The battlefield stretched endlessly under a sky the color of a fresh bruise - that sickly purple-black hue that comes before a storm. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of god-blood and the acrid stench of smoldering demon flesh, a noxious cocktail that made even veteran soldiers retch. Broken celestial armor littered the ground like the molted shells of some great beasts, their once-gleaming surfaces now dulled by gore and ash. The shattered remains of divine weapons pulsed faintly where they lay, their dying light flickering like fireflies in the gloom.
At the heart of this devastation stood two brothers.
The Dragonlord loomed like a monolith, his obsidian plate unscarred by the war's fury. The horns that curled from his helmet caught the dying light, their polished surfaces reflecting the carnage around them in grotesque miniature. His golden eyes, glowing faintly in the twilight, surveyed the field with that same unbearable patience that had driven Aleron mad for centuries.
Aleron, his younger brother, stood panting nearby. His silver armor - once a masterpiece of royal craftsmanship - now ran gold with divine ichor. The sigil of their house, proudly emblazoned across his breastplate, was nearly obscured beneath layers of gore. His sword trembled in his grip, not from exhaustion, but from the intoxicating rush of standing over his fallen foe.
Between them knelt Orvane, last of the defiant gods. His once-magnificent wings, which had blotted out the sun during the war's height, now hung broken and ragged. The celestial armor that had made him invincible lay in pieces around him like the petals of some grotesque metal flower. Yet when he lifted his head, golden blood streaming from his cracked lips, his eyes still burned with that same ancient fire.
"Beg," Aleron demanded, pressing his blade against the god's throat. The edge bit into Orvane's divine flesh, drawing forth a fresh trickle of that luminous blood. Each drop sizzled where it struck the earth, sending up tiny wisps of perfumed smoke. "Beg like the coward you are."
Orvane's response was to smile - not the desperate grin of a defeated foe, but the serene expression of one who has already seen his victor's demise. His teeth, when they showed through the blood, were too white, too perfect.
"Enough, Aleron."
The Dragonlord's voice rolled across the battlefield like distant thunder, carrying with it the weight of mountains. The very air seemed to still at his command, the scattered fires dimming momentarily in deference.
Aleron's grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles stood out white against the gore-smeared hilt. "He deserves worse than death," he spat, his voice raw with barely-contained fury. "After what his kind did to our-"
"The war is over." The Dragonlord took a single step forward, his massive frame casting Aleron into shadow. "Lower your blade."
The command hung in the air between them, as unyielding as the iron foundations of the world. Aleron could feel it pressing down on him, that same unbearable weight that had crushed entire armies. His arm trembled with the effort of resisting, muscles straining as if he held up the sky itself.
Then, with a sound that was equal parts snarl and sob, he wrenched his sword away. The blade came free with a wet schick, spraying droplets of golden blood across the scorched earth.
Orvane laughed then - a wet, choking sound that might have been mistaken for a death rattle if not for the knowing glint in his eyes. "We surrendered... not because of your armies..." His gaze, heavy with centuries of wisdom, locked onto the Dragonlord. "But because of you."
Aleron's lip curled. "Spare us your drivel."
The god continued as if he hadn't spoken. "We gods... we feared him not for his strength, but for his heart." He coughed, a fresh stream of gold trickling down his chin. "The demons and monsters... they only fear his overwhelming power. But we who can glimpse into the soul... we know the truth."
Aleron's face twisted in disgust. The words cut deeper than any blade, striking at the raw, festering wound that had poisoned his heart for decades. He could feel his brother's presence behind him - that constant, unbearable reminder of everything he could never be.
"Enough!" The word tore from Aleron's throat like a living thing, ragged and bleeding. "You dare mock me?!"
Orvane ignored him, his attention fixed solely on the Dragonlord. "They don't deserve your protection... not your loyalty... not your heart." The god's voice cracked, but his final words landed with the force of a falling star: "Even now... I see it. Your downfall... not at the hands of enemies... but by your own family."
Aleron moved without thinking. His sword flashed upward, poised to strike -
and the Dragonlord caught his wrist.
No effort. No strain. Just that same infuriating, effortless strength that had haunted Aleron's every waking moment.
For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, the brothers stood locked in silent combat. Aleron's breath came in ragged gasps, his pulse pounding in his ears like war drums. In his brother's golden eyes, he saw no anger, no condemnation - only that same endless patience that had driven him to madness.
Then, with a sound that was more growl than words, Aleron wrenched free.
Orvane's form was already dissolving into mist, his body unraveling like smoke in the wind. The last remnants of his voice whispered through the battlefield:
"You'll need me sooner than you think."
And then he was gone.
The silence that followed was heavier than the Dragonlord's armor, thicker than the blood pooling at their feet. The wind carried the distant cries of the wounded, the crackle of dying fires, but between the brothers, there was only the weight of unspoken words and promises broken long before this war began.
The Dragonlord turned first, his massive frame moving with that same deliberate grace that had carried him through countless battles. His footsteps made no sound as he began the long walk back to the citadel, his shadow stretching long behind him like a stain upon the earth.
Aleron followed, his own steps heavy and unsteady. With each footfall, the god's final words echoed in his skull, twisting like a knife in an old wound.
Your downfall... not at the hands of enemies... but by your own family.
The citadel doors groaned shut behind them with the finality of a tomb sealing. The sudden silence of the vaulted corridor pressed against Aleron's eardrums, thick and suffocating. Torchlight flickered across the Dragonlord's battered armor as he paused, his massive frame haloed in the unstable glow.
"Brother."
Aleron's voice cracked like dry parchment. The word tasted of bile and broken oaths.
The Dragonlord turned just enough for the light to catch the curve of his horns, casting jagged shadows across the stone reliefs of their ancestors. The carved faces seemed to leer at Aleron from the walls, their stone eyes following his every twitch.
"You... you never cared about the throne, did you?"
A breath. Two. The only sound was the distant drip of water echoing through the citadel's bowels.
When the Dragonlord spoke, his voice was softer than the whisper of a falling feather:
"The throne means nothing to me."
Aleron's gauntlet creaked as his fist clenched.
"If it is what you desire..." The Dragonlord's golden eyes reflected the torchlight like polished coins. "...you may have it."
The words struck with the force of a warhammer to the chest.
May have it.
As if it were a trinket. A bauble. Not the thing Aleron had sacrificed his conscience for, had waded through rivers of blood to claim. The throne his father had dangled before him like a carrot before a mule for three centuries.
Aleron's vision swam red at the edges. The dagger at his belt seemed to grow heavier, its weight whispering promises of quick, quiet vengeance.
One thrust between those unguarded ribs. One moment of weakness from the mighty Dragonlord.
Then his brother did the unthinkable—he smiled. Not in triumph, but with something far worse: relief.
The seed of betrayal unfurled its poisonous roots in Aleron's chest.
As the Dragonlord turned toward the mountain pass—toward that damned valley he loved so much—Aleron made his silent vow:
I will make you choke on that smile.
[End of Chapter 1]