The battlefield lay in eerie stillness, broken only by the distant moans of the wounded and the crackling of smoldering fires. Broken weapons and shattered armor littered the scorched plains. The war that had shaken the heavens, hells, and worlds in between had finally reached its bitter end. It was a land scarred, not just by battle, but by centuries of rivalry between gods, demons, and men.
At the heart of the ruin stood two figures-the Dragonlord and his younger brother, Aleron.
Aleron's armor was stained with the blood of fallen gods. His breath came in ragged gasps, yet his eyes burned with a wild, unrelenting fury. Before him knelt a god-battered, bloodied, defeated. The god had already surrendered, casting aside his weapon, but Aleron raised his sword high, intent on delivering the final blow. His gaze was fixed on the god's broken form, the sheer hatred in his heart pulsing, desperate to be released.
"Enough, Aleron," the Dragonlord's voice rumbled, deep and commanding, yet strangely gentle. His heavy aura pressed down on the battlefield, undeniable and absolute, like an iron weight upon the air.
"They have surrendered. This war is over."
Aleron's hand trembled-not from exhaustion, but from barely contained rage. The grip on his sword tightened. His lips curled into a sneer, and a laugh-bitter and cruel-escaped his chest. He could feel the god's blood on his hands, on his soul, and it thrilled him. But under the Dragonlord's unyielding gaze, he hesitated. The sword trembled in his grip, slowly lowering to the ground.
The god, Orvane, looked up at Aleron, blood seeping from his cracked lips. A broken smile spread across his face, and though his voice was faint, it carried the weight of truth heavier than any weapon.
"We surrendered... not because of your armies..." His gaze shifted to the Dragonlord, full of an almost reverent fear.
"But because of the Dragonlord.
We gods... we feared him not for his strength, but for his heart."
Orvane coughed, struggling to speak through the pain, his words like heavy stones sinking into the depths of Aleron's mind.
"The demons and monsters... they only fear his overwhelming power.
But we gods... we who can glimpse into the soul...
We know the truth."
Aleron's face twisted with disgust. The words cut deeper than any blade could have. He could feel his brother's presence behind him, standing as an unmovable monolith-calm, unshaken, like a wall he could never breach. The hatred within him surged, close to spilling over. He stepped forward, his sword trembling with the weight of his fury.
"Enough!" Aleron hissed through clenched teeth. "You dare mock me?!" His voice cracked, as if it couldn't contain the raw emotion tearing through him.
Orvane ignored him, his tired eyes never leaving the Dragonlord, who stood like a silent sentinel, his gaze fixed on the god with an unsettling calmness.
"They don't deserve your protection, Dragonlord... not your loyalty... not your heart."
The god's voice cracked, but his final words landed with the force of a hammer striking stone:
"Even now... I see it.
Your downfall... not at the hands of enemies... but by your own family."
Aleron's chest heaved, his rage threatening to swallow him whole. His grip on his sword tightened, and for a moment, he was sure he would end the god's life. But then a hand stopped him.
The Dragonlord.
Silent. Towering. Unyielding.
Without uttering a word, the Dragonlord's mere presence pulled Aleron back, forcing him to step away from the broken god, who continued to look up at them, his gaze a mix of sorrow and pity.
Orvane, breathing heavily, remained kneeling-alive but defeated. His gaze never left the Dragonlord, sorrow flickering in his wounded eyes, as though he could see something the Dragonlord could not. Orvane's words lingered in the air, hanging between them like an unspoken truth.
As the armies began to withdraw, the heavy silence between the brothers grew, thick and suffocating. The Dragonlord turned, his steps slow but resolute, as he made his way back toward the great citadel, his armor gleaming in the dying light. The twilight of victory, once bright and promising, now felt hollow. Something far darker loomed over them, something neither of them could escape.
Behind him, Aleron followed, his heart a battlefield far bloodier than the one they had just left. He felt the weight of every step, the tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the exhaustion of battle, but with the growing realization of the betrayal that had long since taken root.
The sound of their footsteps echoed through the quiet as they approached the throne hall. The great stone doors loomed before them, marking the entry to a future neither of them could yet grasp.
Aleron's voice finally broke the silence, his tone cold, almost detached. "Brother," he called out, the word tasting bitter, sour on his tongue.
"You... you never cared about the throne, did you?"
The Dragonlord paused before the massive doors, his figure bathed in the flickering shadows of the torches. He turned his head slightly, his horns casting long, dark shadows across the cold stone. His eyes, despite the weight of battle, remained soft, distant, as though seeing beyond Aleron entirely.
In his heart, a quiet thought stirred, fragile yet full of longing:
"I never cared for the throne. All I ever wanted was your love."
But he said nothing of it.
Instead, he simply answered, his voice calm and distant, as though speaking from some far-off place, beyond the reach of Aleron's rage:
"The throne means nothing to me. If it is what you desire... you may have it."
To Aleron, those words rang like cruel mockery-a reminder that even now, even in victory, he stood forever in the shadow of a brother who sought nothing he could not have. His very existence seemed to be a reflection of everything Aleron could never be, and it festered within him like an open wound.
The seed of betrayal, long planted, now bloomed in full-nourished by fury, pride, and a simmering jealousy. It twisted inside his chest, twisting his every thought, his every breath.
Aleron's hatred, once carefully hidden behind a mask of duty and fear, now thrived-quietly, violently, inside his heart. It became an insidious thing, festering in the dark corners of his mind, demanding that he take action, that he make the Dragonlord pay for the wounds he had never meant to inflict.
The Dragonlord, unaware or perhaps simply choosing not to acknowledge the storm within his brother, walked forward, each step heavy with an uncertain future-toward a destiny shaped not by his enemies, but by the very family he had always loved.
The citadel doors creaked open.
And behind them, Aleron followed, the seeds of betrayal now deep within his soul, beginning to grow in the silence.