The cave was dark, but the light from the altar seemed to illuminate the surroundings in an almost spectral way, reflecting off the silver scales of the dragon egg. The air was heavy, and silence now filled the space, interrupted only by the groans of pain from Lilith, collapsed on the ground, her body convulsing as the magic of the rune punished her.
Aemon, still trapped by the restraining magic, watched with a mix of shock and hesitation. He felt a deep conflict. Lilith was a threat—powerful, ambitious, and dangerous—but she was also an ally, someone who had guided him to this point and, in a way, shared his fate. He couldn't ignore her years of planning, the efforts invested in something far greater than both of them. And, despite the anger he felt at that moment, he still harbored a strange affection for her, albeit a complicated one.
Lilith's screams struck him, her fierce eyes now swollen with pain, her sweat-soaked skin glistening under the faint magical light that still surrounded the area. The magic of the slavery mark was consuming her energy with every attempt to move, every act of rage or violence against him. Aemon realized that this could end her, but… that wasn't what he wanted. There was something greater at play, something she had, in some way, helped him see. And despite everything, he knew she was destined for something beyond that suffering.
"How do I stop this?" Aemon's voice broke the silence, sounding strong and commanding, but there was genuine concern behind it. He no longer wanted to see her in agony.
Lilith screamed, the sound almost guttural, animalistic. Her eyes, swollen with pain, met Aemon's. There was a mixture of rage and desperation in them, but also a plea. "Say... 'Stop'," she managed to force the words through gritted teeth, as if every syllable was torture. "Just... say... it."
Aemon hesitated for a brief moment, feeling the weight of the decision. He could leave her there, destroyed by her own magic, or he could... free her. The choice wasn't simple, but something in his instinct guided him. He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Stop."
Immediately, the magic ceased. Lilith stopped convulsing, though her breathing remained labored and heavy. Relief flooded her body, but she still seemed weakened, collapsed on the ground as if the weight of the world had crushed her.
Aemon rose slowly, his own strength returning as the restraining magic dissipated. He walked over to Lilith, his steps echoing in the vast chamber. He looked down at her, grunting, almost like an animal, saliva dripping from her lips as she struggled to recover.
Aemon should have felt satisfaction seeing her in this state. She had manipulated him, challenged him, betrayed him, and now she was broken. But instead, a different emotion surfaced in his chest—a sense of duty, of destiny. He knew, deep in his soul, that Lilith was not meant to perish here, in some forgotten cave. Like him, she was part of something larger.
"You always said we were destined for something great," Aemon spoke, his voice soft but laden with significant weight. He knelt beside Lilith, gently lifting her body and placing her in his lap. She was fragile now, her muscles trembling with exhaustion, but there was an undeniable strength in her, a flame that still burned.
Lilith, barely able to keep her eyes open for long, opened her eyelids slightly and looked at him, surprised. She hadn't expected Aemon to help her, not after everything.
"I won't abandon you here, Lilith," Aemon said, his gaze now penetrating, locking onto hers. "If there's one thing I believe in your words... it's that you were made for something greater. Just like me. I won't let this cave be your tomb."
Lilith tried to respond, but the words failed her, her throat dry and her body too weak to offer any resistance. She just watched, stunned, as Aemon rose with her in his arms, holding her firmly.
He looked at the dragon egg, now cracked, revealing its silver scales. The light emerging from the cracks illuminated the room with an almost supernatural glow. Aemon approached the egg and, with renewed determination, turned to Lilith, who was still in his arms.
"Take the egg, Lilith," his voice was calm but firm. "We're going to Volcrist. We've wasted enough time, and Cedric won't wait for us. We can't let him crown himself while we're here."
Lilith, still dazed, looked at the egg. Her trembling fingers slowly extended towards it. There was something magical in the touch, something that had rejected her before, but now, with Aemon by her side, the egg's reluctance seemed to fade. Lilith held it carefully, its heat almost pulsing, and she felt a connection, however distant.
With the egg secured, Aemon looked towards the entrance of the cave, resolute.
"Let's go. We still have a battle to fight."
And with that, he set off, carrying Lilith in his arms, the night still dark, but the path ahead clear in his mind. They were destined for more than that place could offer, and together, they would head to Volcrist—for whatever the future held for them.
The Great Hall of Volcrist Castle was filled to the brim. Crimson and gold drapes adorned the walls, the flickering torchlight casting shimmering reflections on the faces of the attendees. A solemn silence hung in the air, broken only by the whispering of the restless nobility. The long-awaited — or feared, by some — moment had finally arrived. Cedric was about to be crowned, and the tension was palpable.
In the center, under an imposing stone arch, Cedric stood tall, dressed in royal regalia, his tunic embroidered with the emblems of Volcrist. His eyes gleamed with a mix of triumph and anxiety, though his lips curled into a confident smile. Beside him, Lady Seraphine, resplendent in her emerald green silk gown, watched with satisfaction, savoring every second of this moment of glory.
— Everything went as we planned, — Seraphine murmured, her eyes shining with pride as she gazed at Cedric. — This is our moment.
Cedric nodded slightly, but his mind was fixed on the crown that would soon grace his head. It was the pinnacle of his ambition, the ultimate prize. Nothing else mattered.
On the opposite side of the hall, standing a bit farther from the main scene, Fianna and Edric watched in silence, their expressions reflecting a mixture of discomfort and uncertainty. They knew this moment would change Volcrist forever, but a sense of looming darkness weighed heavily on both of them.
— We're about to enter a dark era for Volcrist, — Fianna whispered, her eyes fixed on Cedric as the bishops slowly approached, carrying the royal crown. Her voice was low, meant only for Edric to hear.
Edric, always calm and rational, glanced at the princess with a grave expression. — I agree. Something is beyond our control. This isn't how it was meant to be.
Fianna cast a quick glance at Thorne, who stood close to the throne, his features unreadable. Though always loyal and steadfast, Thorne, too, seemed to sense the impending storm. His silence spoke louder than any words could have.
The eldest bishop, in his long white and gold robe, walked slowly, holding the crown with reverence. It was an ancient piece, forged by the first kings of Volcrist, a symbol of power that carried the weight of centuries of history. Beside the bishop, the other priests chanted hymns in an archaic language, invoking the gods' blessing for the new king.
— Cedric of Volcrist, — the bishop began, his voice echoing through the hall. — By divine right, you have been chosen to lead this kingdom. With this crown, which bears the weight of your predecessors, do you accept the responsibility to govern, protect, and expand Volcrist?
Cedric raised his chin, his voice firm and resolute. — I accept. By the blood of kings, I swear to rule with justice and strength, and to lead Volcrist into a new era of glory.
The bishop smiled faintly and, with almost ceremonial care, raised the crown above Cedric's head. The hall held its breath. When the crown finally rested on his brow, an absolute silence fell over the room, as though even time had paused.
Lady Seraphine, now visibly emotional, smiled as she watched the symbol of power settle on her husband's head. To her, this was not just Cedric's coronation, but the beginning of a reign she believed to be the pinnacle of her ascent.
Fianna and Edric, on the opposite side, did not share the same enthusiasm. As the crowd began to applaud and the nobles bowed their heads in respect, the two exchanged a somber glance.
— There's no turning back now, — Edric muttered. — Whatever Aemon is planning, he's already too late.
Fianna nodded. — And Volcrist... Volcrist will never be the same.
Cedric stood, raising his hand to quiet the applause. — People of Volcrist, today begins a new era. An era of power, prosperity, and strength. Under my command, we will take this kingdom to heights we never imagined. But for that, I need your loyalty. Together, we will build a future brighter than the past ever could have been.
As the people cheered, a growing sound from outside the castle intensified. The noise of protests echoed through the walls, cries in favor of Aemon and against Cedric's coronation. Fianna turned her face to Edric, her dark eyes reflecting the rising anxiety.
— They know something is wrong. The people feel it, — Fianna's words were barely audible amid the increasing clamor. — Aemon... he still lives in their hearts.
Edric pressed his lips together, watching Cedric smile triumphantly. — But Cedric doesn't seem to notice... or he simply doesn't care.
The king was dead, lying in his chambers, in secret. Though Cedric's coronation had been officially completed, it began unraveling before his very eyes long before he could truly don the mantle of royalty. Outside, chaos had already overtaken the streets of Volcrist. A rival army had invaded the city, and the banners of the Dominions fluttered under the cloudy sky as the sound of marching and weapons reverberated through the air.
Cedric, still standing in the hall with the newly placed crown on his head, was paralyzed. The crowd that had cheered him moments ago now whispered in panic. Volcrist's soldiers began raising alarms, rushing frantically across the room. The heavy doors of the hall burst open violently, and the terrified screams of the people outside echoed through the corridors.
Seraphine, beside Cedric, clutched his arm, her eyes wide with worry.
— Cedric... what's happening?
Before he could respond, Volcrist's great gates were shattered, and a group of enemy leaders, mounted on imposing horses and surrounded by their armies, advanced through the courtyard. Any who tried to resist or block their path were mercilessly cut down. It was a slaughter.
At the center, astride a black horse, was the leader of the Dominion coalition, the man who commanded the invading forces. His eyes were cold, his expression one of absolute disdain for Cedric's coronation. Beside him were the other leaders who had conspired for this moment, including Lady Cerys and Lord Dravenmoor, each with their own sinister interests.
With a signal, they made their way into the hall, where Cedric and Seraphine awaited them with what little dignity remained.
The first to speak was Lord Dravenmoor, his voice icy, dripping with contempt:
— A coronation... what a pathetic spectacle. Cedric, son of Volcrist, you are not worthy of this crown. This throne does not belong to you.
Cedric, still speechless, looked around as if seeking an unlikely solution, his eyes wide with panic and disbelief. Seraphine, who had once worn a confident smile, now gazed at him desperately, as if their grand plans had been shattered in an instant.
— The king is dead, — Lady Cerys said bluntly, breaking the silence with chilling coldness. — The true king of Volcrist. We killed him this morning. And now, Cedric, you will pay for this affront.
The blood drained from Cedric's face. He involuntarily stepped back, feeling the weight of the crown on his head like an invisible chain dragging him into the abyss. He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat. Seraphine gripped his arm tighter, fear reflected in her eyes.
— What... what do you want? — Cedric finally managed to speak, though his voice was weak and trembling.
Lord Dravenmoor dismounted from his horse, walking slowly towards the hall.
— It's not about what we want, Cedric. It's about what we've already taken. Volcrist belongs to us now. Your allies are dead or have fled. Your army is surrounded, and the people... well, they no longer shout your name.
Fianna, who had overheard the revelation, widened her eyes in horror, her expression turning to pure shock.
— The king... dead? — her voice barely a whisper as she turned to Edric and Thorne.
— No... it can't be.
Thorne, who had maintained his stoic calm until that moment, stiffened, his hands trembling slightly.
— This changes everything. We need to see for ourselves.
Without waiting any longer, Fianna and Thorne rushed out of the hall, desperate to reach the late king's chambers. Edric, who remained in the hall, glanced towards Cedric with a mixture of pity and frustration.
Cedric looked at the leaders standing before him, his breath heavy, his mind racing for an escape.
— You... you can't do this. Volcrist... this kingdom isn't yours! I'm the king now!
Lady Cerys smiled cruelly, shaking her head.
— Oh, Cedric. Do you really think a crown makes you a king? Volcrist has always belonged to the strong. And you... you were never strong enough.
Outside, the sounds of battle grew louder. The castle gates were being torn down, the enemy armies scaling the walls, and every escape route was being blocked. Cedric was trapped, with nowhere left to run.
Falling to his knees, Cedric was consumed by despair. He had been caught in a trap of his own making, blind ambition leading him to this moment. The banners of the Dominions now flew over the castle of Volcrist, and Cedric's reign had ended before it even began.
Inside the hall, Edric approached Fianna, who had returned pale and shaken after confirming the king's death.
— A new dark era has come for Volcrist, — Edric muttered, his voice heavy with resignation.
Fianna nodded, her eyes lost in the scene before her.
— And I fear it will be worse than any of us could have imagined.
In the great hall, the flickering flames of the torches mirrored the tension hanging in the air. Cedric, still on his knees, was slowly processing the brutal blow of his enemies' words. On the other side, Lady Cerys and Lord Dravenmoor conversed, as if they were organizing the division of a spoils. Their eyes no longer showed fear or hesitation.
— We worried for nothing, — Cerys declared, crossing her arms, her gaze sweeping the castle. — Volcrist's defenses were weakened. The various bandit attacks in the more remote areas gave us the perfect opportunity. It was foolish to send your forces to fight off those raiders.
Lord Dravenmoor, with a smile of approval, nodded.
— Underestimating the enemy is the greatest mistake a kingdom can make... and Cedric committed all of them, — he commented, casting a cold glance at the new "king," who remained mute. — Volcrist was a fortress... until he turned it into ruins.
Cerys, however, seemed uneasy, her eyes scanning the hall as if something were missing.
— There's something absent here... — she murmured, frowning.
Dravenmoor, noticing her discomfort, looked at her, confused.
— What are you talking about?
— Aemon, — Cerys replied, almost distractedly. — Where is Aemon? Shouldn't he be here, beside his brother? Wasn't he supposedly dead?
The name Aemon echoed through the hall, visibly shaking Cedric, Edric, and Seraphine. A faint glimmer of hope arose, though it was a fragile thread.
Dravenmoor raised an eyebrow, curious.
— That's not what I've heard, — he said, crossing his arms. — I thought he had perished in battle, a lost hero.
Cerys shook her head, her lips curling into a cold smile.
— You are not well-informed. Aemon survived. He disappeared from the city... he's been spotted with a mysterious woman in the northern regions. If my instincts are correct, he's involved in something much larger than we imagined.
Dravenmoor looked at her with a mix of surprise and calculation.
— So, he's alive... — he murmured, thoughtfully. — And if Aemon is alive, he will certainly return. This place has always been his destiny. We'll wait. He will come.
Cedric, still on his knees, raised his eyes to Dravenmoor with a mixture of despair and hope. Seraphine, beside him, seemed as shocked as he was.
— Aemon... is alive? — Seraphine whispered, barely able to believe it. Edric, who had remained silent until now, parted his lips in disbelief.
— He... he can save us? — Edric asked, his eyes filled with desperate hope.
Lord Dravenmoor, hearing their murmurs, smiled sinisterly.
— Aemon may be the only one who can turn the tide, — he said, observing the beaten trio before him. — But do you, poor fools, really believe he'll come for you?
Cedric, in a last flicker of resistance, raised his head with a glimmer of desperate hope.
— He is my nephew. He will come.
Cerys laughed loudly at the assertion, incredulous.
— Aemon may be many things, Cedric... but a sentimental fool he is not. Even if he returns, why would he fight for you, who always despised him?
Before Cedric could respond, Cerys turned to the nearby soldiers.
— Fetch Fianna and Thorne, — she ordered firmly. — We'll ensure that all the pieces are in place when he arrives.
The soldiers immediately ran off, disappearing into the castle corridors, while the tension in the hall continued to mount.
Cedric and Seraphine exchanged glances, the silence between them speaking louder than any words ever could.
Aemon ran with all the speed his body could muster, feeling the weight of urgency in every step. Lilith was still unconscious in his arms, the silver egg held tightly against his body. The wind lashed against his face as the distant sounds of war and chaos echoed in his mind. Time was running out.
Suddenly, ahead, he spotted a caravan of soldiers marching toward Volcrist, the kingdom's banners waving against the wind. Aemon's heart leaped. These were men from Volcrist.
— Hey! — Aemon shouted with all the strength he had, hoping his voice would carry.
The soldiers, initially inattentive, turned their heads at the sound of his desperate cry. When they saw him, their expressions froze in sheer disbelief. It was as if they were seeing a ghost. The figure before them was unmistakable, despite his changed appearance. It was Aemon, alive, but in a way they had never imagined. Carrying an unconscious woman and a mysterious egg, he seemed different, more powerful... almost otherworldly.
The soldiers immediately halted the wagon, still in shock.
— A-Aemon? — one of them stammered, his hand instinctively gripping the sword at his belt.
Aemon, wasting no time, ran up to them.
— Yes, it's me! We don't have time! Volcrist is under attack! — He leapt onto the wagon with agility, his breathing heavy, his eyes full of urgency. — I need you to head there directly, without questions. There's no time to doubt!
The men exchanged glances, confused, but the gravity of the situation was written all over Aemon's face. Even if they hesitated to believe what they were seeing, they couldn't deny the urgency in his words.
— But... — one of the soldiers began to speak, but was quickly cut off by the troop's commander, who raised his hand.
— Do not question! — the commander ordered, his eyes fixed on Aemon. — If he's here, alive, and telling us to run, then something is very wrong in Volcrist. Follow orders.
The soldiers quickly reorganized. The wagon moved, now with Aemon aboard, holding Lilith and the egg, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
As the pace of the caravan quickened, silence spread among the men. Even though they doubted what they were witnessing, something in Aemon's gaze made them follow without protest. Volcrist was in danger, and time was the greatest enemy in that moment.
Aemon watched the road ahead, his heart heavy. He knew that what awaited him in Volcrist would be a battle not only against the assembled armies but also against the ghosts of his past.
The night draped Volcrist in a thick, suffocating veil of darkness, the battlefield illuminated only by the distant, flickering glow of dying torches and the cold, indifferent stare of the pale moon. It seemed as though the heavens themselves had turned their gaze away from the impending slaughter, leaving the earth to bear witness to the carnage. A sickly mist clung to the ground, swirling through the pools of blood that already soaked the soil. The scent of burning flesh and fresh blood mingled in the cold, damp air, every breath a bitter reminder of the violence that had already begun to unfold.
Aemon emerged from the shadows, his presence both commanding and unnatural, like a predator stepping into its hunting ground. With every step, the earth seemed to tremble beneath his feet, as if recoiling from the raw, destructive power he carried. The very air around him felt heavier, dense with the unspoken promise of death. Silence followed him like a ghost, broken only by the faint clink of armor from the soldiers watching him with eyes wide in disbelief and terror.
— Is that... him? — one soldier whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of fear.
— It can't be. — another muttered, his hand trembling around the hilt of his sword. — That... that can't be Aemon. No man can move like that. Not anymore.
Ahead of them, Aemon's eyes glinted with something feral, something inhuman. The group of five soldiers, braver than they were wise, stepped forward, their faces pale but their weapons raised. They moved with the nervous energy of those who know they are about to die but march forward nonetheless.
The roar that erupted from them was weak, drowned by the oppressive atmosphere of the night, but they charged, weapons gleaming under the faint light of the moon.
Aemon did not flinch. He didn't brace for impact. Instead, he moved like a shadow, silent and swift. His blade cut through the air with an eerie grace, and before the first soldier could fully comprehend the horror, his head was already rolling across the blood-soaked earth. The second soldier had barely raised his shield when Aemon's blade cleaved through his chest, the sickening crunch of bone and the spray of crimson painting the ground. His body collapsed in a heap, his lifeblood draining into the soil.
The third tried to retreat, his survival instincts finally overriding the blind charge, but it was too late. Aemon spun with animalistic agility, his sword slicing through flesh and bone as easily as through air. The man's leg severed cleanly, sending him crashing to the ground, howling in agony. His screams echoed across the battlefield, a sound that made even the most hardened soldiers freeze in place.
— What... what is this?! — one of the remaining soldiers cried out, his voice trembling with disbelief, his eyes wide with terror.
Aemon's gaze fell upon him, cold and devoid of mercy. The fourth soldier staggered backward, the weight of his own mortality crashing down upon him as he watched his comrades fall like cattle to the slaughter. But Aemon did not give him time to think. He surged forward, his sword an extension of his fury, cleaving through the man's torso in a single, brutal stroke. Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the battlefield in a macabre display of crimson.
The fifth and final soldier, paralyzed by fear, barely had time to scream before Aemon's blade found him, driving through his chest and lifting him off the ground. The man's body twitched for a moment, suspended on the end of Aemon's sword, before he was unceremoniously dropped, his lifeless form joining the growing pile of corpses at Aemon's feet.
A deathly silence descended upon the field. Blood dripped from Aemon's sword in thick, slow droplets, pooling at his feet like spilled wine. His breathing was heavy, the only sound in the suffocating stillness, but his eyes were fixed on the next group of soldiers. There was no fear in them, only rage—a cold, burning rage that threatened to consume everything in its path.
— That's... not human... — one of the Dravenmoor soldiers whispered, his voice a shaky breath of disbelief. His eyes were locked on Aemon, watching the man—no, the monster—wipe the blood from his face with a gloved hand.
More soldiers gathered, ten this time. They hesitated, glancing nervously between themselves and the bodies of their fallen comrades, which lay strewn across the battlefield like broken dolls. But fear of their commanders outweighed the terror gnawing at their souls. They knew they couldn't flee. Not yet.
— Together! Attack him together! — shouted the leader of the group, though his voice wavered with dread.
Aemon's lips twisted into a cold, cruel smile. He had ceased to see them as men long ago; now they were merely prey, waiting to be slaughtered. His movements were too fluid, too swift for any of them to anticipate. As the first man drew near, Aemon sidestepped with almost casual ease, bringing his blade down in a single, devastating arc. The soldier's torso split cleanly in two, his organs spilling onto the earth before his body even hit the ground.
The others barely had time to react before Aemon was upon them, his blade a whirlwind of death. He moved with predatory precision, each strike calculated, each kill methodical. One soldier's head rolled from his shoulders, another had his spine severed in a brutal downward slash. Blood sprayed in every direction, painting Aemon's face and armor in a gory mosaic, but his eyes never lost their icy focus.
The ten men were reduced to corpses in less than a minute. Their bodies lay twisted and broken at Aemon's feet, their blood soaking into the earth that seemed to hungrily absorb the carnage.
— This... can't be real... — a soldier whispered from the rear of the battlefield, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind. His hands shook violently as he stared at the massacre before him.
More men approached, now fifteen, but their courage faltered. They had seen the impossible. They had watched Aemon cut down their comrades like wheat before the scythe. Yet fear of their commanders drove them forward, though each step felt like one closer to the grave.
This time, there was no hesitation in Aemon's attack. He moved with terrifying speed, his sword becoming an extension of his fury. The first man to approach was torn apart in seconds, his arms severed from his body before he could even swing his weapon. The next was impaled so swiftly that his scream was cut short, gurgling as blood filled his throat.
By the time the final soldier fell, the battlefield had become a grotesque tableau of death. Limbs, heads, and bodies were strewn across the ground, the once fertile soil of Volcrist now a charnel house of gore. Forty men lay dead at Aemon's feet, and still, he stood, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with the exertion but his eyes burning with the same cold fury.
The soldiers of Volcrist, who had watched in terror, now felt a flicker of something else—something akin to hope. Aemon, alone, had felled forty men, and still, he stood. There was something inhuman in his strength, something terrifying, but it also inspired a dark kind of courage.
— For Volcrist! — one of the soldiers shouted, raising his sword high. — He fights for us! Let's stand with him!
And so they charged, their fear momentarily forgotten as they rallied behind the blood-soaked figure of Aemon. The battle had turned, and with Aemon at the forefront, Volcrist's soldiers found the strength to fight once more.
But the enemy felt it, too—the weight of Aemon's wrath pressing down on them like a suffocating shadow. The tide was shifting, and the terror in their hearts had grown too great to ignore.