The morning sun rose like a crown of fire over the white spires of Eldervale, painting the sky with streaks of rose and gold. The bells of the western towers rang clear and bright, echoing across the valley and the gleaming rooftops. For the first time in many weary months, the kingdom awoke not to fear, but to the thrill of hope.
From the winding streets below the castle, laughter drifted with the morning mist. Families stood on balconies waving royal banners, and shopkeepers hung wreaths of silvervine and golden daisies. Children darted between the crowd with ribbons trailing from their hands, their giggles blending with the murmur of excitement. Rumor had already spread like wildfire through the city: "They've done it. The soldiers have returned. The Blood Monster is dead!"
Everywhere people whispered, prayed, and looked toward the horizon. Even the wind seemed to hum with joy, carrying the scent of sweetbread, flowers, and magic through the streets. Above the city gates, the guards stood at attention, their armor polished to a blinding shine. The captain of the watch pressed a crystal to his ear a communication stone linked to the outer towers. His eyes widened as he heard the report, then he turned to the herald beside him. "They're in sight," he said. The herald nodded, his throat tightening with emotion. "Sound the horns." Snd so he did. The deep, glorious notes of the silver horns rolled across Eldervale like thunder, and every man, woman, and child froze. Faces turned skyward, hearts raced. The dragons were coming home.
At first, there was only silence. Then, from the distance, came a sound like a heartbeat a rhythmic thrum that made the ground tremble. Clouds shifted. A streak of scarlet fire tore across the blue, followed by another, and another. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the Royal Dragon Riders emerged from the heavens, their massive wings cutting through the light. Each dragon gleamed like a moving star, scales of emerald, sapphire, obsidian, and bronze catching the sunlight in breathtaking patterns. Trails of sparkling embers followed their flight, raining harmlessly down like golden snow.
At their head soared Chief Leonard and his dragon, Drixero a colossal creature with scales of deep crimson and horns like blades of molten gold. Each beat of Drixero's wings sent ripples of heat shimmering through the sky. His roar split the clouds, powerful yet regal, a sound that spoke of victory and sorrow alike. Behind him, two hundred and thirty-four thousand soldiers rode dragons and wyverns, or marched in glowing formations below. Their armor gleamed with runic light, marks of the kingdom's magic pulsing along the plates like living veins. The sight was overwhelming. Women wept openly. Children cheered. Men raised their fists and shouted their king's name. "For the King!" "For Eldervale!" "For the fallen!"
As the procession neared, the very sky seemed to ignite, dragons exhaled streams of harmless flame that burst into shimmering blossoms of color. Blue fire shaped like lilies, crimson shaped like swords, gold shaped like stars. The dragons circled once above the city, their shadows sweeping over towers and rooftops like moving mountains, before descending in majestic formation toward the Valley of Triumph, just outside the castle gates.
The ground shook as the dragons landed, one after another, folding their wings like vast sails. Dust and light spiraled around them, caught in invisible winds of magic. At the forefront, Chief Leonard dismounted, boots striking the earth with purpose. He removed his helm, revealing hair streaked with silver and eyes deep with weariness but behind that weariness burned pride and grief. King John XII stood waiting beside his family and the royal guard. His robe of purple and crimson shimmered in the sunlight, the gold-threaded crown gleaming above his brow. But when his eyes met Leonard's, it was not the king who greeted a subject, it was a friend greeting another who had survived the storm. "Leonard, my brother in arms," King John said, voice trembling slightly. "You've returned." Leonard bowed deeply, but the King stepped forward before he could speak and embraced him. "Rise," John said softly. "You kneel to no man today."
A murmur spread through the crowd, of respect, admiration, love.
Leonard's eyes shone. "We have done as commanded, my liege," he said, his voice steady. "The Blood Monster lies dead. The shadow over Eldervale is broken." Cheers erupted, a thunderous wave that rolled from the valley to the highest balcony. But beneath the roar of joy, a thread of sorrow lingered in Leonard's tone. The King heard it. "Not all returned, did they?" John asked quietly. Leonard's lips parted, but no sound came. He lowered his gaze, the shadow of grief falling across his features. "No, my King. One among us… gave his life that we might claim victory."
Silence spread like ripples across still water. Even the dragons bowed their heads slightly, sensing their riders' grief. Leonard turned to face the soldiers behind him, his voice breaking only once as he spoke. "His name was Chad, son of Marek the Blacksmith," he said. "A man of humble birth, but with a heart braver than any I've ever known. When the Blood Monster unleashed its final strike, he stood alone before it. He held its fury at bay, knowing it would cost him his life, so that we could strike the killing blow." The soldiers lowered their weapons. Some fell to one knee. Others placed a hand over their hearts. Leonard's voice softened. "He did not die screaming. He died smiling, knowing the kingdom he loved would see the dawn again."
A sob broke from the crowd. The Queen covered her mouth, her eyes wet with tears. Princess Elizabeth clutched her father's arm tightly, whispering, "He was so brave…" King John closed his eyes for a long moment, then stepped forward and raised his hand. "All of Eldervale," he said, his voice echoing like thunder, "shall remember Chad, son of Marek. His name will not fade into the wind." He turned to the herald. "Sound the bell of honor. One chime for each soul lost in this war."
The first bell rang. Its deep note rolled through the valley, solemn and pure. Then another, and another. Each toll seemed to reach into the hearts of those listening, pulling forth their tears, their memories, their gratitude. The noise of the world faded. Bakers stopped kneading dough. Children ceased their games. Even the river that flowed through the city seemed to hush. For one full minute, Eldervale was silent. Above them, the sky shimmered faintly. Small motes of blue light began to drift downward, gentle as snow. When they touched the ground, they burst into tiny sparks that lingered for a heartbeat before fading away. "They're blessings," whispered Princess Elizabeth, her eyes wide.
Gregory, the King's advisor, bowed his head. "No," he said softly. "They're the souls of the fallen, bidding farewell." The King's eyes burned with pride and sorrow. He whispered a single sentence, barely audible but carried by the wind to every ear: "Let their light guide us, always." When the last bell faded, the crowd exhaled as one, a sigh that seemed to lift the weight of grief into the heavens. And then the horns sounded again, this time not in mourning, but in triumph.