The scent of scorched earth clung to the air.
Blue flames flickered across the shattered floor of the old storeroom, painting the walls with ghostly, unnatural light. The beams above sagged under the damage, and a gaping hole in the ceiling let in smoke and dying daylight. The charred remains of two men—burnt to blackened bone—lay sprawled across the floor, their weapons melted beside them.
Amid the chaos, Sulien slumped forward onto his hands and knees, his small limbs trembling from exhaustion. His chubby hands pressed against the cold stone as he crawled unsteadily toward Yasri, whose body lay motionless just a few feet away, her clothes torn and smeared with blood. Each breath from his tiny chest came as a faint wheeze, his purple eyes fluttering weakly. Wisps of smoke drifted from his lips—the last traces of fire still smoldering inside him.
"Did I... really do that?" the thought stumbled through his foggy mind, each word sluggish and stunned. His tiny frame trembled, not just from exhaustion but disbelief. "It just... happened. The fire... it came out of me. I'm so tired... like everything in me burned out..."
He crawled the last inch forward, reaching Yasri's unmoving hand—and then, finally, sleep overtook him. His head rested against her shoulder as if seeking warmth.
His two dragon brothers — chirped in high-pitched panic. One flapped tiny wings, the other nudged Yasri's arm with its snout, both trying to rouse her. Their calls echoed like desperate cries, shrill and animal-like, searching.
Then, footsteps.
The hatchlings froze. Their wings flared, their scales bristling. Through the haze of smoke and dying flames, a figure emerged.
Robed in crimson.
The fire parted as she stepped forward, her eyes fixed not on the destruction, but on the child nestled in Yasri's arms. Behind her came more—hooded figures, silent, swift, dousing the flames and securing the area. The crimson-robed woman moved with reverence, her breath caught in her throat as her gaze landed on Sulien.
A slow, euphoric smile crept across her lips.
Far away, in the heights of an abandoned watchtower, Elarya stood at its edge, the cold wind snapping her hair across her face.
From her vantage point on the high, crumbling balcony of the distant spire, Elarya caught sight of a dark plume curling above the rooftops of the city. It rose like a warning into the cloudless sky, a smear of ash on the bright canvas of day. Her breath hitched.
"Sulien..."
Her children were there.
She scanned the streets below. Robed figures moved steadily toward the fire's origin, walking with eerie purpose. Her eyes narrowed.
Then she saw it—a hay cart, resting below the tower.
Elarya hesitated. The drop was steep. Her fingers gripped the cracked stone ledge. But there was no time to waste.
She clenched her jaw and jumped.
The wind howled in her ears as she dropped into the hay with a muffled thump, scattering straw and startling the crows into flight. Her sharp eyes caught sight of a horse tethered near a fence—alone, yet alert. Without hesitation, she darted forward, grasped the reins, and swung herself into the saddle.
A shout rang out—one of the robed men had noticed. Then another. They rushed toward her, alarmed at the sight of the escaped woman they believed trapped in the tower. But Elarya was already tugging hard at the reins.
The horse whinnied and reared, hooves striking the ground as it surged forward. She steered it straight through the robed men, forcing them to scatter. Her expression was set, sharp with focus, wind tearing at her hair as she sped away.
"You're not stopping me now," she muttered through clenched teeth, the road ahead already unfolding beneath the gallop of hooves.
Robed figures shouted behind her, "Stop her!" but the horse surged forward with a panicked whinny.
Elarya didn't look back.
Her eyes burned on the trail ahead. She leaned low over the horse's neck, lips drawn in a tight line of determination. "Hold on, my children... I'm coming," she muttered, voice fierce as the wind rushed past.
We return to the Crimson Woman, surrounded by the robed figures standing guard behind her. In her arms—no longer Yasri's—rests the very child, Sulien. She had taken him moments ago, tearing him from the arms of the unconscious handmaiden. Sulien, now asleep in the woman's arms, stirred only faintly.
The dragons chirped and hissed, distressed and angry, flapping their wings in protest. They circled anxiously near the woman, as though sensing the separation. But the Crimson Woman never once turned her gaze to them.
"Lock them up. We'll be taking them as well," she ordered without looking back.
Two of the robed figures moved immediately, producing thick rags and sacks. With surprising precision, they scooped up the protesting hatchlings. The dragons twisted and squirmed, their cries muffled inside the rough cloth, until the bags were tied tight.
Still, the Crimson Woman only looked down at Sulien. There was awe in her expression, as if holding a relic from some ancient myth. His tiny chest rose and fell gently. A tail curled softly around his legs. Small, scale-like patterns shimmered faintly across his skin. Tiny, stud-like horns crowned his head, subtle now but full of promise and the soft rise of tiny, budding wings — barely big enough to carry him, but one day, they would stretch wide across the skies.
She studied him as one might study a sacred artifact, not with maternal care, but with feverish ambition.
She giggled softly, then whispered to him, "You're not supposed to be real… but here I am holding you."
Her hand reached to caress his cheek. His skin was warm, almost feverish. She let her fingers drift through his silver white hair as she cradled him tighter.
Then—a shout.
"LET. HIM. GO." A voice of a man deep in anger.
The woman did not flinch. Behind her, swords were drawn with a shrill hiss of steel. The crimson-robed guards stepped forward, shielding her.
Another voice cried out, war-torn and furious.
Four of Rhazkaan warriors behind him, it was led by Ser Kael. Bloodied and exhausted, but unbroken, they raised their blades with unwavering resolve.
The red-robed woman did not turn.
"You don't understand what you're holding," Kael growled.
The crimson woman finally turned her head, just slightly, her gaze heavy with contempt and amusement. Sulien slept still in her arms. "I do," she answered softly, still looking down at Sulien. "Far more than you ever could."
"You think taking him will give you power?" Kael said, stepping closer. "It won't. Dragons don't bond or bow to anyone and they sure as hell don't obey those who tear them from their mother."
That made her pause. Slowly, she turned her head.Her smile widened. "Then I'll take the mother, too."
Kael's knuckles tightened on his sword.
"She birthed him," the woman said, her voice thick with wonder, rising to her full height. A slow, delighted giggle escaped her lips. "I wonder… Could she make more? This one's just the first… I wonder how many more the Mother of dragons could bear." She said it as a priest might utter prayer, half in reverence, half in hunger. Her eyes drank in Elarya—not her sword, nor her defiance, but her womb. That was what mattered. That was the altar.
The world had forgotten how to make monsters. The gods had grown silent, the old fires long cold. But here—here was proof that some flame still lived, smoldering inside the shell of a woman who had birthed the boy.
And beginnings could be replicated.
She turned to walk away, Sulien cradled in her arms, her robe fluttering behind her like blood on wind. Two of her guards flanked her closely.
If Elarya could bring forth one such creature… why not more? A dozen? A hundred? A brood of ash-born heirs, each more divine, more terrible than the last. The thought lit a hunger behind her smile—one that had little to do with love or legacy, and everything to do with creation. With control.
Kael's face twisted in fury. With a cry, he charged.
The Rhazkaans followed.
Swords clashed, steel rang against steel. A battle broke out in the smoke—robed figures defending, Rhazkaans breaking through in wild fury.
But the Crimson Woman never looked back.
She only looked at the child.
Sulien.
The miracle. Born of ash. Bred for fire.
She whispered into his sleeping ear, "Sleep well, little one. We'll be with your mother soon. And when we are, she'll give you more brothers and sisters. You won't ever be alone again."
She kissed his brow. And walked into the smoke. Toward conquest. Toward her dream.
Toward a world that once scorched her kind—now made to bow before the flame. She remembered the screams, the smoke, the stench of burning flesh. Her mother's cries. Her people turned to ash for daring to believe in something greater.
They called it a curse. Called them an abomination. Tried to smother her like a spark in wet ash. But now, she would answer with fire. Pain for pain. Ruin for ruin. Let them burn for what they feared—and for what they tried to erase.
In another place—far from blood and flame, from dragon-roars and the stench of ash—Sulien drifted or more like a woman drifted, alone, in the void.
It stretched forever—endless, soft and dark as velvet, cradling her in its silence like some terrible, eternal womb. She still did not remember her name. Only the ache in her limbs and the weight of absence. Thought came sluggishly, slow as cooling oil, rising through layers of numbness. Somewhere in the distance, a faint groan echoed, too deep to be her own voice.
"Argh... my head..."
She blinks, slowly awakening into a familiar darkness. The same eerie stillness. The same numb silence she felt when she died the first time.
"Did I die again?" she wonders. "I hope Yasri's okay... and the dragons... please let them be safe."
Even in the assumed end, her first thoughts are of them.
Then—against all logic—she notices something. A flicker. A shimmer of light piercing through the void. This space, this empty nothingness, had always felt like hers. A quiet afterlife, a prison, a place between. But now... something else is here.
She wills herself toward it. The closer she floats, the farther the light seems to drift. Elusive. Taunting.
"What the hell is that?" she mutters, reaching.
Suddenly, a surge slams into her—a force that rattles her mind and heart. Then... a sound pierces the dark: a baby's cry.
Her eyes snap open. Light floods in. Warmth hits her skin—the sun. She gasps.
Blurred vision. A figure leans over her. A woman cloaked in crimson. The stranger's voice is soft, calm.
"Hello, little one. You've finally calmed down. You nearly gave us a scare with that cry," she says with a smile.
Sulien stares at her, eyes wide. Thoughts race: "Who the hell...? Where am I? How long have I been out?"
Then—a galloping sound. Hooves. A rider. A flash of silver hair. "Oh! It's Elarya! Heyy! I'm over here!" Sulien coos, instinctively reaching out with tiny baby arms.
The crimson woman turns, her expression unreadable as Elarya dismounts and approaches, fury burning in her gaze.
Elarya's breath catches the moment she sees Sulien unharmed, though guarded by the woman she had once fled.
"How did you escape the tower, my lady? You could've—"
"It's Shakareen," Elarya snapped, her voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the heavy air. Not Lady, not girl, not some nameless thing to be dismissed. All day, they'd stripped her name from her, cloaking her in titles that did not belong to her. But this—this was hers. "And I'm here for my children. Give them back. Now."
The crimson-robed woman chuckles softly, more amused than threatened. "Such fire. Such foolishness."
Their gazes locked like twin fires drawn from different hearths, a clash of flame and fury. Neither flinched, neither bowed. It was not just a meeting of eyes, but of wills—ancient and aching. And in that suspended moment, with only the wind as witness, Sulien saw it, this woman, for all her calm hands and murmured promises, was no savior. There was hunger in her stillness. Not for blood, perhaps, but something older. Something colder.
His tiny fingers twitched against her robes, and something inside him stirred—a pulse of unease, a whisper of danger. He blinked up at her, the world too big, her arms too sure.
"Oh," the thought came unbidden, strange and childish, but clear as sunrise.
"I'm being kidnapped."
Wrapped in cloth and silence, he was not swaddled in safety. He was being carried away—not toward warmth, but toward something else entirely.