The sky above the capital was on fire.

A blazing breath tore through the clouds, and Valthor's colossal shadow spread over the city like a living night. His vast wings, lit by cosmic glimmers, reflected bursts of starlight. Each of his wing beats made the air tremble, and his black scales were veined by red lines.

Then, with a roar, he released hell.

A torrent of blinding white flames poured down onto the ramparts.The stones shattered like glass, and the guards were reduced to charred shadows before they could even scream. The air reeked of burnt flesh, and the smoke covered the sky.

Valthor was not just a dragon.

He was the only son of Syrs, the Black Dragon, scourge of ancient times and queen of dragons. Syrs, whose wings once darkened sunlight, was finally defeated by the legendary hero Raiden and his companions. But instead of being killed, the dragon was subjected by an eternal pact: an indestructible bond, engraved in blood and soul, which condemned her and all her descendants to protect Raiden's lineage, and to lend them the draconic power when they needed it.

Thus, when the era of DarknessDays ended, only this immutable oath was left.

Syrs and his descendants could never escape it.

Valthor, born of this cursed and sacred lineage, inherited the will of his mother and thus became the guardian of the Ingriss.

While Valthor set the city on fire, in front of this cataclysm, Raphael slowly advanced toward the walls of the burning capital. His white cape, marked with the emblem of Ingrissia, fluttered in the wind, just like his black hair.

When he reached the city's main gate, Raphael paused for a moment, then unleashed his power. His eyes turned golden and golden lightning crackled around him. He snapped his fingers, and several swords of energy materialized around him.

Raphael didn't need to hurry. He began to advance slowly, his steps being of a solemn calm.

His figure was framed by the golden lightning crackling around him.

Several soldiers and knights tried to block his path, but it was in vain.

Raphael's lightning struck down every soldier who opposed him, and with each flick of his hand, dozens of radiant swords tore through the air, decapitating men in an instant.

An indescribable carnage was taking place within the capital of Darshlem. Its streets, once full of life, were transformed into a river of blood.

Corpses strewed here and there. Some were charred, others without a head... others were pierced by luminous swords, and others, cut into pieces.

In the midst of this hell surrounded by flames, Raphael advanced impassively. But seeing the massacre he was causing, he stopped for a moment and said:

"Tch, what a pathetic king. I had hoped he would evacuate everyone, and accept his fate... but it seems I was wrong," he said with a disgusted look.

After these words, Raphael continued his advance towards the Royal Palace of Darshelm, eliminating anyone who dared to stand in his way.

While Valthor set fire to the capital and Raphael approached the Royal Palace, in Prince Narel's chambers, the atmosphere was entirely different.

In the royal apartments, at the top of the East Tower, the young Prince Narel was sitting on his bed.

His legs trembled, and his little fingers nervously squeezed the gold-embroidered sheet. Around him, flames cast a red glow through the stained-glass windows, and a hot breath seeped beneath the balcony doors. Each tremor of the ground toppled the candlesticks, and every dragon's roar made his heart pound harder.

"Monsignor! Don't go out! "Shouted a maid as she opened the door.

Behind her, two other women were already locking at the entrance. Curtains began to catch fire, but in a few seconds, the maids tore them off and trampled them to put out the fire.

"What's going on...?" Narel stammered, looking terrified.

His childish eyes, already wet with tears, stared at the window. In the distance, through the smoke, he saw the roofs collapse, the streets light up like a giant fire. He heard screams and screams.

As he looked through the window, a powerful rumble shook the tower, knocking down porcelain vases that broke.

A few seconds later, Narel frooze on the spot when he saw the starry sky turn all black. At this precise moment, he saw it.

Valthor's huge figure crossed the sky. It resembled the legendary dragon from the tales his nurse once told him.

"Is it... is it a dragon?" He said, his eyes widening in terror.

The oldest servant advanced towards him, and hugged him tightly. She then said in a trembling voice:

"Listen to me, Your Highness. His Majesty, your father, ordered us to keep you here, no matter what."

"So please, Monsignor, let's wait calmly for the knights," she added with tears in her eyes.

Unfortunately, Narel's spirit had already wavered. Fear gripped him down to his fingertips, and his breathing became unsteady. His instinct was pushing him to run to find his father. No matter the flames, the orders of the adults, or even death. At eleven years old, he had only one certainty: his father was his only protection.

Then, Narel slowly got out of his bed. His vision had become blurred because of his tears, but despite that, he moved forward, his body trembling.

"I have to go see Father," he said in a voice that didn't look like him.

The maids tried to hold him back, begging him and kneeling before him.

"No, my prince!" cried a young servant, already in tears.

"Soon the knights of Her Majesty will come to look for us and we will be safe," added another servant, her face filled with concern.

But the child pushed them away with all his strength, and continued to move forward, tears running down his cheeks.

"I will certainly die if I stay here," he said, while opening the locks placed by the maids.

As soon as he managed to open the door of his room, he began to run despite the hands that tried to hold him. He left behind the pleas that suffocated in a new rumble.

The courtyard alley leading to the main palace was plunged into chaos. Mages, and healers, provided care to the wounded soldiers lying on the ground. Some suffered burns so severe their skin had melted away, others were fatally wounded.

The smell of blood mixed with that of flames.

Narel, barefoot, ran relentlessly on the blood-stained ground, even if he stumbled, he got up and continued his race. His hands trembled, and his gaze refused to cross the corpses lying along his road. He continued to run, guided by a hope to which he clung.

He already saw himself throwing himself into his father's arms, and heard his reassuring voice that would order him not to fear anything.

When he reached the massive doors of the throne room, two guards already lay dead on the ground.

Despite this, Narel, panting, opened the doors of the throne room.

But when he opened those doors, what he saw would be etched into his soul forever.

The large room was bathed in a moonlight, which entered through a large hole in the vault. The ground had become an ocean of blood, and dozens of corpses littered along the central alley: knights, nobles, guards, all lay in silence, bathed in their own blood. Swords, and luminous spears were still floating in the air, dripping with red.

In the middle of this den of the dead, standing like a heavenly shadow, Raphael. His white cape was stained with blood, and his figure seemed unreal. His black hair covered in blood veiled his face, and his golden eyes gleamed with an icy glow.

In his right hand, hung the king's head, frozen in an expression of fear.

Narel stopped sharply, his heart missing a beat. His world collapsed in him, and a cry formed in his throat, but no sound came out. His legs gave way, and he collapsed on his knees. His little hands were shaking, his eyes could not turn away from the horror.

Raphael turned his head slightly towards him, and his cold gaze crossed him.

"A child?" he says.


                  To be continued...