Eldric Dragonhart glanced briefly at his two new cellmates, then, without saying a word, closed his eyes and returned to sleep. His demeanor was indifferent, as if the presence of others in the cell meant nothing to him.
Riven and Melly fell silent. Neither of them could hide their surprise at Eldric's appearance, he didn't look like an ordinary man.
Even in his worn-out state, lying on the cold prison floor, the young man looked exceptional. His golden hair caught the lantern's light, his skin was clean, and there was something about his presence—an aura unlike anyone they had ever met.
Riven gritted his teeth quietly. A weight pressed down in his chest as he whispered inwardly, "Dragonhart."
It couldn't be a mistake. No one in the world could fail to recognize the signature features of that family. Golden hair and golden eyes—the mark of Dragonhart blood. The wealthiest and most powerful noble house on the continent. A family that had always claimed to carry the blood of dragons in their veins.
But the question was... why would a Dragonhart be locked away in a place like this?
Riven pushed the thought aside. This wasn't the time for pointless speculation. It wasn't his concern. Whoever the young man was, he clearly wasn't a special prisoner—just someone thrown into the same cell as them.
He glanced at Melly, who was still staring at Eldric, mesmerized. Riven sighed, then slowly sat down with his back leaning against the damp wall. His body felt weak, and a crushing weight pressed against his chest.
That feeling returned once more—emptiness, helplessness, worthlessness. He had failed. He had lost. He couldn't even protect his little sister.
In the depths of his mind, a cold, grim voice echoed:
"What use is my life if I can't cut down what's in front of me?"
The words looped endlessly, like shards of glass turning inside his skull. He hated this feeling. He hated this weakness. But he couldn't run from the truth—right now, he was nothing.
Hours passed in silence.
Inside that prison cell, there was no sound but the creaking of the old lantern swaying above. No conversation.
Only a golden-haired young man occasionally peeking through half-lidded eyes at Riven.
A little girl sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, her gaze hollow. Shadows of fear and exhaustion lingered in her eyes.
And Riven, who remained still... but inside him, something was sharpening. Quietly, his resolve grew—like embers in the darkness beginning to smolder.
Then, in the near-perfect silence, a low voice drifted from the corner of the cell.
Still asleep, Eldric Dragonhart muttered softly:
"The Dragon Mother has arrived."
.
.
.
In front of the Glimfell town hall, the execution stage stood tall and grim. The dark wood was newly built, but already stained with the traces of blood—no one knew whose. A single execution pole stood in the center, waiting for the soul fated to perish today.
In the front row, Prince Dilan Mordune sat in a high-backed leather chair. In his hand swirled a glass of red wine, its reflection gleaming like blood under the morning sun. His eyes weren't focused on the stage, but on the crowd. He was savoring the scene—fear, hatred, resignation all tangled together.
Beside Dilan sat three nobles: Count Yilesh, Marquess Briarwood, and an elderly noble from Iskandrite who had also sided with Mordune. The three of them wore unreadable expressions, their anticipation thinly veiled beneath calm faces. They watched in silence, like judges already certain of the verdict.
On the stage, Aiden Rathsture knelt. His hands were bound behind his back, his hair disheveled, his face dirtied with dust and dried blood. Two large guards flanked him, each holding a long executioner's axe. Despite his restraints, Aiden knelt upright. His face showed no fear—only a piercing calm, the look of a man who had accepted the end.
Not far from the platform, behind an iron cage mounted on a wagon, Aiden's family watched the proceedings. Sally, Lyanna, Ethan, and Daphne—each with different expressions: rage, terror, resignation. Lyanna clutched her mother's hand tightly, while Ethan sat with his head bowed beside Daphne.
Around the square, Glimfell's citizens stood in clusters. They had no choice—they had been forced to witness the humiliation and execution of their leader. Whispers filled the air, a rising tension barely held back from breaking into screams.
Dilan sipped his wine and murmured to himself,
"Who would've thought... the Angry Knight of Iskandrite would die like this."
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from behind. A thin man in field uniform rushed up to Dilan and dropped to his knees.
"Your Highness! Urgent report!"
Dilan raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"Queen Ashtoria... she's alive. She reappeared in the city of Iskandrite and slaughtered the nobles and their entire forces who tried to betray her. Their whole army... wiped out!"
The man's voice trembled, as if he had just escaped death himself.
The wine glass in Dilan's hand stopped mid-turn. He stared at the soldier, trying to determine whether this was some cruel morning jest.
But the most telling reactions came not from Dilan—but from Count Yilesh, Marquess Briarwood, and the old noblemen of Iskandrite.
Their faces turned pale in an instant.
Their bodies went rigid.
Memories surged back uninvited—of that blood-soaked night in the palace. Of a woman in black who killed without hesitation. Who struck down her own parents. Her own siblings. Of Ashtoria Iskandrite... the mad queen they had all believed to be dead.
Count Yilesh rose, gripping the soldier's shoulder with trembling fingers, fear breaking through his composure.
"Don't lie to me. If you speak her name without cause… I swear I'll make you regret it for the rest of your life."
But the man replied, his voice shaking yet firm,
"I'm not lying, my lord. This report came directly from our spies."
For a moment, silence fell.
Then, Dilan let out a quiet laugh—dry and hollow, not from joy, but from triumph deepening in his chest.
He glanced at the three nobles beside him.
"Well then… it seems you've no way back. Your queen lives, and she'll surely cut down anyone who betrayed her. Looks like we'll be working together for quite a while. I'll be kind to you."
No one replied. Their silence spoke volumes. Inside, they were breaking.
But before the moment could stretch further, another soldier burst into the square, face pale with horror.
"My lord! Forgive me, but… I saw something in the western skies!"
Dilan frowned.
"A dragon! A giant dragon flying over the forest! It's real, my lord! I swear I wasn't hallucinating!"
The crowd stirred. Laughter. Confusion. Some scoffed.
But then, silence.
From the far distance...
A roar echoed.
Not a normal sound. Not just a cry—but a howl that shook the heavens, shattered stillness, and made the ground tremble.
Then… the voice came again.
Not through ears—but inside their heads.
**"Where… is my child?"**
It was too loud. Too deep. Some immediately screamed and covered their ears. Blood trickled from the ears of the weak—children, elders, and those with trembling hearts.
Dilan stood, eyes scanning the sky.
The clear sky had turned deep orange. Clouds swirled. A great shadow slowly emerged from the mist.