Ares walked casually through the enchanted path leading deeper into the Wyldfire Expanse, the sun glinting off his worn battle cloak as Veltharia, the Dragon King's daughter, paced beside him in her human form.
Her scaled armor shimmered faintly with hues of blue and silver, like moonlight woven into metal.
The wind carried the scent of blooming ashroses and wild flame-grass, and dragons occasionally soared high above them, watching curiously from afar.
"I really am sorry about those three idiots," Veltharia said, breaking the silence. "Jarros especially... he gets too prideful sometimes."
Ares chuckled, brushing a hand through his crimson -streaked red hair. "It was no big deal. Honestly, it was a good warm-up for Tharros. Gets the blood pumping."
"Still, I'll talk to Jarros later," she said, folding her arms.
"He's just young. Got too many scales and not enough wisdom."
They both laughed, the tension easing. Ares gave her a sidelong glance. "So how's your swordsmanship coming along? You getting any better?"
Vel's usual cold demeanor warmed immediately, her face lighting up with genuine excitement.
"Actually… yes! I've been training a lot more with dual blades. But I still struggle when I'm off-balance.
My transitions between stances are too rigid. And my timing against opponents who feint—it's terrible.
I tried mirroring Father's fighting style once, but it's so heavy and forceful. I want something faster, something that flows like air."
Ares nodded thoughtfully. "Swordplay isn't about copying someone else. It's about finding the rhythm that matches your heartbeat.
Maybe after I'm done sparring with Tharros, I can help you out."
Her silver eyes sparkled. "You would? I'd really appreciate that!"
Ares shrugged. "It's no big deal."
Then she asked with a curious smile, "When will you bring Elle again?" Ares suddenly stopped walking. His eyes widened with pride. His aura pulsed with warmth.
"Elle? Oh, don't even get me started. My granddaughter is a prodigy! She's only twelve and already wielding aura better than most grown men.
She's been trying to follow in my footsteps—and doing a damn fine job of it too. The other day, she sparred with a full-grown knight and almost won.
Almost! And don't even get me started on her aura control. It's insane! She's got this gleam in her eye when she holds a sword.
Like it belongs there. And the way she listens when I teach… she's respectful, curious, fierce. She's gonna be something great one day, I tell you."
Veltharia chuckled nervously. She had forgotten her father's unspoken rule—never mention Elle around Ares unless you had time to spare.
He could talk about her for hours.
As they reached the towering gates of the Dragon Throne Hall, the great stone doors opened with a slow rumble.
Inside stood Tharros in his human form—tall and broad-shouldered, with flowing black hair, sun-touched skin, and piercing green eyes like the heart of a forest.
He was draped in dragon-leather armor etched with ancient runes.
"Welcome, nuisance," Tharros said dryly.
Ares didn't hear him. He was still talking animatedly to Vel about Elle's most recent sparring match.
Vel looked from Ares to her father, who was beginning to frown deeply. Her eyes widened. Oh no.
Before she could intervene, a massive ball of condensed ice slammed into the back of Ares' head with a loud thwack.
He tumbled forward with a grunt, landing on his face.
"You never change, Ares," said a graceful, commanding voice.
Standing at the entrance with a raised eyebrow was Valmyra, the Dragon Queen and Tharros' second wife.
She was the embodiment of majesty: glimmering white and blue scales running along her forearms and neck, her long hair flowing like silk woven from mist and light.
Her eyes were glacial blue, ancient and cunning. "Valmyra," Ares muttered, groaning as he got back up, brushing ice from his hair.
"Still throwing things at guests, huh?"
"Only the annoying ones," she said with a smirk.
Tharros pinched the bridge of his nose. "You and Mirari are both the same. Talkative pests. She goes on about her son, you ramble about your granddaughter.
Last time we drank together, you cried because you hadn't seen Elle in two days. I almost blew your head off just to shut you up."
"That was a touching moment!" Ares barked.
"It was pathetic."
"I was just at Mirari's place with Elle. Her son was getting a little too close, if you ask me. I was this close to chopping his hand off.
But that's beside the point. Let's get to sparring. This time, I'll beat you, Tharros."
"You never get tired of losing," Tharros sighed. "Fine.
I'll use a sword too." He turned and led them into the treasure chamber beneath the throne.
The walls shimmered with enchantments, and treasure piles stretched into shadowy corners—crowns from fallen kings, orbs of divine fire, enchanted shields that hummed with power.
But Tharros walked past them all until he reached a special altar. Resting on obsidian stone was a single blade.
It was a dragonforged longsword, the blade etched with glowing emerald veins and serrated edges that mimicked the bite of dragon teeth.
The hilt was made of heartwood from the World Tree, wrapped in dark silver threads, and the pommel gleamed with a core of crystallized dragon flame.
"This is Verdict," Tharros said. "Forged in the flames of my first kill. It remembers the taste of blood."
"Dramatic much?" Ares teased.
He unwrapped the cloth from his own weapon.
His sword was long, curved subtly like a falcon's wing. It shimmered faintly with blue aura that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The blade had no name, but it was once the personal weapon of his master—the King of Swords.
The hilt bore seven aura seals, and the edge seemed to blur with power.
Ares' aura flared around him in a swirl of blue flame, the ground cracking faintly beneath his feet.
"Let's do this, old friend."
Tharros stepped forward, his eyes gleaming.
"Let's see if that granddaughter of yours gave you any new tricks."
The clash of steel echoed across the ancient halls as two legends prepared to battle once again.