this was only the beginning."
He raises his hand, gesturing toward the ancient shrine — its stone walls pulsing faintly with silver light.
"The Heartgrove Shrine is the lifeblood of Elvenwood. Its Wellspring of magic sustains the land, the rivers, the trees… and the long lives of the elves. Without it, the forest would wither, and we — we would wither alongside it."
The gathered elves murmur softly, their eyes dropping, hands clasped over hearts.
his tone darkening…
"But the ones who came here sought to defile it, to drain its power and twist it to their will.
And they were not acting alone."
His sharp gaze sweeps the circle, pausing on Aria.
"They were sent… by Lord Dreadmour."
The name strikes like thunder. Aria takes a step back, her breath catching.
"…Dreadmour? That's not possible. That's just a name from old tales…", Aria says, almost whispering.
Faelar, quiet, resolute…
"He is no mere tale, Princess.
Once, he was Kaelar — a mortal sorcerer driven by brilliance and hunger. When mortal magic failed to satisfy him, he turned to forbidden arts, trading his soul for eternal power. He became Lord Dreadmour, the Dark Sorcerer King.
His thirst is endless. He conquered empires, shattered kingdoms, until a fragile alliance — elves, humans, dwarves — sealed him away. But the seal has weakened. And now, his shadow falls over us once more."
Aria's face twists with realization, her voice trembling.
"Wait… then the attack on Rosenthal… the dragon… that was him too?"
Faelar nods gravely.
"Yes. The dragon you defeated, Zenjiro — it was no random terror.
It was sent by Dreadmour to raze Rosenthal, to break its defenses, and to spread fear across the kingdoms. Your victory there turned his gaze to you.
And now, he comes for the Wellspring.
If Heartgrove had fallen tonight, the balance of magic would have shattered, and his armies of darkness would have risen stronger than ever."
The circle falls into stunned silence.
Eva softly clutches Syllen's arm.
"…We were so close to losing everything."
Celeste frowned as she crossed her arms.
"So the dark sorcerer king has been pulling the strings from the start."
Faelar's gaze shifts to Zenjiro, his voice lowering but gaining weight.
"Zenjiro… this is why you were called here, whether by fate or chance.
You carry no crown, no title, no ancient bloodline. And yet you have stood where kings and champions have fallen.
If anyone can stand against Dreadmour, it is you."
Zenjiro breathes out slowly, his fists tightening at his sides.
"…Guess I have to do something about the asshoel, he made a huge mistake trying to destroy my new world."
Aria steps forward, her voice regaining strength.
"Then we stand together. Rosenthal owes you its life, Zenjiro. And now I fight by your side, as your bride."
Celeste had a smirk as she grabbed on to Zenjiro's shoulder.
"And I'll go wherever you go, darling."
"We all stand with you.", Lyra added.
A hush falls, the air tense with resolve. Faelar places a hand over his heart, bowing deeply.
"Then perhaps… hope has not yet abandoned this world."
The wind stirs the treetops. Above, the sun breaks through the canopy, casting light across the gathered heroes — and the long road ahead.
***
The early morning sun filters through the ancient trees of Elvenwood, painting everything in soft gold. Near the edge of the village, Griff, the majestic winged beast, waits patiently, his silver feathers shimmering as he snorts and stamps the ground.
Zenjiro, Celeste, Aria, and Lyra stand ready, their packs secured. A small crowd of elves has gathered — smiling, waving, some still teary-eyed from last night's emotions.
Zenjiro steps forward, facing the crowd, raising his voice...
"I promise you — I'll find that son of a bitch, Lord Dreadmour, and stop him before he brings chaos to anyone else's home. You all have my word."
The crowd murmurs in approval; some clap, others press hands over hearts.
Elder Faelar steps forward, his long silver hair catching the light.
"On behalf of all Elvenwood, thank you, Zenjiro.
It is rare we welcome outsiders… but you, and your brides, will always have a home here."
Zenjiro smiles, then turns and calls softly
"Lyra."
Lyra steps toward him, cheeks pink, eyes bright. Without hesitation, Zenjiro takes her hand and lifts it gently.
"She's not just one of you now — she's one of us. My bride."
There's a collective murmur of surprise and joy from the elves. Faelar chuckles softly, eyes crinkling.
"You've chosen well, Zenjiro. Lyra may be stubborn… but she's the bravest of us all."
Eva weaves through the crowd, beaming as she grips Lyra's shoulders.
"Lucky! I knew you were in love with him, Lyra."
(she sighs dramatically)
"I wish I could come with you on this grand adventure, but someone has to help put things back together here."
She hugs Lyra tightly, then turns to Zenjiro — surprising him by throwing her arms around his neck.
Eva whispering playfully in his ear…
"Take care of her… and once things calm down, I will come find you.
And when I do, I'll make sure you fall for me too, so I can become your next bride."
Before he can react, she plants a quick kiss on his cheek and dashes off, laughing as she grabs Syllen's arm.
"Safe travels! We'll hold the fort here!", Syllen waved.
Aria, watching with an arched brow, turns to Celeste with a smirk.
"Good thing we're leaving… otherwise Zenjiro would end up making every cute girl in this village his bride."
Celeste chuckles softly, shaking her head.
"Let's not put any ideas into his head."
Finally, the four approach Griff, climbing onto his back. The crowd waves as the powerful wings spread wide.
Zenjiro then called down one last time…
"Take care of each other!"
With a powerful beat of wings, Griff lifts off. Wind rushes through hair and cloaks as they ascend above the treetops. Below, the elves wave, their figures growing smaller as the forest stretches out to the horizon.
Lyra leans into Zenjiro, her hand slipping into his.
"Ready for the next chapter?"
Zenjiro grinned.
"With you all by my side? Always."
They soar into the sky, four hearts bound by love and destiny, leaving behind the peaceful green canopy — and flying straight toward the storm ahead.
***
The chamber is vast, cold, and silent in Dreadmour's Dark Throne Room — its black stone walls pulsing faintly with red veins of dark magic. Jagged banners hang from above, depicting a crowned serpent devouring the sun. At the far end, seated upon a throne of twisted obsidian, Lord Dreadmour gazes into a shimmering scrying mirror floating before him.
In the swirling glass, images flicker: Zenjiro atop Griff, soaring away from Elvenwood… the faces of Celeste, Aria, and Lyra… the Heartgrove Shrine, saved from destruction.
A faint crack appears in the glass — Dreadmour's fingers tighten on the throne's armrest.
"So… the boy thrives."
From the shadows behind the throne, a soft, predatory laugh rises.
"Mmm… he sounds delicious."
Dreadmour doesn't turn, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a cold smirk.
"Kaede Stormfang. Step forward."
With a flicker of movement, she appears — a blur of speed and grace. Kaede Stormfang, the infamous beastkin assassin, leans against the throne's base, idly twirling a dagger between slender fingers. Her fox-like ears flick atop her head, and her long tail sways lazily behind her.
"Miss me, my lord?" Kaede said teasingly…
Dreadmour's crimson eyes narrow.
"You have a new target. A warrior named Zenjiro. Track him down. End him."
Kaede smirks, licking her fang lightly.
"Zenjiro…
Oh, I've heard whispers about him. The human who calls himself a god, the one who cut down your precious drake… sounds like fun."
She circles the throne, graceful as a panther, dagger flashing in the dim light.
"You sure you want him dead, my lord?
Maybe I can bring him back… alive."
Dreadmour's gaze hardens.
"Amuse yourself how you wish. Just ensure he never stands before me."
Kaede purrs softly, stretching languidly.
"Mmm, you're no fun.
But… I do love a challenge."
With a sharp wink, she flickers away — a blur of silver and shadow — leaving only a faint scent of wildflowers in the cold, still air.
Dreadmour leans back into his throne, eyes glowing like burning coals.
"Run, Zenjiro. Gather your brides.
We'll see how far you can go… before you fall."
The scrying mirror shatters with a whispering crackle, shards fading into smoke.