The night the empire fell was a night drenched in blood and fire.
The once-mighty Drakos Empire, a land that had stood unchallenged for centuries, now lay in ruin. The skies above Drakosheim, the imperial capital, were painted in crimson hues as flames devoured the grand spires and towering walls. The streets, which once bustled with merchants and nobles, were now littered with the bodies of the fallen—soldiers, commoners, even children. The air reeked of ash, iron, and betrayal.
At the heart of the burning city, where the Imperial Palace once stood in defiance of time, its grand obsidian walls were now cracked and crumbling, its golden banners torn and defiled. The once-glorious Golden Gate, which had repelled countless invaders in ages past, now stood wide open—its doors shattered, its defenders slaughtered.
Inside the throne room, amidst the wreckage of shattered marble and bloodstained banners, King Alistair Drakos sat upon his throne, his body broken, his golden armor drenched in his own blood. His once-powerful grip barely clutched the hilt of Solbrand, his legendary greatsword, now lying in ruin at his side.
His empire was lost.
Before him stood the very men who had orchestrated its fall.
His own younger brothers.
Prince Valerian Drakos, the eldest of the two, stood with an air of cold triumph. His regal crimson cloak bore the insignia of the Drakos lineage, yet the way he wore it—like a conqueror rather than a rightful heir—made it seem like a mockery. His dark eyes, once filled with admiration for his elder brother, now held nothing but calculated ambition. The bloodstained blade in his hand still dripped with the life of the loyalists he had butchered.
Beside him stood Prince Kaelith Drakos, his silver armor reflecting the eerie glow of the flames outside. His violet eyes held no joy, no sorrow—only a cold, emotionless acceptance. Unlike Valerian, he had never sought power for himself, yet he had stood by and watched as his brother led their armies against their own blood.
The betrayal was complete.
Alistair exhaled, his breath shallow. He could feel the warmth of his life leaving him, yet the fire in his eyes did not dim. He stared at his brothers with a quiet, unyielding resolve, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
"So… it comes to this," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.
Valerian stepped forward, his boots clicking against the bloodstained marble. "You were always too stubborn, brother," he said smoothly, his tone almost mocking. "Had you surrendered, you might have lived. You could have ruled by our side in a new era of prosperity."
Alistair chuckled weakly—a sound filled with bitter amusement. "Prosperity?" he echoed, shaking his head. "You mean subjugation. You sold the empire to our enemies. You let foreign kings dictate your rule." His crimson eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Valerian, when did you trade your soul?"
Kaelith's expression darkened. "Your ideals were a weakness, Alistair. You gave power to the unworthy. You let peasants and outcasts rise as nobles. You thought kindness could build an empire." His voice was cold, sharp like a blade. "You were wrong."
Alistair sighed, his gaze drifting to the shattered remains of his once-proud palace. He could still hear the distant screams of his people, the sound of steel meeting flesh, the crackling of flames devouring centuries of history.
And yet…
The fire within him did not wane.
With great effort, he pushed himself up from his throne. Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling beneath his feet, but his presence did not falter. He stared down his betrayers, standing as a king—not a fallen ruler, but a sovereign who refused to kneel.
"You will not have all of it," he whispered.
Valerian raised an eyebrow. "What?"
The ground shook.
A deafening crack split the air as an overwhelming surge of golden energy erupted from Alistair's body. The air trembled, mana surging in torrents, as the very foundations of the throne room began to crumble.
Valerian and Kaelith staggered back as the power of their brother—the last king of Drakos—unleashed itself in one final act.
The sky above Drakosheim split open.
A colossal barrier of golden flames erupted from the center of the capital, expanding outward with terrifying speed. The invading armies screamed as the divine fire rejected them, forcing them out beyond the walls. The traitorous lords and their foreign allies watched in horror as the empire they sought to claim was divided in two—one half theirs, the other sealed away forever.
Alistair's body disintegrated into glowing embers, his life force fueling the spell.
His final gaze drifted toward the hidden passage behind the throne room—the path leading to the sanctuary beyond.
"Evelyne…" he whispered.
And then, the last king of Drakos was no more.
Far beyond the battlefield, deep within the sacred Elders' Sanctuary, a pair of ancient, golden eyes watched in solemn silence.
A creature of legend, a being older than kingdoms themselves, stood upon a platform of jagged stone, his wings casting a shadow over the cavernous hall. His midnight-black scales shimmered with golden veins, each one pulsing with an ancient, otherworldly energy. His clawed talons rested against the floor, the weight of eons pressing upon his massive frame.
Vatrax the Eternal.
The last of the Primordial Dragons, the guardian of the Drakos bloodline.
The prophecy had long been foretold. And now, the wheels of fate had turned.
From the darkness of the chamber, a frail cry echoed—a newborn's wail.
The dragon turned his gaze toward the woman kneeling before him. Queen Evelyne Drakos, her once-radiant form weakened by exhaustion, clutched the infant to her chest. Her eyes—the same piercing crimson as her fallen king—were filled with grief, yet within them burned an unyielding fire.
"The bloodline must endure," she whispered.
Vatrax exhaled, his breath carrying the weight of ages long past.
His massive claw gently reached forward, tracing a sigil upon the infant's forehead. The mark was unseen by mortals, but woven into the boy's very soul—an oath bound by the stars themselves.
"When the ashes settle," the dragon murmured, his voice deep and resonant, "and the blood of kings runs dry, a ruler shall rise from the ruin… forging an empire greater than any before."
The infant's cries softened, as if the words themselves had been etched into his destiny
And thus, the tale of Lucian Drakos, heir to a fallen empire, had begun.