That evening sky was veiled by thickening gray clouds, hanging low as if holding its breath. In the distance, a faint red haze curled over scorched earth, mingling with the stench of smoke and sulfur that clawed at the nose. No birds could be heard. The air felt heavy. Silent.
From behind the last trees at the edge of a burned forest, a column of horsemen emerged. Hooves struck the ashen ground that still smoldered faintly, leaving blackened tracks in their wake. At the front of the line, a man pulled the reins of his horse to a slow halt.
He was Edgar Valobys, Commander of the Main Army of the Kingdom of Iskandria.
He was around forty, yet his body stood firm like steel. He wore dark silver light armor, a deep red mantle torn at the edges by long travel. Pinned to his chest was a crest: a lion's head pierced by two crossing swords, painted the color of blood.
His neatly cut black hair fluttered in the wind carrying the reek of char. His stone-carved face narrowed its gaze toward the horizon. For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes swept across the expanse that had become a grave.
What had once been a dense forest had turned into dead land.
The earth was cracked and blackened, strewn with the husks of charred trees that stood like bones. Among them lay the scorched remains of beasts. Some still smoked, as if burned alive by a fire not of this world.
Edgar Valobys dismounted with a steady stride. His leather boots crushed brittle ash beneath them. He crouched, dipped two fingers into the black soil, rubbed it, and brought it close to his nose.
Rising, his breath grew deeper. His voice was low and cold.
"Who is the madman foolish enough to provoke Mordrax the dragon?"
His head turned slightly, eyes sliding to the officers waiting behind him.
"Was this the work of the Dragonharts?"
His tone carried restrained fury, not fear but suspicion. He knew well of the Dragonharts, nobles claiming the blood of dragons, who often acted outside the crown's will.
A young officer stiffened and stammered, "Commander… there are no reports of Dragonhart troops in this region. We are still tracing what remains of the tracks."
Edgar narrowed his eyes. The wind pressed harder, carrying a bitter scorch. He lifted his gaze to the darkening sky, letting his mind race as his restless steed pawed at the ground.
First the attack from Mordune. Now a dragon.
His thoughts sharpened like the edge of his blade, never dulled. His eyes showed no fear, only memories of battles past.
It seemed the kingdom would soon be thrown into turmoil once again.
He drew a slow, burning breath. His mind returned to the western fortress, long a bastion of Iskandria. Just days earlier, Mordune had struck it in a sudden attack.
The secret investigation he led revealed a horror. Many within the fortress had not been soldiers of Iskandria at all, but rebels aligned with Mordune for years.
"Mordune could not have smuggled so many troops through Virewood without detection… unless the garrison itself helped them slip men inside piece by piece."
His hand clenched the reins tightly. Mordune's intent was clear: destroy the fortress as the opening move, kill the Queen in the chaos, then launch a full-scale invasion into the heart of the kingdom.
Yet something had broken that plan.
The Queen was nowhere to be found.
Edgar had searched for days to no avail. Yet during a brief stop in Glimfell, where he congratulated an old friend for his son's wedding, he unexpectedly encountered her.
Edgar narrowed his eyes further. He had searched for her for days without success. When he stopped briefly in Dorthlam to congratulate an old friend on his son's marriage, he hadn't expected to encounter Her Majesty there.
Their meeting was brief, but enough for Edgar to sense that something larger was at play. They spoke at length—about Mordune, and the raging dragon in the west: Mordrax, King of Flame.
The Queen… had changed, or perhaps it was just the perception of an aging man. Her eyes seemed sharper. Her voice, colder. And yet… there was something else within her, a dormant fire on the verge of consuming everything.
He could not stay here any longer.
'I must find that dragon before it causes more destruction.'
With a sharp motion, he mounted once more. His troops moved as if an unspoken order had passed. Hooves tore the silence of the charred plain as Edgar cast one final glance behind him.
The dragon's fire had razed part of Iskandria… but this was not the end.
Only a sign.
A sign that fire and blood would once again flood the lands of Iskandria.
.
.
.
Fairfield Village lay in a lowland region surrounded by golden wheat fields and young forests. There were no stone walls. No stationed guards. Just dirt roads, wooden houses, and a simple, peaceful life.
That evening should have been ordinary.
Mothers called their children home from the meadows. Smoke curled from chimneys, filling the air with bread and stew. Men returning from the fields laughed softly as they carried baskets of harvest. Sunset bathed the village in gentle orange.
But something felt wrong.
The sky lacked its usual glow. The wind carried no peace, only bitterness. Birds were gone.
A boy stood by the road, clutching a wooden toy. He squinted at the western sky.
"What is that…?" he whispered.
A vast shadow split the sky, approaching at terrifying speed. At first, they thought it a great eagle. But soon the village realized what it truly was.
A dragon.
Its body was massive, scales of dark crimson gleaming like rusted steel. Yet many were broken, flaking away. Its belly bore deep wounds, its wings torn with gaping holes as if pierced by powerful sorcery or blades.
Villagers raised their eyes. Some froze. Some stumbled back. Some dropped their baskets and fled without direction.
But before any could escape, the voice came.
Not from the dragon's mouth, but inside their minds.
A low voice, heavy with ancient wrath, as if the world itself wept in fury.
"Where… is my child?"
It crashed through their minds like thunder splitting bone. Children screamed, clutching their heads. Women collapsed, blood seeping from their ears. Grown men fell too, vomiting, fainting with eyes rolled back.
An elder on the west road tried to pray but his lips would not move. A young girl sobbed, crawling, dragging her brother toward their home, but her body convulsed violently.
Then… the world turned red.
The dragon opened its jaws.
Without warning.
Without mercy.
Flame swept Fairfield like the sky collapsing. This fire did more than burn flesh. It melted earth, tore houses apart, and birthed a storm of living inferno.
Screams lasted only a moment. Afterward, there was only fire.
Fairfield was gone.
All that remained was ash, cinder, and the stench of charred flesh clinging to the evening air.
The dragon soared above the ruin, its wings beating slow and heavy. Its eyes—two blazing coals of hatred—swept the land that hid nothing now.
But its rage had not ended.
For its child had not been found.
And its hunt had only just begun.