The sky stretched endlessly above him, painted in colors too soft for a world so cruel.
Dragonlord lay on the soft grass of the hidden valley, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-closed as he watched the small creatures run freely in the sunlight.
It had been only one day since the battle, and his body, once torn and bloodied, had already healed completely. Yet he remained there — unmoving — as if trying to hold onto something... something that the world kept trying to tear from his grasp.
The creatures that lived here were strange.
They were small — fragile, even — and unlike anything outside this valley.
In the world beyond these mountains, even the tiniest insect carried traces of magic.
But these creatures... they had none.
No magic.
No defenses.
Nothing but simple, pure life.
And somehow, despite the crushing weight of his aura — the power that made even kings tremble — these creatures didn't flee in terror.
They simply... lived.
Sometimes they scurried away when he got too close, but it wasn't fear of him.
It was instinct.
Natural, innocent instinct — untainted by awe or hatred.
For once, Dragonlord didn't have to be the "Dragonlord."
He could simply exist.
He let out a slow breath, feeling the grass tickle his fingertips.
"Is this... what I missed from her?"
"Is this what it would have been like... to be loved freely?"
He didn't know.
He had never known.
Seraphina, his sister — the one he had longed to be closer to — had always been a distant star in his sky.
Brilliant.
Beautiful.
Untouchable.
He closed his eyes.
Three days slipped by like a half-forgotten dream.
And then, with a heavy heart, he rose.
Reality awaited — cold and merciless beyond the valley's gentle embrace.
When he returned to the capital, a message was already waiting.
His father, King Aric, had summoned him.
It felt... strange.
Aric hadn't called for him personally in a long time — not since Dragonlord's power had grown to such terrifying heights that even the king himself kept a careful distance.
Even so, Dragonlord moved without hesitation.
He crossed the grand halls of the palace, each step echoing softly in the cold air, until he stood before the massive doors of the throne room.
They swung open at his approach without a sound.
Inside, the air was thick and heavy.
At the far end, King Aric and Queen Selene sat upon their thrones.
Twin rulers — both smaller than Dragonlord's own blackened throne, but still proud, still imposing.
It was Aric who spoke first, his voice low, almost hesitant.
"I need your help."
Dragonlord blinked slowly.
Those words were... rare.
"What is it?" he asked, his tone neutral but alert.
King Aric rose to his feet.
There was a tension in his body, something tightly wound and ready to snap.
"Can you kill the Demon Lord?"
The question dropped like a stone into still water.
Dragonlord frowned.
"Why?" he asked. "Did he do something again?"
King Aric's gaze was cold as winter.
"He's a threat," he said simply. "If we don't crush him now, he'll take the lands you've fought so hard to capture."
Dragonlord looked away for a moment, staring at the golden banners fluttering along the throne room walls.
It was always about land.
Power.
Conquest.
He knew it.
He had always known it.
But still... he wanted to believe there was more to it.
Somewhere deep down, he still wanted to be useful.
Still wanted to be seen.
"Alright," he said softly. "I'll do it. Prepare the army."
But Aric shook his head.
"No," the king said. "You'll go with only a few hundred men. Aleron is moving to the western front. He needs the rest."
Dragonlord hesitated.
Aleron...
Was he really moving west?
If something happened to him... would he be there to protect him?
The doubts twisted inside him like a knife, but he forced himself to nod.
"...Very well. I'll go."
And so, wounded in ways unseen, he left for battle.
The battlefield was a graveyard before the battle even ended.
The Demon Lord was powerful, a true monster of hatred and ancient magic.
The ground itself cracked and burned under his roars.
His armies were endless, swarming like locusts across the broken fields.
Dragonlord fought like a living tempest.
But he held back.
He always held back.
He fought carefully, measuredly, refusing to unleash the true scale of his strength — because if he did, he would destroy not only his enemies, but the earth, the sky, the lives beyond the mountains, the rivers, the homes.
Because he cared.
And it cost him.
Amidst the chaos, a devastating blow tore through him.
One wrong movement, one moment too slow...
And his right arm — his dominant arm — was severed.
Blood sprayed across the field.
He staggered back, his vision blurring, the world spinning wildly.
Pain — real, raw pain — flooded through him.
Still, he fought.
Still, he stood.
And when the final blow fell, when the Demon Lord collapsed into the mud, when the last soldier screamed his last breath...
Only Dragonlord remained.
Alone.
Bleeding.
Broken.
Far away, in the safety of the throne room, King Aric, Queen Selene, and Seraphina had been watching the battle unfold through the scrying mirror.
When Dragonlord lost his arm, when his blood splashed onto the burning ground...
They turned away.
Without hesitation.
Without a second glance.
They had seen enough.
They moved on to the next stage of their plan.
Dragonlord, half-dead but still standing, felt only one thought hammering in his mind:
Aleron.
He had to make sure he was safe.
Summoning what little strength remained, Dragonlord flew toward the western front — desperate, aching, heart pounding against his ribs.
But when he arrived...
There was no battle.
No soldiers.
No armies.
Not even a trace.
Just empty fields, swaying gently in the wind.
Dragonlord stood there, silent.
The lies gnawed at him.
"Why did Father lie?"
"Why did he send me with so few?"
"What is going on?"
The doubt poisoned his mind, but he pushed it down, burying it under layers of duty and hope.
Maybe it didn't matter.
Maybe he was just tired.
He turned, ready to return to the only place where he could find a shred of peace — the valley.
But then, a soft chime.
The crystal orb at his belt shimmered and pulsed.
Dragonlord lifted it carefully, frowning.
A voice, soft and clear, came through:
"Brother..."
He froze.
His heart skipped a beat.
That voice — Seraphina's.
The sister who never once called him before.
The sister he had always watched from afar.
For a long moment, he couldn't breathe.
"...What is it?" he asked finally, his voice raw.
There was a pause, then her voice, quieter now, almost trembling:
"Where are you?"
He blinked, the unease sharpening inside him.
"...Why?" he asked cautiously.
Another moment of silence.
Then, with a voice that almost sounded... worried:
"If you're free... can you come to the throne room?"
The connection ended with a soft pulse of light.
Dragonlord stared at the orb for a long moment, confusion and hope warring inside him.
Slowly, he moved — wounded, bloodied, but determined — back toward the palace.
Toward the throne room.
Toward her.
The heavy doors creaked open under his hand.
Inside, the room was nearly empty, the grand thrones looming over the polished marble floor.
Only Seraphina stood there, waiting.
She looked different somehow — softer, more fragile.
Dragonlord stepped forward.
"What is it, Seraphina?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She turned toward him, her expression unreadable.
"I wanted to tell you something, brother," she said quietly.
He drew in a slow breath, feeling the heaviness pressing down on him.
"...Then tell me," he said. "I'm here now."
And deep inside, some part of him — a part he had never listened to before — screamed that this was the beginning of the end.
[End of Chapter 4]