Lyanna stepped back into the carriage without a word. The silence inside was so complete that the soft click of the door echoed like a thunderclap.

She sat in her original seat, her expression calm, almost cold. No heavy breathing, no sweat on her brow. Her gown remained immaculate, as though she'd merely gone for a short stroll. Only one thing betrayed the violence from moments earlier: blood, dark and thick, stained her pale hand.

With a composed motion, she drew a silk handkerchief from her gown's pocket and began wiping it away, slow and deliberate. Her face betrayed no emotion—only silence, masking something buried deep within.

Across from her, her mother watched with a concerned gaze.

"With a temper like that…" she said quietly, almost a weary sigh. "...who will ever want to marry you, Lyanna?"

Her voice carried sadness rather than criticism, the kind of lament only a mother could give, a tired love that endured even through fear.

Lyanna paused, glancing at her mother. Then, with unshaken composure, she replied:

"I don't have any intention of marrying yet, Mother."

Nothing more was said.

The carriage resumed its slow rumble as the wheels rolled across the uneven stone road. Only the clatter of hooves, the groan of wood, and the whisper of the night wind filled the silence. The journey continued, wordless. Outside the window, the moon still hung in the sky, watching over the blood-soaked corpses they left behind.

.

.

.

The night was quiet, the sky veiled in a thin layer of clouds that dimmed the moonlight. In a modest inn at the edge of a quiet district, a golden-haired man stood at a window. Lanternlight flickered in his half-lidded eyes—sleepy, indifferent—but tension lingered beneath his relaxed posture.

He turned and walked toward a small table, where an unusual object rested—a large crimson egg, the size of a grown man's head, glowing faintly like embers in dying coals. It was no ordinary egg. Its surface shimmered with scale-like patterns, and each passing second made it feel increasingly alive.

The man gently placed his hand upon it. Warm. Steady. He brushed the surface with his fingertips, then wrapped the egg in a dark cloth and slid it carefully into a reinforced leather pack strapped to his back. His movements were precise, as if he knew the weight he carried was more than just an object.

Once ready, he opened the door and stepped into the night. Cool air greeted him, and the streets were quiet—just a few late-night vendors and drunken passersby in the distance. He had chosen this place for exactly that reason, seclusion.

The handsome, golden-haired man had only walked a few steps from the inn when something changed.

The breeze, once cool, suddenly grew warm… then searingly hot. It felt like stepping into the heart of a desert.

He stopped.

From the pack on his back, a sound began—soft cracks at first, then louder.

Crack.

Craackk.

CRAAKK!

A sudden wave of heat burst from the leather pack, accompanied by hissing sounds and searing light. The fabric began to smolder, then ignited.

Fire consumed the bag's surface, devouring its straps in seconds. With a heavy thud, the egg slipped from the ruined pack and struck the stone street.

CRAKKK!!

Its shell fractured wide open.

And from within... emerged a creature. Covered in gleaming, blood-red scales like molten metal, with tiny curved horns atop its head and damp wings still slick from birth, it opened its eyes—glowing gold, burning like living flame.

A shrill cry echoed into the night, high-pitched and ancient, like a roar from a forgotten age.

SKREEEEAAAAHHH!!

The sound startled birds from the trees and lit up nearby houses. The newborn dragon, glowing like a living ember, lay writhing on the ground. Its heat warped the air, distorting the very space around it.

Its eyes searched the world, wild and untamed.

The golden-haired man stared at it. His golden eyes, once lazy, now turned glacial.

He approached the wailing creature. Stone cracked beneath it from the sheer heat radiating off its body.

Then, with a voice calm and deep—laced with unshakable command—he spoke:

**"Silence."**

One word. It resonated not just in sound, but through the air itself. A command not of this age, but of something older… absolute.

And the dragon… stopped.

Instantly.

Silence reclaimed the street.

Only faint smoke rose from the scorched ground. And the heartbeat of the world seemed to pause, waiting for his next command.

.

.

Aiden had only just re-entered the city when he froze.

A distant cry pierced the night, a sound that was neither human nor beast. Simultaneously, a pulse of mana exploded through the atmosphere like a beacon.

His eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he shot toward the source.

At that very moment, the golden-haired man held the dragonling in his left arm. Wisps of smoke curled from his burnt pack. His gaze flicked upward—danger.

In a blink, he moved.

BOOM!

A crushing blow slammed into the ground where he'd just stood, tearing the street apart and hurling stone into the air.

Without thinking, Eldric conjured a flaming sword in his right hand—its blade shimmered with golden-red fire. He turned to the attacker and, in a low but resonant voice, spoke again:

**"Don't move."**

The words weren't merely heard, they struck the mind. They echoed in thought, freezing the attacker where they stood.

In the same instant, Eldric swung the blade.

KRAA-KABOOOM!

A fireburst erupted. The figure was blasted back like a rag doll, crashing through walls, demolishing houses, and setting parts of the neighborhood ablaze.

Screams filled the air. Civilians scattered in panic as the city guards poured into the scene, horns blaring.

Eldric, calm and expressionless, adjusted the child in his arms and bolted through the alleyways. His intention was clear, leave Glimfell before more chaos erupted.

But only moments into his flight, a figure blocked his path.

A tall man with blonde hair and a piercing stare—Ethan Rathsture.

Behind him, more guards began to arrive, surrounding the streets with drawn blades and tense expressions.

"Well, if it isn't Young Lord Eldric Dragonhart," Ethan said calmly, voice low but firm. "Where are you off to… after causing all this?"

Eldric didn't reply at first.

He looked down at the sleeping dragonling in his arms—born of fire, full of untamed instinct, now resting like an ordinary infant.

He exhaled slowly.

From the broken debris behind him, another figure emerged, Aiden Rathsture. His clothes were torn, his shoulder singed, and his breath ragged. Rage simmered in his eyes.

"Don't you think," he said, voice filled with restrained hatred, "you owe us an explanation, Eldric Dragonhart?"

Eldric looked at Aiden, then at Ethan, then at the guards.

Tension crackled in the air. One wrong move and blood would flow.

He could fight, of course. He could threaten them, use the Dragonhart name as a shield.

But instead, after a brief pause… he simply sighed.

And slowly, with a single motion, he raised his right hand into the air—a quiet, unmistakable gesture of surrender.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.