The throne balcony stood high above the capital, its marble cracked, its banners burned. Smoke curled into the sky, fires raging across the districts. The Dragon King stood there, his golden cloak heavy with ash, his eyes fixed on the ruin below.
He already knew.
The bond of blood told him before the scouts did. His son Kael was gone. His aura had flickered, bright then broken, swallowed by fire. The four Dukes too—legends of his reign—snuffed out one after another.
His chest rose slow, breath dragging deep, heavy with silence. He looked over the capital he had raised with centuries of war, towers once unshakable now split and burning. The air reeked of blood and smoke. His people trampled each other in panic, their faith in him crumbling under screams.
And in his heart, the hate stirred deeper.
