"Shit, shit, shit!! A dragon egg?! I can't believe it!" Tryon whispered to himself, his heart pounding.
He quickly scanned his surroundings, making sure no one was watching. Then, in a rush of adrenaline, he grabbed the egg and darted back to his new room.
He didn't know how to open it—or even if he should—but he was smart enough to know this wasn't the right time. So, he waited.
But what Tryon didn't realize was… Aryon had seen him.
Aryon didn't say anything—not yet. But the seed of betrayal had already been planted.
Aryon was boiling with rage. Rage at his father. Rage at Tryon. He was supposed to be king. He was the eldest. It was his birthright. And yet, somehow, his younger brother was the one who got crowned.
Aryon had always felt invisible. With his straight brown hair, dull brown eyes, and that sharp, aggressive temper, no one ever really looked at him as a king. He wasn't loved. He wasn't admired. He wasn't… chosen.
"I'll make you regret this, father," he had whispered to himself during the coronation, his voice shaking with fury.
Aryon didn't have a clear plan. All he knew was he wanted attention. No—he needed it. And he was willing to destroy everything to get it.
His first move was pure chaos.
He lured a group of young women—commoners, servants, and even daughters of nobles—under the false promise of protection and gifts. For two whole days, he indulged in everything vile: drinking, feasting, and abusing them, one by one. Then, in a final, gruesome act… he hacked them to pieces with a lumber axe.
He left their remains outside the palace gates.
Tryon and their father—now acting as royal advisor—said nothing. But the disgust in their eyes said everything. They knew Aryon did it all for one reason: to be seen.
And now the whole capital saw him.
They called him "The Butcher Prince." Children hissed when he passed. Commoners booed from balconies: "BOO! BOO!"
But for Aryon, that wasn't enough. Hatred was still a form of attention—but he wanted more. He wanted power. And he wanted to break the legacy of his bloodline.
So, the very next day, without any permission from King Tryon, Aryon stormed the Academy of Scholars—killed six of the realm's greatest minds with his own hands. These were the people working on new reforms, military plans, strategies. Gone.
Tryon was done. His patience had thinned to a thread.
But his father, the former king Tyjan—white-haired, broad-shouldered, and old as stone—advised him, "Say nothing. Act as if he doesn't exist. He wants a response. Don't give it to him."
But Aryon went too far.
He stood before the entire royal court—nobles, guards, foreign emissaries—and shouted:
"I saw Tryon holding a dragon egg!"
"Where the hell did that bastard find out?" Tryon thought, panic rushing through his chest.
Aryon had crossed the final line. Tryon's fury, buried deep until now, erupted.
"Did something like that really happen?" Tyjan asked, his voice laced with worry.
"…Yeah. But I didn't want anyone to know! Father, I'm going to kill him with my own hands!" Tryon growled.
"You can't. He's your brother!"
"I don't need your permission. I'm king."
Tryon ordered a pyre built in the center of the capital. A massive bonfire of judgment. No trial. No delay.
He stood beside his queen, Elenora, when he gave the order: "Throw Aryon into the fire."
The people gasped. But the soldiers obeyed. Aryon was dragged screaming through the streets. Tryon didn't even flinch.
"IM YOUR BROTHER YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME , COME ON I WAS JOKING!! TYRON PLEASE DONT DO THIS TO UR BROTHER!! I WONT DO THIS AGAIN I JUST NEEDED ATTENTION!!!"aryon was screaming for his life
They tossed Aryon's body into the flames. The crowd watched in silence as he burned. The screams were terrible—high-pitched, raw, and choking. And then… silence.
But Tryon wasn't done.
As the fire roared, he suddenly ran up the steps of the palace. He returned moments later, clutching the dragon egg—oval-shaped, deep black with emerald-green veins, warm to the touch. He placed it gently into the fire.
People stared, stunned. They'd thought Aryon was lying.
Tyjan watched from afar, his jaw clenched. He wanted to say something. As a former king, as a father. But he said nothing. What was done was done.
And then… it happened.
From the smoke, a small winged creature shot upward into the sky and swooped down toward Tryon. The dragon was no bigger than a calf, but its wings shimmered like molten silver.
"Dracarus," Tryon whispered—he didn't even know why he said it. The word just… came to him.
The dragon breathed a small jet of fire.
The world shook.
For the first time in two thousand years, dragons had returned.
Tryon was hailed as The Father of Dragons. Every kingdom trembled. Especially Sylmira—the old rival empire—who had long dreamed of reclaiming Drakholme. But now… Tryon was an unmatched force.
Drakholme's golden age could return.
But not yet.
The dragon was still young. Only capable of flying 100 meters high. Fire-breathing wasn't consistent. But it was a start.
"No one knows anything about dragons anymore," Tryon said.
"There might be old books in the prison dungeons," Tyjan offered.
Tryon immediately ordered a search. Meanwhile, spies from Sylmira were already reporting everything back.
Their new king, Syroc, knew he had to act fast—or lose everything.
Back in the palace, a soldier approached Tryon.
"Your Majesty," said Nick, a loyal knight with dark hair and striking green eyes. One of the finest swordsmen in the realm.
Tryon nodded and sat on his throne, picking up a dusty old book. He blew on the cover, sending dust into the air, and flipped through its pages. There were no answers—just illustrations. Ancient dragons in flight, battles, firestorms…
No burial was held for Aryon. Not even a stone.
The kingdom was eerily calm.
But far to the east, in Sylmira… they were already drawing up plans.
Plans to burn Drakholme to the ground.