The door of the hall opened with a slow creak.
A soldier entered — pale face, hand trembling as he held his helmet against his chest.
His voice came out low, as if speaking itself was difficult:
"Lord... the field is covered in mist. No sound. No movement. Our scouts won't advance any further. There are... pieces. Many."
Viscount Ardentis lifted his head — cold, stone-eyed.
"How many?"
The soldier swallowed hard.
"We don't know. There are no whole bodies left to count. Only... remains."
The heavy breathing of a few counselors filled the hall, muffled and slow.
The Viscount let the silence weigh for a few moments. Then, without moving a single muscle in his face:
"Where is the Viscountess?"
The air shifted.
Sèsinmè stepped forward, her gaze distant, voice firm yet quiet:
"I haven't seen her since the troops crossed the gates at dawn. She hasn't returned... nor sent word."
Silence fell again — dense, suffocating, heavier than the smoke of battle.
Not even footsteps.
Not even wind against the windows.
The castle held its breath.
Outside, beyond the walls, within the fog.
An absolute silence took form.
Not the silence of calm —
but the silence after the scream.
Inside the thick mist, shields still raised.
Trembling arms.
Men gasping as if they'd run for a lifetime.
Then came the sounds — faint, broken.
Someone sobbed.
Another fell to his knees, vomiting onto the stained ground.
A knight let his shield slip from his hands, staring into the void.
The air reeked of burnt flesh.
Human parts scattered among shattered stones and dark blood.
Hands.
Jaws.
Flesh stuck to shields, to the ground, to boots.
Some soldiers tried not to look.
Others couldn't stop.
A young man trembled, his hands covering his face.
"They... they were ordinary people..." — his voice broke, barely a sound.
Marcus stepped forward slowly, his face rigid.
He stopped before him.
Said nothing for a few seconds — just breathed deep, fighting the revolt of his own stomach.
"Stand up," he said at last, low, steady. "Breathe. Don't fall now."
The young man tried to obey.
Failed.
Collapsed onto his elbows, sobbing.
Marcus turned his face aside, jaw clenched, hand trembling for a moment before closing into a fist.
He raised his voice — just enough to be heard:
"The dead have already done their part. You haven't. Look ahead."
No one answered.
Not because they disagreed —
but because none of them could speak.
The wind finally passed between shields and spears, carrying the smell, spreading the dust.
The war was still there.
But for the first time since it began —
the living seemed more fragile than the dead.
Éreon said not a word at first.
His eyes swept through the mist, across dented shields, broken spears, motionless faces.
They stopped on Marcus — trembling hands, gaze lost between fear and duty.
The silence lasted longer than it should have.
And when Éreon finally spoke, his voice came low, hoarse — without anger, without mercy.
"So this is what's left of man's faith," he said. "The poor dying for the promises of the rich. Families sent to their deaths by those who've never held a blade. They call it duty. Honor. Sacrifice. But it's only fear... fear disguised."
He took a few steps among the bodies, the mist parting around him.
"Look around you." His voice rose, without shouting."They were the ones who held the walls.Not the nobles. Not the awakened.The ones who had no choice."
The wind blew, lifting dust and the scent of iron.
"They say war separates the strong from the weak...But here, I see only the bodies of those who never had the right to choose to be strong."
He stopped before a mutilated body, eyes distant.
"The wars of gods... of lords... always end the same: the dead become names, the living become tools, and the guilty sleep on clean thrones."
Silence fell again — heavy, absolute.
Not even Marcus replied.
No one dared.
Éreon walked toward the wall without looking back.
The fog shifted, slow, as if the very air listened.
No banner.
No distinction.
A young soldier, still smeared with soot and tears, raised his head.
His voice came broken, almost a sob caught in his throat:
"You... you're strong, aren't you? We saw it. Back in the village. We saw when you called the dragon... when you carved a path."
"Then why?" — his chin trembled, filthy with vomit. — "If you could end this... why did you let them die like that?"
The mist seemed to hold its breath.
Éreon stopped.
He looked at him without haste — no rage, no pity, only raw truth in his eyes.
"Because you needed to see. You needed to feel the weight of war and the price it demands. In the world of the strong, the weak don't fall first — they fall forever."
He took one step forward, steady, voice low as a verdict:
"If I had spared you this... you'd be the next to die. An army that's never bled... is just a pile of bodies waiting for the ground."
Silence.
The young man lowered his head — not in submission, but in understanding.
Éreon turned back.
The wind dragged the laments like dry leaves carried by fate.
"Remember. Keep this in bone and soul. In war, the world doesn't ask if you want to be strong."
He walked on.
"It demands it."
The air around Éreon rippled — subtle, like the first tremor before an earthquake.
The fog, thick as a death veil, opened by itself, bending as if choosing to make way.
And there he appeared.
Eyes lit in violet — not light, but judgment.
Filaments pulsed beneath his skin, as if power ran through him like blood.
There was no haste.
No glory.
Only destiny.
From atop the wall, the first soldiers saw him.
"He... he came out of the mist..." one murmured, breathless.
"Sir... he's coming..." another barely managed to say.
The commander frowned, trying to understand — but his face showed something more dangerous than fear: ignorance.
Éreon walked until he stood just a few steps from the wall.
He didn't raise a weapon.
He didn't declare a threat.
He only looked.
From the heart of the viscounty, a bell tolled.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Four times.
Slow.
Deep.
And strange — as if it marked an ending, not an alarm.
The men on the wall exchanged tense looks.
"That signal... it's not ours..." whispered an archer.
"Sir... what does it mean?" — another asked, voice shaking.
The commander said nothing.
He wanted to know too.
Then came the second sound — a deep vibration, like something ancient awakening beneath the earth.
Then the roar.
And another.
The stone shook.
The mist tore first — and then came Obsidar, the black dragon.
Scales like obsidian blades, amber eyes burning like molten metal.
Wings vast, living shadow, ancient weight in the air.
When he roared, the world seemed to sink a step.
Then the sky curved.
Bordeaux scales with purple gleam, violet eyes that judged more than they saw.
An ancestral heart pulsed beneath his chest, each beat bending the wind.
Morvael did not arrive — he was recognized.
Éreon did not turn his eyes from the wall.
"Obsidar," his voice was almost a whisper." Kaíe. (Burn.)"
The black dragon took flight with a single beat of his wings that split the silence in two.
He crossed the wall like a sentence.
Then the fire descended — a river of orange and gold, heavy as molten steel.
The explosions followed, one after another — short, violent, merciless.
Inside the city, voices died before they became screams.
From the mist behind Éreon, Marcus emerged, staggering, dried blood on his face.
He looked at the destruction... then at Éreon.
The dragon with the dark purple scales turned his head toward Marcus.
The roar came deep, heavy — warning, not threat.
Marcus stopped.
Not out of fear — but because he understood.
Morvael lowered one of his immense wings, offering it like a living staircase for Éreon to mount.
He climbed slowly.
His voice came calm, steady — more law than command:
"When you can stand, you will march. Those who do not rise... will stay with the dead."
Another explosion echoed.
The wall blazed with fire.
The city behind it ceased to exist.
Marcus, his voice broken, asked:
"This... this war... is it over?"
Éreon did not take his eyes from the burning horizon.
"It is. Fly."
The dragon took off — and the ground, the wind, the men bowed as he rose toward the castle.
Not as a hero.
Not as a savior.
But as the end that comes after dreams.
The sky trembled with the distant echo of flames — the city burned within silver walls, a living sea of fire devouring houses, streets, and screams.
Morvael tore through the clouds of soot and descended, spreading his wings in a vast arc, ancient as an omen.
The earth shuddered when his claws struck the marble of the castle's inner courtyard — the protected heart of the viscounty, surrounded by the wall of gold.
Sèsinmè was there.
Alone at the entrance, unmoving, like an ancient obelisk.
Grief in her eyes, but not fear — only that ritual calm of one who witnesses the inevitable and recognizes it as destiny.
The dragon landed before her, vapor rising from heated scales, amethyst eyes burning in silence.
Éreon descended.
He walked toward Sèsinmè, each step heavy, steady, as if the ground itself acknowledged dominion and bowed beneath it.
Scattered across the courtyard — fallen soldiers of the viscount, broken spears, women fallen beside them, signs of a brutal clash between their own.
Sèsinmè inclined her head slowly, like a priestess greeting a god come to judge — not to save.
Without a word, the dragon rose again.
Its wings thundered as it took flight, returning to reinforce the devastation, diving once more into the sea of fire consuming the lands behind them.
Sèsinmè turned and walked.
Éreon followed her through the corridors of the castle — his steps sinking into golden dust and dark stains that marked the floor.
Bodies of soldiers and awakened ones lined the path, ritual weapons scattered where they'd fallen, like offerings rejected by the gods.
The torches cast long, torn, flickering shadows across the ornamented walls.
Red banners with golden borders hung heavy, stained with blood, the viscount's proud stag emblazoned on them — now the symbol of something ended.
Heavy doors were pushed open, groaning deeply.
The great hall revealed itself — silent, vast, and tragic.
The Viscount knelt before his own throne, trembling hands resting on the ground, head bowed like one who had already heard his sentence before it was spoken.
Around him, armed women — spears and swords in hand, ritual garments: short skirts, crossed leather straps over the chest, light bronze breastplates, beads and runes on arms and ankles. Ritual bracelets.
Small bells chimed with their trembling — not fear, but the tension of destiny about to fall.
They rose like human walls, forming a corridor to the throne.
Sèsinmè walked forward, stopping before the viscount, and spoke in a low, steady voice — as if announcing a moment carved into the stone of time:
"The Dragon born of shadows has reached where the hunt thought itself safe."
Silence.
Éreon entered the hall.
The torchlight behind him drew an aureole of power and destruction.
And in that moment, all who were there — viscount, warriors, shadows, and torn banners on the walls — knew:
The era of the stag ended there.
And the world was witnessing the dawn of something else.
Something that wasn't asked for — only risen.
And took.
Because nothing born to reign ever asks.