Luther was a simple man.

In his late twenties, unwed and orphaned, he didn't ask for much from life, no lofty ambitions or grand desires. His world was the field—the fields he tended every day, bequeathed by the village chief himself. They were humble plots of land, modest and plain, yet suited Luther just fine.

Why the chief chose to give him such a gift was a mystery he never bothered to solve. Gratitude filled him enough to keep curiosity at bay.

No family name followed his, only "Luther." It was a given—orphans weren't afforded surnames. He might have taken the name of the woman who first took him in, a kindly old nun called Mrs. Agatha, but she'd already given him plenty: a roof, a name, a start. her last name felt like too much to take. So "Luther" alone was more than enough.

People pitied Luther whenever they learned about his life, but he found that strange. He didn't see himself as someone to pity. He ate, he worked, he slept—simple things that satisfied him.

The only thing he would count as a struggle was when the chief's wife would invite him for dinner sometimes, her fawning, the way she treated him like a lost son, made him uncomfortable, he was not her son, nor did he wish to accommodate her fancies.

Still, it was a small burden to bear. She was kind, and the village had given him more than he felt he deserved: a cabin to sleep in, enough land to work on, and food on his plate.

He didn't remember the last time he felt pain or sorrow. But he couldn't recall a time of great joy either. Maybe that was what adulthood was: a soft, gray line between happiness and sadness; or maybe he just forgot those moments.

Once, long ago, his neighbors had found him sleepwalking near a cliff's edge. Another time, he tried to lift a boiling pot without a rag. That one hurt.

Luther was definitely a forgetful person.

And Luther thinks to himself: he's lived a full life, or close enough. There aren't many things he would go back and change, not really.

Even if he could turn back the clock, he doubts he'd do much differently. Maybe he's exaggerating. A few childhood embarrassments could go—those moments that make his cheeks burn when they come to mind—but that's about it. Nothing grand or serious.

Besides, he figures every one has those cringe-filled memories that are more laughable with time. Even now, some of them still bring a reluctant chuckle. He tells himself he wouldn't change a thing, even if that sounds a little corny.

Yet here he is, feeling indecisive—a rare thing for him. Changing the past… was that something worth thinking about? Then again, did he even know himself as well as he thought?

Campbell, his friend since they were just boys, had always insisted that Luther would love shroom soup. Luther had scoffed, turned up his nose, all but swore he'd never touch the stuff. But one spoonful had been enough to change his mind, the taste earthy and strangely comforting.

Campbell knew him better than he knew himself, maybe. It made Luther wonder: how much of himself was just guesswork, things he assumed without ever testing?

And, by Od, he misses Campbell. Misses him fiercely, more than you'd ever guess for a man as quiet and reserved as Luther. But for Campbell—his friend through thick and thin, the only one who'd stuck by him since they were children—he could forgive the oddities of his own heart.

After all, he'd sacrifice a great deal for friendship, even if he couldn't explain why.

Luther was a simple man, through and through, and he took a quiet pride in that simplicity. He didn't need much, never had much.

He was the kind you'd never see flustered or fretting over trifles. It would take a mountain-moving effort to rouse him, to shake him from his calm. Holding grudges, for him, was about as easy as beating the Sword Saint in a duel—practically impossible. Luther just let things go, as if he'd never learned how to hold onto anger at all.

He's had a handful of friends over the years, though, if he's honest, most of their names and faces blur in his mind. A few were kind, others less so—but all have slipped away in time. Campbell, though, was different.

He was the one who stayed.

They'd met back at the church orphanage, two scrappy boys who grew up sharing hand-me-down clothes and an endless string of mischievous ideas.

But now, even those memories feel like they're sinking beneath a thick fog, Campbell's voice fading, his laugh a faint echo, even his irritating habits becoming nothing more than shadows at the edge of Luther's mind.

Luther's a simple man with simple fears, the kind you could call practical.

Heights, for one—probably a leftover of some forgotten childhood scare. Drowning too; he's spent little time around water and never learned to swim. Cats? Now, that's harder to explain—something about their slinking, watchful ways unnerves him, those little devils.

And there are more fears, more than he cares to list or think too hard about. And sure, like most, he fears death. But that one's always felt different, almost distant, like something on the other side of a vast hill he'd never have to climb. It's a terror he's never quite known how to hold, nor wanted to.

Yet it's strange, he thinks, how rare it is for him to ponder death. There's no denying it's frightening, the idea of it, and maybe more than he lets on. But it's always felt foreign to him, almost surreal, a dark thing he's only heard about from afar, never quite real in his own hands. He feels a kind of gratefulness for that, even if he doesn't dwell on why.

That's just one more blessing to count.

And here he is, Luther, lost in thought—doing all kinds of remembering, reflecting, getting strangely sentimental over things that only just passed. It's not like him to linger like this, to sift through memories as if he's stirring a pot. But today, it seems he can't help it. He's thinking of moments he rarely considers, memories softened by time and dust.

Luther's a simple man, through and through. He knows how to care for cattle, how to tend a crop, and not much else.

When he sets his mind to a task, it gets done—no questions, no drifting thoughts. Work has always kept him anchored, each day an unchanging rhythm of familiar chores. Ordinary life has never burdened him with troubles too heavy to bear.

And yet… he can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. It's not as if there's a thick, creeping dread gnawing at him, nothing he'd admit to, at least. But the air does feel different, drier, hotter. There's a strange ringing in his ear, faint but persistent, jumbling his thoughts. His toes have this odd, prickling sensation, like a tickle he can't reach. And his midsection—it's warm, an uncomfortable heat simmering beneath his skin, searing him from the inside out.

But surely, it's nothing.

He hears voices now, faint but full of something raw and aching. They sound pitiful, each one laced with a sorrow so deep it almost stirs pity in him, kindling a strange fire in his chest. They're pleading, caught in some silent torment that cuts through him. He wants to say something, anything to comfort them, but his mouth feels like sandpaper, parched and cracked. No words come.

His eyes feel heavy, and when he tries to open them, there's only darkness. No shapes, no shadows—just an empty void pressing back at him. He lets them close again, surrendering to the dark. There's a dampness on his face, a coolness tracing his cheeks, but he pushes the thought aside, letting it fade like the voices themselves, as if it, too, might vanish if he just waits long enough.

Luther is a simple man, always has been—never given much thought to romance or finding someone special. It's not that he's against it, no grand reasons to deny it. It's simply that the idea has never felt necessary, not for him. He's always been content with his life, as quiet and simple as it is.

So, when he feels his head gently rest on a pair of thighs, it's jarring. Almost embarrassing. His thoughts twist in a moment of confusion, but the warmth beneath him is oddly comforting. Even with the chaos—the distant wailing, the roar of something far too fierce to comprehend—the closeness offers a strange sense of peace.

The ringing never fades, a constant high-pitched hum that weaves its way into his mind, but he's learning to ignore it, letting it buzz in the background. The sound of his own blood flowing through his vains thunders in the back of his ears, drowning everything else in a muffled static, turning the world around him into a fog of unintelligible noise. Each sound feels distant, like it's being filtered through layers of cotton.

He tries to move, to shift his head, but his body refuses him. He's too sore, too heavy with exhaustion. Every muscle aches in ways he can't understand, and he can't summon the energy to open his eyes. They feel glued shut, heavy with some unbearable weight. His body feels like it belongs to someone else, and he's too tired to fight it.

Something feels wrong.

The thought flickers into his mind, a sharp, unsettling realization—but he pushes it aside, too tired to give it weight. Perhaps he's just exhausted. It's so easy to dismiss the feeling, so easy to focus on the silence that follows. The ringing in his ears has stopped, and now, in the vast emptiness of his mind, there's only an eerie stillness. A heavy, almost suffocating silence that wraps around him like a shroud. Even the warmth that once curled in his midsection has drained away, leaving behind an icy chill that seeps into his bones.

It's strange. Something's off, no doubt about it. But what? He can't place it. His thoughts feel so empty, hollow. He's certain he's missing something—something important—but it slips through his fingers, a squirming thing, impossible to grasp. He tries to move, to twitch his fingers, but his hand is met with another. Fingers—someone else's fingers—clasping tightly around his. Holding him firm, unwilling to let go.

The sensation is too intimate, too invasive.

Luther wasn't the kind of man who welcomed touch, not like this. His chest tightens in discomfort, and his mind spins.

Luther… who was Luther? What was he thinking about? Why does he feel so sleepy, so unbearably tired? Should he be scared? The thought flits across his mind, but it doesn't stick. What does it even mean to be scared? What is fear?

And suddenly, everything becomes a blur—questions piling upon questions, each one tumbling faster than he can follow. What's happening? he thinks, a frantic edge to his thoughts. What's happening? His heart hammers in his chest, but there's no answer. Only a spiral of confusion that grows faster, tighter, until his mind can't hold on any longer. What's hap—

Then—Luther dies.

Clouds loomed overhead, heavy and swollen, like a bruise stretched across the sky, suffocating the air beneath.

The once gentle summer breeze, that soft caress of warmth, had twisted into angry gusts, pushing damp, oppressive heat down onto the village. Sweat slicked every brow, clinging to skin like a second layer, and each breath felt like inhaling thick, stifling fog.

Then came the fire.

It appeared from nowhere, a monstrous, wild thing. No one saw it coming, but once it was there, it was all-consuming. The flames circled the village like a python tightening its grip around its prey. It snaked through the air, its serpentine form of blazing orange and yellow narrowing until it pressed in on all sides. Each lick of fire crackled with hunger, inching closer, closer—until the houses, the fields, everything within reach of its searing tendrils, would be swallowed whole.

A shadow fell over them then, large and unnatural, blotting out what little sky remained visible. Its form was a twisted mockery of any natural being—its very presence oppressive, suffocating. And its eyes—those eyes were burning pools of crimson fury, filled with a wrath that knew no mercy.

The shadow did not simply watch—it acted. With a terrible roar, it rained fire upon them, hurling jagged, glowing globes down upon the village, each one bursting on impact like the world itself was cracking open. They rained down in waves, each explosion sending tremors through the earth, the ground quaking beneath their feet as craters formed where the fiery stones struck.

And then came the liquid—thick, black, and viscous—pouring from the heavens like venom. It splattered and sizzled as it touched anything—stone, wood, flesh—each drop searing with a white-hot fury. It ate through everything, turning the earth itself into a furnace. The flames had a cruel, relentless nature—searing the crops, the homes, the people. Fields once green and ripe with life now lay charred and blackened, turned to ash as if they'd never existed.

Children screamed in terror, their cries desperate as their mothers reached to shield them from the inferno. The air was thick with the smell of burning flesh—hot, acrid, nauseating. The stench of death curled in the smoke, an unmistakable, vile scent that mingled with the crackling of flames and the deafening roar of destruction. Flesh melted from bone, bones splintered and snapped, their shattered remnants lost in the swirling chaos of fire. The village, once vibrant with life, became nothing more than a nightmare made flesh—overcooked meat, broken bodies, and a stew of lost hopes.

The flames rose higher, consuming the sky, turning the ring of fire into a suffocating dome. The air thinned, heavy with heat and smoke, until it became impossible to breathe, and the heat grew so intense that even the earth seemed to melt beneath their feet. The very oxygen was being devoured by the flames, and with every passing second, it became more impossible to escape.

Smoke choked their lungs, fire seared their skin. There was no sanctuary. No escape. The village of Arlam, once full of life, was swallowed whole by the roaring inferno.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of char and decay, a clinging mist that invaded every breath. Flesh, scorched and blackened, hung in grotesque remnants, clinging to bone, something akin to the feasts of kings and lords. Fat dripped in molten rivulets, sizzling against the embers below, it was butter on a searing pan, hissing its last protest into the void.

It was a buffet of gore, a wretched communion where no one was denied their seat. The stew bubbled with a macabre medley of broken bones—splintered, crushed, tenderized into submission. fragments swirled like the remains of some forgotten harvest, adding their marrow to the brew. Burned scraps substituted for spices, peppered ash mingling with the remains, indistinguishable in the end.

Dust to dust, ash to ash, nothing ever truly lasts.

There is a story i so dearly hold and adore, one I keep so close to my heart.

The Monster and the Boy. A title as stark and unembellished as the land it hailed from—Vollachia, a realm where tales were often cruel and edged with darkness.

Vollachian stories didn't shy away from despair or cruelty; they reveled in it, wearing bleakness like a badge of honor. But this one was different. This one clung to my memory like a half-forgotten dream, a spark of light amidst the shadows.

Perhaps that was why I liked it. Its simplicity. Its defiance of Vollachian tradition.

And perhaps that was why you hated it.

You'd scowl as I recounted it, arms crossed, cheeks puffed out like a sulking child. Yet, as much as you scorned it, there was always a flicker of something in your eyes—something soft and unguarded.

"It shouldn't end like this," you'd mutter, lips pursed as if bracing against the unfairness of it all. I remember how your voice trembled, caught between indignation and restlessness.

I used to laugh then, a quiet chuckle meant more for me than for you. That pout of yours was a rare sight, a fleeting glimpse of someone who cared far more deeply than they let on.

It is a bittersweet memory, a fragment of warmth in a land as unforgiving as its legends.

Maybe that's why it lingers, even when so much else has faded. It shouldn't have ended like this, you used to say. Perhaps you were right.

He felt it most when the sun burned in its highest.

He didn't think of himself as the kind of being who could succumb to such petty emotions, the kind of creature capable of yearning. And yet, here it was—a gnawing emptiness that defied reason.

Perhaps he'd traveled too far from those frantic, lonely days when all he knew was his search for her.

Those endless days of restless wandering, tracing acres of land without purpose or destination, clinging only to the fragile hope that some faint spark might ignite his hollow existence. He remembered the way it had consumed him then: the desperation, the alien ache of not knowing who he was or what he was meant to be.

A creature without an anchor, blind to its own nature, yet destined to drift forever across the face of the earth.

Pitiful. That's what it had been, he thought bitterly.

He'd been pitiful. And he had sworn, with every fiber of his being, never to be that again. He had found her. Her. The one who made the silence bearable, who gave him reason to live and fight and endure. The one who filled his world with light where there had once been only gray.

He wasn't ready to let her go. Not yet. Not ever, if he had any say in it.

But today, the silence felt different.

It wasn't the hollow stillness of his past, but it had its own weight—a subtle, insidious thing that pressed against him from all sides.

She was gone for the day, and the certainty of that absence settled over him like an ill-fitting shroud.

He told himself she was merely training—his daughter, Too old now to be tucked safely away from every possible source of hurt, too independent to need his counsel at every turn. she wasn't a child anymore, that was hard to get used to.

The moment your daughter turns into a woman, something every father dreads, and he even more so.

And then there was that boy—He didn't even want to think about him. The thought twisted in his chest, dark and unwelcome, so he forced it down, clinging to a fragile hope that he'd hear the familiar echo of her footsteps returning soon.

Even Beatrice, his loyal, mischievous sister, wasn't here to distract him. Not a flutter of her golden curly hair, nor the sharp tug of her puny little hands on his hair.

The empty hallways of the manor stretched endlessly before him, their cold stone walls bereft of the usual murmurs of life. Where had everyone gone? His thoughts spiraled as he wandered aimlessly, floating much like a ghost in his own home.

But no matter how far he roamed, the truth was unshakable. He was alone today. The realization crept up on him again and again, circling him waiting for its moment. It gnawed at his resolve, relentless and quiet, like a wolf pacing the edges of a firelight—hungry, patient, inevitable.

Again—he was alone.

Forever—he would be.

The trio tore down the dim corridor like wind.

Like fleeting shadows, their figures blurred by the urgency that propelled them forward. Haste blazed across their furrowed brows, an unspoken alarm in their darting eyes.

Worry clung to their faces, not like fleeting emotion, but like chiseled lines on the statues of ancient sages—men forever lost in grim deliberations. They held no such wisdom; their truths were buried in the ink of forgotten tomes, relics of a world too far behind to help them now.

Each stride slapped against the cold stone floor, reverberating like the cadence of distant war drums.

The rhythmic clatter of their hurried steps could have been mistaken for an army's march, a gathering storm of soldiers charging toward an inevitable clash. They moved with the same fervor, the same grim resignation—prepared, perhaps, to trade their lives for unseen foes or wreak destruction in defense of those they loved.

In that desperate rhythm, they found kinship with them.

Her pale hands, trembling and ghostly in the fading light, clutched at the fabric of her dress as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the world.

Small and delicate, her fingers twisted the worn cloth, her knuckles stark against the fabric's vibrant folds. She stumbled in their wake, a frail silhouette trying to match the relentless pace of the twins ahead. Silent, determined, they pressed on, their shared dread a weight that bent her slight frame further with each faltering step.

She couldn't wrap her mind around it, still. A dragon? A dragon. Surely, someone had to be mistaken. Someone had to have erred somehow along the way, an exaggeration spun from fear and chaos.

What could an ancient creature want from a place like Arlam? A lonesome village with nothing of value, tucked away in the forgotten edges of Lugunica. Were there even dragons left in the world? The very thought seemed absurd, surely someone would have took notice of it sooner.

The thoughts churned in her mind, a relentless rhythm, like the drip of water from a leaky faucet, keeping her from fully succumbing to the panic that tore at her body.

It swallowed her whole, twisting her limbs in strange ways, leaving little betraying tremors escape her, it wrung her dry, like an old worn rag, her will leaked from her in small tiny droplets, no more fuel left to goad her arms and legs into harsh indifferent stillness.

There was an odd humming as they left the mansion.

The sounds only seemed to grow sharper with each step, piercing through the thick veil of the forest as they approached the village. Screams tore through the air, raw and frantic, mingling with guttural cries of despair.

Above it all, a deafening roar echoed, shaking the ground like a drumbeat of chaos. A monstrous creature soared overhead, its shadow sprawling over the village like a smothering shroud. Its massive wings churned the air, the dark mahogany of its scales glinting ominously in the flickering firelight.

The scene was a masterpiece of horror—agony painted with delicate little fingers. The golden rays of burning flames licking at dismembered broken pieces of what was once a home, red smears painting the dirt and grass beneath feet, jagged black scars of smoke clawing at the heavens, the grotesque silhouette of the beast cutting through it—all of it formed a tableau so visceral that no artist's brush could ever hope to capture its dread. Inferno, they would call it. But no name, no stroke of genius, could ever match the raw, unrelenting nightmare unfolding before their eyes.

The play ends only when the pianist relents—and her ears can't stand the silence, so forever she laments.

The cold was unbearable, wholly unparalleled in the spacious ballroom I stood, It was a vast and opulent cavern of crystal chandeliers and polished marble, where sounds stretched longer than waterfalls, shaping themselves into pleasant earings to hang your worries on, all forms of music played, yet the eyes only seemed to pay their utmost attention to me.

I stood there, draped in a scarlet linen dress that clung to me like a second skin, adorned with intricate engravings that whispered of delicate artistry. Tiny embroidered birds danced across my bodice, their wings frozen mid-flight, as if they, too, were trapped in this moment. The neckline plunged deeper than I would have liked, exposing a sliver of vulnerability that I could not disguise. My fingers fluttered around the fabric as onlookers drank their thirst away with my image.

The attention was palpable, the lecherous glances, bold and shameless, filled with nothing but thoughts of unwarranted advances, only ungodly intentions, driven by an unabashed consensus, of higher regard for one's self, merely a glass house filled with bitter pretenses.

My hand tightened around the stem of my wine glass, the rich crimson liquid within reflecting the golden glow of the chandeliers. The bartender filled it without so much as a glance, his disinterest a stark contrast to the fervent attentions of the rest. Perhaps I was nothing more to him than another spoiled aristocrat pretending at adulthood, playing her part in a grand, meaningless theater, at times I wasn't so sure if that was entirely false.

I let out a slow breath and slid onto the barstool, The cold bit at my exposed shoulders, but it wasn't enough to numb the unease tightening in my chest. I sipped the wine, its warmth spreading through me, a fleeting comfort in a sea of discomfort. And still, the eyes remained, relentless in their scrutiny, drinking me in as if I were the finest vintage in the room.

Near me, a small gathering of boys huddled like birds of prey, their laughter sharp and their whispers sharper still, nobles plucked from every corner of Lugunica, draped in silks and adorned with titles heavier than their sense.

Their eyes flicked toward me, predatory and insistent, brimming with the same hungry curiosity I'd grown used to enduring. But one among them—bolder, or perhaps stupider than the rest—decided to test his luck. A sly wink cut through the space between us, his smirk hanging awkwardly between confidence and arrogance. The effort was transparent, poorly executed, and wholly unremarkable. To me, it made no difference.

My face stiffened, my features settling into a mask of disdain. The unamused expression carved into my face was deliberate, cold, and final. But it didn't stop there. The edges sharpened, my lips curling into something more vicious than I had intended—a silent snarl that spoke louder than words. It was a blade, slicing through their fragile bravado.

Much like startled birds, they broke apart in a flurry of motion, their carefully curated airs crumbling into flight. They scattered, seeking easier prey, something softer, something less dangerous. I watched them go without a second thought, their departure leaving only a fading echo of their false laughter in the cavernous ballroom.

Let it be known—Capella Emerada Lugunica is not so easily swayed by pretty boys in handsome suits.

Then he looked at me.

Oh—maybe that wasn't so true.

His gaze was a weapon, piercing and precise, his eyes a shade of blue so clear they felt unreal, like fragments of the sky trapped beneath his long lashes. The world seemed to pause as he moved, his feet already turning, carrying him toward me with a purpose that struck like thunder. Each stride was long and deliberate, his steps confident but quick, as though he feared I might vanish if he hesitated even for a bit.

His frame was arresting—broad shoulders balanced by a slender build, his movements effortlessly fluid yet undeniably commanding. The golden strands of his hair caught the light, swaying with the rhythm of his approach. Boyish and untamed, the locks framed a face marked by seriousness, a tension that only heightened his appeal. The contrast between his playful dishevelment and the intensity of his expression was undoubtedly accidental, but magnetic nonetheless.

It was candy for the eyes, a feast of elegance, wrapped in a package too enticing to ignore. I tried to compose myself, but found my breath caught in my throat, my pulse quickening against my will. Sometimes I wonder how he knew not of the feelings he wills to stir in me.

Keiran Desdemona—his name was as unassuming as his status. A lowly noble of the Lugunica kingdom, with neither wealth to bolster his reputation nor land to lend him respect. He had no sprawling estates, no lineage to flaunt, no titles whispered with reverence in gilded halls. And yet, He was a dear friend, the truest I ever had.

Sometimes I wish it had stayed that way.

The wind lashed with savage precision, carving through the tepid air, razor-sharp incisions, dragging with it eerie whispers that caressed the ears—soft, spectral murmurs that prickled the skin. It smothered the world in haunting silence before giving way to chaos.

Flames erupted, fierce and unrelenting, licking hungrily at all within their reach. They crackled and roared, wild with feral energy, devouring wooden beams that once bore stories, brittle leaves that crumbled to ash, nothing left but worries, grass that burned away in fragrant puffs of sweet, forever gone, just ephemeral glories.

Amid the inferno's wrath, shards of violet crystal, gleaming like fragmented stars, tumbled and skittered.

They danced awkwardly through the air, aimless at first, until seized by an unseen force. Suddenly, they soared in a jagged, erratic arc toward the heavens.

There, against the furious glow of firelight, the crystals shimmered as if caught in celestial play, casting faint lavender gleams upon the ground below.

Voices rose, fraught with urgency, piercing through the oppressive cacophony. Cries mingled with the resonant twang of disaster. Streaks of amethyst light—flèchettes of unyielding resolve—shot skyward, arcing wide in a defiant spray against the night.

They burned their way toward their target, jagged bursts piercing with unerring velocity. Where they struck, scarlet blood flowed freely, hissing against searing skin and painted the scorched earth in vivid, terrible strokes.

The colossal dragon roared in agony, its cry echoing across the burning land. Its scales quaked as it shuddered, purple shards embedding themselves like needles of despair. With a guttural snarl, the beast inhaled, its scaled lips thinning into a menacing grimace before unleashing—

A breath of infernal fire and volatile gas erupted from its maw, a fiery whip crackling with terrible force. It surged forward, an unstoppable tide of heat and light, bending the air and shattering all in its path.

An icy barricades was hastily conjured to repel it, it hissed and groaned, melting in seconds beneath the monstrous assault.

Below the searing breath, Rem stood resolute, her expression carved from stone. Her trembling hands clasped her weapon tightly as she worked tirelessly to guide the frightened masses to safety.

Behind her, Beatrice focused her unwavering energy on the dragon's head. Each precise burst of magic disoriented the creature, forcing its massive body into convulsions.

Amid the chaos, Ram darted deftly between the shadows of destruction, her wind blades slicing through roaring flames to clear paths through the wreckage.

Together, they fought against the tide of devastation, their movements a harmonious dance of defiance and desperation, as the blazing beast loomed over them like death incarnate.

The battlefield roared with elemental fury, a tempest of clashing forces converging on one monstrous opponent. the beast, Its eyes burned with hatred, glowing orbs of molten amber. Its hide, thick as steel, absorbed most attacks with infuriating ease, though the shards left fractures, thin rents in its armor.

The darkness hissed and cracked against its bulk, but even the combined assault was barely enough to keep the creature disoriented.

Every second felt eternal, yet it was not time wasted. Behind the frenzied clash, frightened families fled into the manor, their desperate escape made possible only by the warriors' relentless stand.

Beatrice, standing her ground amidst it all, poured her magic into creating endless Minya shards, all meant to spare. Each was a fragile lifeline, breaking too quickly under the dragon's skin.

Ram darted forward, her hands weaving crescents of wind sharp enough to shear through flames. She moved with lethality, each motion designed to carve an opening for others to strike—or to hold the beast's focus on her.

Rem, her shoulders trembling under the weight of the burden, her heart racing as fast as the tempo of destruction, called out to the fleeing crowd. "Run! Do not look back!" She pushed her magic to its limits, barriers forming to redirect the dragon's attacks, sacrificing her mana for moments of survival.

They could not last long. They knew it with every labored breath, with every desperate strike. Yet every second they delayed its wrath was a life saved. All they needed was time—a few heartbeats more—to turn retreat into salvation.

All they needed was—

"We'll take it from here."

The words sliced through the pandemonium with unnatural clarity, as though they had no place among the roars of flames and the screams of terror. Steady, unyielding, they fell like stones into a river, displacing all that dared to challenge their gravity.

He stood at the forefront—a figure unshaken, even as the burning village trembled beneath the weight of the dragon's wrath.

His back was straight, his face a mask, not betraying an ounce of emotion.

The princess trailed just behind him, each step a quiet defiance to the chaos. The flickering light from the flames caught on her face, painting her features in haunting shadows.

She didn't hesitate, she didn't relent, but her eyes—a fraction too wide, her hand subconsciously brushing the hilt of her frigid sword —spoke the quiet part out.

Her breath steady, her thoughts swarming her head, like a tide hitting the beach. Fear was a phantom hanging in the back of her mind, clawing at her resolve, but she pressed forward, step by measured step.

Guilt cut deeper than any sense of preservation could.

Ahead, the scene of destruction. People scattered in frenzied disarray, arms flailing as they fled from the dragon that towered like a living mountain, a beast of smoke and molten fury. Its wings beat with the force of thunder.

They moved as one—he, unwavering, and she, quietly shoring up her courage as the firelight danced around them.

The storm of chaos swirled, but the quiet of their approach stood in sharp contrast. The world seemed to hold its breath as they came closer, the final cries of resistance fizzling out against their cool assurance.

The dragon's wings unfolded, each membrane stretched wide, darker than the night itself. The sheer span of them seemed to swallow the horizon, blotting out the sun's dying light, casting a shadow so deep that even the flickering embers of the burning village faltered beneath it.

"Kahahahaha! Soo late, too late! This lovely lady has already taken all the love there is, tadaaaaa~!"