Author's Note: Thank you so much for 30k views!
The forest burned in orange reflections — the castle, in the distance, was a tower of fire and smoke.
Viscountess Lysandra rode with her cloak torn, soot scattered across her face, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Behind her, half a dozen exhausted knights — and the boy, her son, clinging to her waist.
The dry sound of hooves sliced through the dense silence of the forest, while screams, the distant crackle of flames, and the scent of iron and blood chased them.
"Faster!" she shouted. "Don't let them catch us!"
But fate had already caught up.
A shadow descended from the hill — swift, cutting between the trees.
One of the knights looked back — and saw him.
Éon. Eyes black as pitch.
His cloak in rags, his body covered in dust and blood.
The katana in his left hand, reflecting the distant firelight.
"Protect the Viscountess!" cried the knight at the front.
Three stayed behind, turning their horses and forming a line between her and the darkness.
Lysandra's heart pounded out of rhythm, a hot weight of fear pressing her chest as she held her son tightly.
"It'll be all right, my love..." she murmured, forcing a smile. "Don't look back. Just hold on to me."
But the boy was already crying, his face buried in his mother's cloak.
A scream echoed.
The first knight fell — the metallic sound of steel cutting through flesh.
The second tried to react, but Éon's blade carved the air in a perfect arc, slicing him from shoulder to hip.
The third dropped to his knees, trying to raise his shield — too late.
Lysandra turned her horse.
One of the remaining soldiers shouted:
"Go, my lady! I'll delay them!"
She hesitated only for an instant, then obeyed.
She spurred the horse forward and galloped, her son in her arms, her heart tearing with every sound behind her.
But a shadow slithered across the ground — alive, pulsing.
The horse's hoof sank abruptly; something invisible pulled the reins, and Lysandra fell with a dull thud, rolling through the mud as she clutched her son to her chest.
She rose, gasping, drawing her sword with trembling hands.
When she lifted her gaze, he was already there.
Éon walked toward her, sunlight filtering through the trees and glinting off the katana's edge.
His voice came calm, cold, inevitable:
"Lady Lysandra," he said. "Surrender. You've lost this war."
"You'll never... take me!" Her voice trembled, but stood firm.
He stared at her, impassive.
Then, his eyes drifted to the boy — his face unreadable.
"My intention was never to return with you."
"At least... leave my son," her voice faltered. "He's only a child."
Éon drew a long breath.
"I know." His eyes darkened. "But I also know what the hatred of a child can become."
She attacked — steel slicing the air like a scream.
Éon moved aside, swift as a shadow.
In a single precise motion, he disarmed her — and pierced her abdomen.
Blood ran down.
She embraced him, eyes filled with tears.
"Make it quick..." she whispered.
"And it will be."
He drew the katana.
Her body fell among the leaves, eyes still fixed on her son.
Silence.
Only the child's cry.
"Mommy? Can I open my eyes now?"
Éon's hand faltered, an invisible tension trembling in his fingers.
Éreon's words echoed in his mind:
"The war will only end when all who could seek revenge are dead — children, innocent or not. Nothing must remain standing to feed tomorrow's hatred."
He averted his gaze, voice hoarse:
"Noxfang..."
From the ground, a form emerged — a creature of pure darkness.
Liquid shadows writhed, shaping tentacles and claws.
Dozens of eyes opened — cold, observing.
Éon took a step back, gaze locked on the child.
For a moment, his hand wavered over the katana's hilt.
The wind whispered through the trees — and he murmured, almost a sigh:
"..... Katapínō."
The shadow crept across the ground, taking form behind the boy.
The creature's cerulean eyes gleamed — cold, merciless.
And then —
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
The scream tore through the forest like a blade, slicing the silence.
Leaves shuddered.
Crows rose in flight, black flocks cutting the sky.
Éreon stood still, but his chest burned with the weight of the choice, eyes fixed on the shadow where the child had fallen.
The scream faded, swallowed by the damp silence of the forest and the whisper of wind through leaves.
He breathed deeply, the weight of what he had witnessed etched into his body.
Without haste, he turned slowly, footsteps steady on moss-covered ground.
He mounted his horse, which neighed low, sensing the tension in the air.
The shadow closed behind him, concealing blood and fate among the trees.
He rode away, vanishing into the heart of the forest, where the sound of crows still echoed.
Hours later, beneath the same gray sky that hung over the castle, Éreon sat upon the throne — legs crossed with the stillness of an ancient monarch.
His face rested against his fist, eyes fixed on the dimness of the hall.
The Viscount stood before him in absolute silence — a silence so heavy it felt as though the very air awaited judgment.
Footsteps echoed through the hall, slow and deliberate.
Sèsinmè entered, stopping before the throne with the austere reverence of a priestess before an altar.
"I've gathered them," she said, her voice a whisper thick with premonition. "The civilians and nobles who remain were taken to the central square, within the wall."
Éreon raised his eyes, gaze piercing the shadows.
"How many remain?"
She answered without hesitation:
"Fewer than three hundred."
"Most of them... children, elders, and sick women — fragile echoes of what was once a people."
The Viscount twisted a faint smile, shadows of regret hidden in his gaze.
"I've long doubted you, yet kept you close for the skills that served me. But had I known it would end like this... I would have offered you to him without hesitation — as the inevitable sacrifice."
Éreon watched him calmly, seeing no trace of nobility in his voice or stance.
"Justifications are the refuge of the defeated," he said, tone unchanged. "Spare them for those who still believe in forgiveness."
The Viscount lowered his eyes, fingers clenched over his tattered cloak.
Sèsinmè stared at him — cold, unbending, steel incarnate.
Turning to Éreon, she declared:
"Everything is ready. As ordered."
Éreon spoke then — his deep voice resounding through the hall like a decree:
"Take him."
Two warriors advanced, firm, taking the Viscount by the arms and leading him out of the castle to the dry rhythm of boots against stone.
Sèsinmè stood motionless, her gaze fixed on Éreon.
When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of an ancestral vow:
"I keep my word, son of chaos. As long as I draw breath, the daughters of Abomey shall wield their blades at your side."
Éreon rose slowly; the air around him seemed to bow.
He answered without taking his eyes from the darkness beyond the gates:
"So long as you keep your word — I shall keep mine."
She inclined her head and withdrew — a gesture of respect and cold acknowledgment.
The echo of her steps faded as she left the hall. Sèsinmè already knew that the next act of this war would be a judgment — not by swords, but by eyes.
Hours later, under a shrouded sky, Sèsinmè walked across the square within the Wall of Gold.
Flames still burned upon the walls of bronze and silver, their reflections rippling in the blackened waters of the canals.
The people gathered — nobles and servants, defeated soldiers, mothers and orphans.
Fallen banners trembled among the ashes, and the air reeked of fear.
She stopped before the crowd, surrounded by her sisters.
For a moment, only the wind answered — until the roar echoed.
Tension seized the square.
Slowly, Éreon's army gathered — they came from the lower walls, crossing the sea of fire still devouring the gates.
Behind them, captured enemy soldiers marched with bowed heads under the watch of their conquerors.
Ranks formed; silence settled as Éreon's soldiers took position behind the civilians.
The sound of boots, hooves, and armor reverberated through the shattered walls.
Then Éon appeared — mounted, crossing slowly through the space filled with soldiers and civilians.
Eyes lifted — some in fear, others in resignation.
Among the ranks, Éon saw Marcus standing still, watching the scene.
He approached until the sound of hooves ceased before him.
Marcus lifted his gaze, his face hardened by exhaustion, yet a faint trace of irony crossed his expression.
"Seems things weren't easy for you," he said, with a half-dark smile.
Éon looked at him for a moment, then replied — voice low but steady:
"Looks like they weren't for you either."
The air smelled of smoke, iron, and fear.
The Wall of Gold — intact, imposing — remained the last vestige of the East's power.
The surviving nobles were lined before the people: Fathers, sons, brothers, and counselors knelt — and before them all, Viscount Ardentis bowed, pride wounded but unbroken.
The warriors of Abomey held order with spears driven into the ground.
Then the earth trembled.
A roar echoed through the broken columns.
From above, the dragon descended in spirals, its shadow covering the square — and when it landed, the air itself seemed to bow beneath its weight.
In that dense silence, Éreon appeared, walking slowly.
His garments stained with dried blood.
His eyes held the same fire that had consumed the walls.
The crowd fell silent.
Not even the wind dared to stir.
Sèsinmè stepped forward to the center of the square.
Her voice rang firm, resounding like the echo of an ancestral war drum:
"Before you stands the Dragon reborn from the shadows."
"The one many called ruin... but who today shall be your liberator."
She paused, her gaze falling upon the kneeling Viscount.
"And before him stands the former lord of this land — the man who swore to protect his people, to guard their safety, to spill his blood for this territory."
"But when danger came, he sold his subjects. He branded men, women, and youths with runes of sacrifice, condemning them to die without honor, without burial, without memory."
A murmur rippled through the crowd — at first low, like wind between columns, then rising, a chorus of disbelief and disgust.
Some covered their faces; others cried out the names of their dead.
Mothers bent over, sobbing, as if the memory itself had been torn from the earth.
The Viscount raised his face, bitter laughter tearing through the silence.
"They answered your call," he said, spitting on the ground. "And you? You were there when the vote was cast. Wasn't it Viscountess Lysandra who proposed that plan?"
Sèsinmè stared at him without a flicker.
"Do not flee your responsibility, Viscount Ardentis."
"The Viscountess has already paid for her choices."
"Now, only you remain."
She stepped forward, the gleam of the spears around them reflected in her eyes.
"A choice is given to you."
"Kneel before the Black Dragon... and live."
She raised her hand.
The nearest Agojie moved.
And when her hand fell, the sound of blades rang out — brief, final.When it ended, blood already mingled with the dust of the square.
The silence that followed seemed eternal.
Then Éreon stepped forward slowly, the dragon's shadow stretching over him.
His eyes swept across the people bowed in fear.
His voice echoed low, cutting yet serene — the tone of one who does not need to command to be obeyed:
"What was destroyed shall not rise again."
"What remains shall be rebuilt... under a new name."
The dragon's roar split the air like a flaming blade.
Beneath that roar, the East bowed — and history began to be written in blood and smoke.