Chaos had completely consumed Volcrist. The once-proud silhouette of the city, defined by its towering stone spires and the constant smoke of its forges, was now swallowed by roaring flames. Houses, built of old wood and stone, burned fiercely, their collapsing structures painting the night sky in a threatening orange glow. The air was thick with ash and the stench of death — burning flesh, smoldering timber, and dried blood.

In the streets, bodies lay scattered like silent witnesses to the devastation. Men, women, children — the cobblestones had become a graveyard. Rivers of blood trickled between the stones, pooling in dark puddles that reflected the flickering firelight. Those who had survived were on their knees, faces streaked with soot and tears, held hostage by the cold steel of enemy soldiers. Any resistance was met with swift and brutal punishment — the sharp ring of a blade, the cracking of a whip.

The castle, the last bastion of hope, had fallen. In its great hall, where royal banquets and councils of war were once held, defeat hung heavy in the air. Thorne, Cedric, and Seraphine sat bound in chairs, their movements restricted, as Dravenmoor and Cerys loomed over them with cold, calculating gazes. Elsewhere in the castle, Princess Fianna and the young Edric were imprisoned in a makeshift cell. No harm would come to them; Dravenmoor and Cerys dared not provoke the wrath of Lysanthor by laying a hand on the king’s daughter.

Cerys paced the hall with restless energy. Her black dress swirled around her like living shadows, and her sharp eyes darted toward the door every few moments. The flames outside cast a flickering light over her pale face, heightening her dangerous aura.

— "Aemon is coming." — Her voice broke the silence, cutting through the tension like a dagger. — "He won’t stay away for long. Not after this."

Dravenmoor, leaning against one of the marble columns, raised an eyebrow at her words. His arms were crossed, and his heavy armor gleamed in the torchlight, making him appear as immovable as the stone around him.

— "You’re obsessed with this boy." — His deep voice carried a hint of disdain. — "He’s just a man, Cerys. A boy, at best. And a boy cannot change the fate of a kingdom. You’re worrying for nothing."

Cerys stopped pacing, turning to glare at him with piercing eyes.

— "Underestimating him would be your greatest mistake, Dravenmoor." — Her voice was sharp, laced with irritation. — "I’ve seen him fight. He’s not ordinary. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the ordinary fear the extraordinary."

Before Dravenmoor could respond, Thorne, who had been silent until then, lifted his head. Even bound, his presence commanded respect. His graying hair framed a face hardened by years of experience, and his deep, penetrating eyes reflected a wisdom that neither Dravenmoor nor Cerys could hope to match.

— "Enough." — His voice cut through the room with authority, silencing their argument. — "Look around you."

The oppressive quiet deepened as all eyes turned to him.

— "Look at what you’ve done." — Thorne continued, his voice steady but heavy with weight. — "The city is burning. Innocent lives litter the streets. Those who survived kneel as prisoners. The ground you fought so hard to take is now soaked in blood. Blood like that of his grandfather, spilled by your hands."

The mention of Aemon’s grandfather hung in the air like a ghost, an unspoken shadow that chilled the room. The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that precedes something far worse.

Thorne leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze fixed on both Dravenmoor and Cerys.

— "Imagine how he’ll react to all this. Think about it. He will see the flames, hear the screams, smell the charred flesh, and look upon the body of the man who raised him, discarded like an animal. Do you truly believe he’ll simply accept this? Even I fear to imagine what he will do."

His words echoed through the hall, their weight impossible to ignore. Dravenmoor shifted uncomfortably, his usual confidence faltering under the gravity of Thorne’s warning. Cerys clenched her fists, as if trying to suppress a shiver that crept up her spine.

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The silence lingered, but Thorne’s words stayed with them, like a shadow neither of them could escape.

And outside, along the winding paths and through the dark forests leading to Volcrist, Aemon pressed on. His steps were deliberate, his resolve unshakable, and his eyes burned with a fire that rivaled the inferno consuming his city.

Volcrist was visible long before they reached it, perched atop its towering mountains like a crown of stone. Yet tonight, it was not the proud city they expected to see. Instead, the sky above the peaks was awash with fire, the smoke rising like dark plumes of vengeance into the heavens. The distant orange glow illuminated the jagged cliffs, making them appear as though they too were ablaze.

The soldiers riding ahead of the caravan were the first to spot it. Their horses whinnied nervously as they slowed to a halt, the men sitting rigid in their saddles.

— "Lord Aemon!" — one of them shouted, his voice strained, as though daring not to believe his eyes.

Aemon, seated in the driver’s seat of the caravan, furrowed his brow and leaned forward, squinting into the distance. The moment his gaze fell upon the inferno, his breath caught in his throat. His usually unshakable demeanor cracked, his face going pale as if all the blood had been drained from it.

The soldier turned back to him, his voice trembling. — "What… what is happening? Is that… Volcrist?"

Aemon’s silence was answer enough. His hands, resting on the reins, trembled. The words came slowly, bitter and heavy, as if dragged from the depths of his soul.

— "We’re too late…"

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their breaths fogging in the cold mountain air. The silence that followed Aemon’s words was unbearable, broken only by the distant crackle of flames carried on the wind. It was clear to all of them: Volcrist had been attacked.

— "What do we do?" — one of the men whispered, almost to himself.

They began murmuring to each other, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mix of fear and indecision. — "Should we wait until dawn to scout?" — "How many attackers could there be?" — "What if we’re walking into an ambush?"

Amid their growing panic, Aemon’s jaw tightened. His hand clenched around the reins, his knuckles turning white. Without a word, he stood and leapt down from the caravan.

The thud of his boots hitting the ground silenced the soldiers. All eyes turned to him as he moved to the back of the wagon and gently placed Lilith, who was still unconscious, onto the cushions alongside the dragon egg. His touch was surprisingly soft, almost reverent, as though he was shielding them both from the horrors that lay ahead.

Then, without hesitation, he turned and began striding toward Volcrist.

— "My lord!" — one of the soldiers called after him, spurring his horse forward to block Aemon’s path. — "You can’t go alone! We don’t even know what we’re up against!"

Aemon stopped, his piercing gaze snapping toward the man. His voice was cold, cutting through the night like a blade.

— "What I need," — he said, stepping forward and locking eyes with the soldier, — "is not the advice of cowards who are afraid to protect Volcrist."

The soldier recoiled as though he’d been slapped, his face twisting in shame. Aemon’s voice grew louder, his fury palpable as he turned to face all of them.

— "This city has stood for centuries, defended by men who would bleed and die for it. And now? Now you stand here trembling, debating whether to move forward while Volcrist burns!"

He gestured toward the inferno in the distance, his voice raw with emotion.

— "I don’t need weak men riding at my side. If you’d rather stay here and wait to be hunted like dogs, then so be it. But if any of you has the courage to fight for Volcrist — to kill the bastards who did this — then follow me."

With that, he turned and began running toward the city, his black cloak billowing behind him like wings.

The soldiers sat frozen, their faces shadowed with doubt and shame. For a long moment, none of them moved, the only sound the crackle of distant flames and the steady rhythm of Aemon’s boots on the rocky path.

Then, one of them dismounted. He stepped forward, gripping his sword tightly.

— "I’ll follow you, my lord."

Another soldier glanced at him, nodded, and followed suit. Then another. And another. Until all ten soldiers had dismounted, leaving their horses behind. They unsheathed their weapons, the cold steel glinting in the firelight.

Aemon glanced back over his shoulder, his pace never slowing. Seeing the soldiers falling into step behind him, his lips curled into the faintest smirk.

— "Keep up," — he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.

And together, they ascended the mountain path toward Volcrist, toward the fire, toward vengeance.