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Authors pov
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The air in the imperial chamber felt suffocating, thick not with incense but with the dense pressure of secrets. Crimson drapes rimmed with extravagant embroidery hung like bloodstained banners on either side of the throne. In the center of this oppressive luxury sat Her Highness—reclined with calculated elegance, her chin resting upon a perfectly manicured knuckle.
Below her, a single aide knelt. Sweat glistened on the young woman's brow, her trembling frame reflected in the polished marble floor. Her Highness enjoyed watching fear—it reaffirmed her power.
"Do you think Hakan has figured out the true purpose behind the Black Candle?" Her Highness asked softly, as if she were commenting on the weather.
But her voice carried a razor's edge.
The aide swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Your Highness… He ordered the cleric to dispose of it."
Dispose of it.
Disrespectful.
Short-sighted.
Predictable.
An irritation flickered behind Her Highness's eyes—like the twitch of a serpent disturbed mid-hunt. More than anger, it was annoyance at the inefficiency of others.
Still… it was only a setback.
She lounged back, the gems on her gown clinking softly like chimes of deceit. "At this rate," she murmured, "it won't be long before he discovers who sent him the candle…"
The aide's head snapped up, eyes wide with terror. "W-what? Wouldn't that put Your Highness in danger?"
Her Highness smiled.
A slow, poisonous smile that made the candle flames shiver.
"Don't worry," she cooed, her tone suddenly warm—motherly, even. "You can just say you were forced to do it."
The aide blinked.
Forced.
By whom?
But before she could ask, Her Highness lifted her chin with an expression of serene absolution. "Who could possibly prove I was the one behind it?"
The truth was already buried. She had seen to that. Every witness—removed. Every trace—erased. The shadow of her influence never left fingerprints.
Then her lips curled again, this time with bitter disdain.
"Lucina…" The name left her mouth like venom spit from a viper. "I'm going to make her take all the blame for this."
The aide's breath hitched.
Lucina was innocent.
That was the point.
Her Highness rose from her throne with slow, deliberate grace, her gown trailing like a black tide. "In the meantime, I'll make it look as though Lucina orchestrated everything."
Her mind raced. She needed space—time. A diversion large enough to eclipse any suspicion that fell her way.
And one existed.
A woman with hair like moonlight.
Eyes like winter glass.
A presence that disrupted plans simply by existing.
Her Highness muttered under her breath, "I have to find a way to make Hakan leave the palace."
Before she could refine the plan, a thunderous commotion erupted in the hallway—
BANG!
The doors slammed open. A messenger stumbled in, breathless and ashen.
"DRAGON SLAYERS—ARE SUDDENLY ATTACKING!"
The aide gasped. Her Highness's expression darkened, but not with fear.
With recognition.
Opportunity.
Chaos could be shaped. Molded. Weaponized.
---
Outside, the palace was already in uproar—soldiers thundering down stone halls, steel drawn, orders shouted. But none commanded attention like the man now mounting his horse—broad-shouldered, fury-eyed, unmistakably Hakan or his lead general.
He rode with a terrifying purpose.
The ground shook with the GALLOP of countless hooves behind him.
"If the barrier surrounding the fortress has been breached," he thought grimly, "then their leader must be involved."
The barrier was ancient dragon magic—unbreakable except by overwhelming force. Or worse… intention.
The report had chilled him:
This had not happened in ten years.
Ten years of fragile peace.
Ten years since the Dragon Slayers last broke through.
He arrived at the fortress in a whirlwind of dust and urgency. The air stank of singed earth and iron.
"What's the situation? How are our losses?" he barked the moment his boots hit the ground.
A soldier—armor dented, eyes lined with exhaustion—answered quickly, "Aside from the barrier breach… they haven't launched a full attack yet."
A strange tactic. A dangerous one.
From beside him, a man with silver-grey braided hair let out a strained sigh, shaking his head with deep resentment.
"They are so impatient to destroy the Tayar Tribe…"
His voice cracked with years of buried rage.
And then Hakan saw it.
A body.
A warrior cradling another fallen comrade, arrows scattered like accusations around them.
The image struck him like a hammer.
His jaw tightened.
His fists balled.
Old wounds ripped open.
Ten years ago…
The Dragon Slayers had done far, far worse.
His breath trembled with fury as he lowered his gaze to the blood-soaked dirt beneath his boots.
"I'LL MAKE SURE I GET REVENGE FOR WHAT THEY DID TO US TEN YEARS AGO."
The vow ignited inside him—burning, unrelenting, absolute.
---
The wind tore through the shattered trees surrounding the fortress, whipping Hakan's dark cloak into a frenzy as he spurred his mount forward. Every thundering hoofbeat was a drum of vengeance, a heartbeat echoing ten years of festering rage. His mind replayed the memory that had never dulled: the sacrifice of a fallen warrior, arrows piercing the earth like accusatory fingers, and the helplessness of that day etched into his bones.
If the barrier surrounding the fortress has been breached, then the leader of the Dragon Slayers must be involved.
The thought tightened his chest, each word of realization like a hammer driving him onward. This was no random raid. No mere show of force. It was personal. Calculated. Deliberate.
The last time they were able to break through the barrier… ten years ago.
A decade of fragile peace shattered in an instant. He could almost see the young faces of the fallen, the hands reaching for him that never would again. Anger and sorrow twisted together, forming a sharpened edge in his heart.
"I'LL MAKE SURE I GET REVENGE FOR WHAT THEY DID TO US TEN YEARS AGO!"
The vow left his lips in a roar that seemed to shake the very forest around him. It was not just a promise; it was a declaration, a calling forth of fury that refused to be denied.
At the fortress, the chaos was immediate but controlled. Turan, the silver-braided general, stood rigid, armor scratched and dented, face drawn but steady. Hakan's voice cut through the din like steel.
"WHAT'S THE SITUATION? HOW ARE OUR LOSSES?"
Turan's reply was measured, almost too calm for the storm outside:
"Aside from breaking through our barrier, they haven't launched any major attacks on us yet."
Hakan's eyes narrowed, suspicion replacing fury with a sharper, colder edge.
"WHAT? Didn't you say that it was an emergency?"
The general let out a long, weary SIGH, the sound heavy with decades of grudges.
"They are so impatient to destroy the Tayar Tribe," he said. Years of history hung between the words—decades of anger, cycles of revenge.
Hakan scanned the battlefield with a dark, calculating gaze, his mind racing through every possibility. Something about the attack was too precise, too limited in scope. His chest tightened as the pieces aligned in a horrifying clarity.
Did they attack the fortress on purpose… to draw me out?
The realization slammed into him like a physical blow. Rage now mingled with dread.
"IT'S A TRAP!" he shouted, the word ripping from his throat. "They've sprung this to lure me from the safety of the capital!"
The vulnerability it created at home gnawed at him. Every palace corridor, every secret chamber, every loyal ally suddenly teetered on the edge of danger. He could not ignore the machinations within—those who wished to see him absent, those who sought to pin the blame for the Black Candle on Lucina.
"BUT THE BARRIER HAS BEEN BREACHED. WE DON'T KNOW WHEN THEY'LL ATTACK!" The words left him ragged. "They did this to DRAW ME OUT HERE—!"
Turning to Turan, he issued a command laced with urgency and authority.
"TURAN, WE HAVE TO RETURN TO THE PALACE AT ONCE!"
But fate had already begun to unveil the next confrontation. From the forest, a figure emerged, luminous and commanding. White armor glinted in the sunlight, a steed as pure as snow beneath them. A cohort of soldiers clad in black armor followed, silent and lethal. The leader of the Dragon Slayers had appeared.
Hakan's hand instinctively tightened around his reins, his mind teetering between the duty to protect his home and the primal drive of vengeance.
"TURAN, PREPARE TO DEFEND THE FORTRESS FROM ANY ATTACKS FROM THE SLAYERS! I'LL DEAL WITH THEIR LEADER MYSELF!"
He spurred his horse forward, every nerve alight, every muscle coiled. A decade-old grudge fueled his blood, every memory of past loss sharpening his resolve.
"IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS SINCE I LAST SAW YOU, KIDDO," he called, the bitter familiarity in his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
A calm, mocking voice replied from beneath the helm:
"I heard you were injured, but you seem fine to me."
Hakan's heart skipped, a flicker of shock crossing his features. His muscles twitched. A woman's voice? The revelation was unexpected, twisting his anger into something darker, more personal.
The white-armored leader remained impassive, yet every step radiated controlled strength. Hakan's mind raced—this figure, once the child of a decade past, now a warrior standing before him, was the enemy he had sworn to destroy. The confrontation had become intimate, personal, and unavoidable.
A deep, raw FLINCH crossed his face. Recognition, disbelief, and fury collided in a single, deadly glance.
The stage was set. The air vibrated with the tension of old grudges and new battles. And in that moment, Hakan's resolve crystallized: the vengeance of ten years would not be denied.
---
The air around the fortress was thick with dust and the acrid scent of magic and blood. The barrier, once thought unbreakable, lay shattered in jagged fragments, the echoes of its destruction still humming faintly in the air. Hakan, the Dragon King, spurred his mount forward, muscles coiled, eyes ablaze with cold, measured fury. Each movement was driven by the memory that had haunted him for ten years—a comrade, lifeless, cradled amidst a field of arrows, the sky above them streaked with the silver flash of steel.
I'LL MAKE SURE I GET REVENGE FOR WHAT THEY DID TO US TEN YEARS AGO.
His sword, massive and gleaming, was raised with a terrible WHISH, the steel catching the light like a promise of retribution. The Dragon Slayer leader awaited him atop a white horse, their armor gleaming like frozen sunlight. Even the silent posture radiated authority, power, and deadly intent.
Hakan's lips curled into a sneer as he called out bitterly, "KIDDO."
The figure remained still, the voice behind the helm smooth, mocking, and impossibly feminine:
"I heard you were injured, but you seem fine to me."
Hakan recoiled with a visible FLINCH, his mind wrestling with the paradox. Heavy armor, ruthless skill, a long-standing reputation for destruction—and yet a soft, melodic voice. A woman?
The leader's calm gaze and poised stance only fueled his anger. Their voice rang with cold curiosity:
"I wasn't there ten years ago, so I had no idea. WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING?"
Hakan's red eyes blazed with fury. Every memory of the past ten years surged forward, sharpening his intent. "I REMEMBER KILLING YOUR BROTHER TEN YEARS AGO," he spat, his voice thick with FUME. "I HOPE YOU ARE MORE SKILLED THAN HE WAS." The words were not just insult, but a weapon aimed at their composure, a desperate bid to unbalance the enemy before the first strike.
The clash was immediate. Metal rang against metal with a symphony of violence—CLANG! SWISH! WHAM! CLANK!—a blur of motion as Hakan poured every ounce of his rage into the attack. Yet the Dragon Slayer leader was a tempest of precision and speed, each block and parry anticipating his heavy, rage-driven blows.
In the frenzy, Hakan pressed harder, blinded by his thirst for revenge. But skill alone could not match a decade of cunning. A blade found the gap in his scale armor, slipping with a sharp STAB that sent a jolt of agony up his spine. Blood spurted instantly, dark and hot against the gleaming steel of his chest.
"UGH!" he groaned, staggering as vision blurred and the world tilted dangerously.
The leader withdrew the blade with a practiced twist, their voice slicing through the haze of pain:
"IT'S OVER!"
Hakan's legs buckled under him, knees trembling, strength draining like water through fingers. The sound of rushing men—his soldiers—reached him as a distant, desperate chorus.
A heavy THUD resonated as the Dragon King SLUMPED to the earth, armor stained crimson, body trembling uncontrollably. The last coherent sound before darkness claimed him was the terrified shout of a loyal soldier:
"YOUR MAJESTY!"
Meanwhile, at the Palace…
Elsewhere, the palace was quiet in contrast, the danger insidious rather than violent. Lucina, the unwitting pawn in Her Highness's cruel game, awoke with a violent SPRING, white hair tumbling across the pillow. The plot to frame her for the Black Candle incident had placed her at the center of political treachery.
Titi, a young attendant, rushed forward, relief etched across her face.
"YOU'RE FINALLY AWAKE, LUCINA!"
But Lucina's mind was already elsewhere, racing, eyes wide with terror. "HAKAN! WHERE'S HAKAN?" she demanded, pushing the covers aside with urgency.
Titi's voice faltered as she spoke, shadows of fear crossing her face. "He went to protect the Hatchlings' fortress… I wish he was here to see you wake up…"
Lucina's pale eyes widened, connecting the threads of palace intrigue with horrifying clarity. The conspirators had designed this—the strike on the fortress, the lure of Hakan away from the capital, and the plan to make her take the blame for the Black Candle. Every piece of the puzzle confirmed the depth of betrayal.
"I-Is the fortress under attack?" she whispered, her voice trembling, mind racing with the possibilities.
The distant sound of hooves—a rapid CLIP CLOP—echoed through the palace courtyard, giving a fleeting hope. "Look, the King has returned!" Titi exclaimed, but Lucina only murmured, fear tightening her chest. She pushed herself upright, urgency propelling her forward.
Reaching the courtyard, all she saw was Turan, dust-covered and frantic—but no sign of the King. Panic surged through her.
"Turan! WHERE'S… HAKAN?" she demanded.
His face was grave, eyes unable to hide the truth. He explained in hushed, urgent tones: Hakan had been struck by a "black ARROW" during the battle with the Slayers—a weapon cursed or poisoned, uniquely lethal.
The ground seemed to shift beneath her feet. The King was critically wounded. She, the intended pawn, was now the only one awake and aware of the looming danger.
Her mind flashed to the conspirator's smirk—the High Princess who orchestrated the trap, who had planned to make her the scapegoat.
"I have to go to him!" Lucina declared, fear transmuted into desperate resolve. Every heartbeat screamed urgency; only by reaching Hakan could she ensure his survival—and confront the shadowed treason still plotting within the palace walls.
The palace corridors, usually a place of muted elegance and careful whispers, now felt oppressive to Lucina. Every echo of hurried footsteps, every faint clatter of armor, amplified the terror that had rooted itself deep in her chest. The world seemed to tilt as the CLIP CLOP of hooves faded into the distance, leaving only the grim truth: Turan had returned, but the Dragon King had not.
Her hands trembled as she grabbed Turan by the arm, desperation sharpening her voice.
"Turan! WHERE'S… HAKAN?"
The general's face was drawn, exhaustion and fear etched in every line. His words fell like stones in her heart. Hakan had been struck—by a black ARROW, during the battle against the Slayers. The attack had been no accident. It had been a lure, a carefully calculated strike, and the palace intrigue had been waiting, ready to exploit his absence.
Turan's voice faltered under the weight of the confession.
"I've just dropped him off at the Sanctuary," he admitted, urgency and helplessness mingling. "Injuries caused by Black Arrows won't heal easily… so I don't know what to do…"
Lucina's chest tightened as she absorbed the gravity of the words. The King—gravely injured. The conspirators—closer than ever to bending the kingdom to their will. And she—previously intended as a mere pawn—was now the only person in a position to act.
Her pale eyes, once wide with fear, hardened. The terror that had clutched at her heart transformed into razor-sharp resolve. She would not cower, she would not be silenced. The High Princess had plotted to "make it look like Lucina was responsible for everything," to remove her from the game entirely—but the tables had turned.
"I HAVE TO GO TO HIM!" she declared, the words a hammer of determination. The palace seemed to hold its breath as she moved, swift and purposeful, each step echoing the urgency of her mission.
And then, a realization struck her like lightning: she had a power that no ordinary healer could wield. Her heritage, her unique magic—always treated as an anomaly, a complication, even a curse—now surged within her as the only possible salvation.
A pulse of clarity, raw and undeniable, settled over her.
"I…" she whispered to herself, a tremor of both fear and hope threading her voice. "…CAN HEAL HIM."
It was reckless. It was audacious. And it was born of desperation and love. The Black Arrow's poison was insidious, dark magic designed to fester and kill. Ordinary remedies would fail. Only Lucina's extraordinary, untapped power could stand against it.
Her mind raced through the risks, through the consequences of failure, yet none of it could diminish her resolve. The King was gravely wounded, and she—his bride, his ally, the one who had been written off—was now the kingdom's unlikely safeguard.
Every heartbeat hammered with purpose. She would race to the Sanctuary, a beacon of determination cutting through the shadows of treachery and betrayal. The High Princess, smug and calculating, would remain unaware that the pawn she had sought to sacrifice had transformed into a force that could upend her plans entirely.
Lucina's fingers clenched, her breath steadying. Her resolve was absolute. She would not fail.