The heavy oak doors of Lord Alistair's private study slammed shut, rattling in their frame. Inside, the air crackled with furious tension.
Alistair was pacing like a caged animal, his face twisted with rage, sweat beading along his hairline. Papers lay scattered on the floor, tossed there during his earlier outburst. The once dignified lord of the house now looked like a man cornered, frantic, and desperate.
And across from him stood a tall, cloaked figure — motionless, unreadable, their face completely hidden beneath a deep hood.
"YOU BASTARD!" Alistair screeched, voice breaking. He jabbed a finger toward the hooded figure, his whole body trembling. "I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you!"
The figure did not flinch. Instead, their silence only seemed to enrage Alistair further.
"You're the one who told me to rob the tombs at Mezaluc!" he shouted, voice cracking. "You said there'd be treasures—artefacts! You said it would solve everything!" He nearly stumbled as he stepped forward. "Now the King of Brion wants my head! Do you have any idea what he'll do to me?!"
The cloaked figure finally spoke — a smooth, calm voice that sliced through Alistair's hysteria like a blade.
"Please calm down, My Lord."
They extended a gloved hand, placing it gently on Alistair's shoulder. The gesture was almost tender, but the underlying energy was wrong — cold, manipulative, predatory.
Alistair sucked in a shaky breath, his fury wavering in the face of the figure's unnatural composure.
The hooded figure leaned in, their mouth just visible beneath the cloak — curling into a slow, serpentine smirk.
"I'll tell you how to get out of this situation," they whispered.
"If you do as I say, you'll be able to appease the King of Brion as well."
Appease… the King?
The King whose wrath he had incurred?
Those words alone were enough to reduce Alistair into a trembling, obedient shell.
His eyes widened. "What… what do I have to do?"
The cloaked figure's whisper was soft — almost intimate — yet dripping with malice.
The words hit Alistair like a slap.
Alistair recoiled slightly, then repeated the instruction aloud, his voice hollow and stunned:
"So… I just have to grab that wench Lucina and bring her back here?"
The hooded figure's smile sharpened, wicked.
"Exactly."
---
Elsewhere — in a shadowed forest of old magic…
Moonlight filtered through twisted branches, bathing the clearing in a pale, eerie glow. The atmosphere here was unlike the mortal world — still, unnervingly quiet, with a faint shimmer of power hanging in the air.
A beautiful woman with long, luminous white hair stood rigidly, dressed in a flowing pale-blue gown. Beside her was a small attendant — a childlike figure with sharp eyes and a rigid posture.
Across from them stood another hooded figure, their cloak matching the darkness around them. Their voice cut through the silence, cold and accusing:
"I thought you said her child can't die."
The white-haired woman stiffened, her delicate fingers clenching around the fabric of her dress. Her breath caught.
The hooded figure stepped closer, raising a gloved hand toward her face — almost touching her cheek.
"Go and check then."
The command was icy, merciless.
"Make sure for yourself."
The woman flinched, wrenching her body back, refusing their touch. The small attendant moved closer to her, as if to shield her.
The hooded figure didn't seem bothered by her fear — in fact, their smirk deepened, twisting into something monstrous beneath the hood.
---
The forest clearing was drenched in an uneasy, pale light. A cold mist coiled around the roots of the towering trees as the hooded figure faced the silver-haired woman. Her luminous hair rippled like living moonlight, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her fear.
"I thought you said her child can't die," the hooded figure said, voice brimming with quiet accusation.
The woman FLINCHED, instinctively clutching something close to her chest—something unseen, yet fiercely protected.
The hooded figure's gloved hand emerged from the shadows, reaching as though to seize her chin or rip away her precious secret.
"Go and check then," they commanded, tone dangerously soft.
Before the woman could react, an armored man stepped into the clearing. His helmet hid his face, but his voice sounded nervous, almost rehearsed.
"Her child is fine."
The silver-haired woman exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief.
"That's… a relief," she murmured. Her voice was fragile, as though her sanity rested on that one fact. "I wouldn't know what to do if something had happened to it."
But when she met the armored man's gaze, confusion flickered in her blue eyes.
"Why is he concerned about my child?" she whispered to herself.
The hooded figure ignored the question. Their interest was single-minded.
Plans needed to be set in motion.
A capture needed to happen.
The scene shifted—no longer the mystical clearing, but a harsh, shadowed path trodden by armored boots.
The real Lucina—strong, disciplined, the true knight—stood with her wrists bound by iron. Her armor was dented, her hair disheveled, her breathing furious.
Before her stood the man who had helped orchestrate her ambush. His uniform was that of a knight, but his expression was that of a venomous coward reveling in borrowed power.
Lucina glared at him.
Her voice was steady, defiant.
"Where are you planning on taking me?"
The man chuckled, a cruel CHUCKLE thick with contempt.
"You used to stay silent like a mute," he spat, leaning close, "but it looks like those savages taught you how to speak."
Lucina's jaw tightened—but she did not lower her gaze.
"I have to return to the Tayar Kingdom! Let go of me!" she demanded, voice cracking with the urgency of a mission she knew mattered more than herself.
The man's expression snapped.
Rage twisted across his face, veins bulging at his temple. He seized her by the head, fingers digging painfully into her scalp.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH MOTHER AND I SUFFERED BECAUSE YOU FLED TO THE TAYAR KINGDOM?!"
His voice broke with hysteria and long-festering resentment.
"Not only did you bring ruin to our family," he hissed, raising his hand high, "but now you dare defy me as well?!"
His next words dripped with cruelty:
"A beating should help you remember your place!"
Lucina squeezed her eyes shut, shame and fear flushing across her face. Tears—unwanted, burning—slipped down her cheeks.
His hand swung downward—
S-S-S-S-SLECH!
A monstrous gust of wind tore across the clearing.
The man froze mid-swing.
Every guard halted as the air shifted, vibrating with raw, ancient power.
FWOOOOSH.
The trees bent violently as something enormous sliced through the night sky.
The men looked up—faces draining of color.
A colossal shadow blotted out the moon.
Massive wings beat the air.
Scales glinted like blood-red metal.
A DRAGON descended.
Its enormous, molten-gold eye locked onto them with terrifying intelligence.
The man who had moments ago been so bold now whispered, voice trembling:
"I-IS THAT A DRAGON?!"
And the world held its breath.
The forest clearing erupted into utter mayhem.
The moment the colossal red Dragon tore through the sky, its shadow swallowing the moonlight, the ground itself trembled beneath its monstrous ROAR. Leaves tore from branches. Horses reared. Even seasoned warriors screamed.
The man in the knight's armor—Lucina's captor, Alistair's desperate pawn—could only stare upward, his face draining of color.
"I-IS THAT A DRAGON?!" he choked, every ounce of bravado evaporating.
He turned wildly, searching for the one who had promised him safety, leverage, and an escape from ruin—but the hooded Black Mage was nowhere to be found.
"Y-YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A DRAGON!" he shrieked at the treeline, rage laced with terror. "You said the King of those barbarians would be away for a while!"
His voice cracked as he realized the truth.
"I THINK THE BLACK MAGE HAS ALREADY RUN AWAY!"
His guards—panicked, untrained for monstrosities of legend—broke first.
"EVERYONE, RUN!" one screamed, and the others scattered, desperate to escape both dragonfire and consequences.
Amidst the chaos of wings, wind, and terror, a lone figure stepped through the settling dust—tall, dark-haired, carrying a great axe slick with battle-worn dents.
Lucina's eyes widened with a burst of emotion—fear, relief, disbelief all at once.
"HAKAN!"
Her voice cracked, raw from screaming and humiliation.
Hakan didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Every step of his approach was heavy with silent fury.
A single, sharp DASH and he closed the distance, planting himself between Lucina and her captors like a wall of iron and wrath. His presence alone forced the remaining guards backward.
Then, in a voice that brooked no argument:
"Close your eyes, Lucina."
Lucina obeyed instantly, tears streaking her cheeks.
A heartbeat later—
AAARGH!
A sickening crunch.
A spray of blood that misted the air.
Hakan's axe carved a brutal arc, sending one of the guards collapsing with a wet thud.
Her tormentor—the faux knight who had mocked her, grabbed her, threatened to beat her—scrambled backward in horror. He tried to RUSH away but slipped on the mud and TRIPPED, landing hard. His breath hitched, now confronted with the man whose power dwarfed even the dragon overhead.
Hakan stood over him, visage carved in stone, blood spattered across his cheek yet eyes clear with judgment.
His growl was low, deadly:
"You… You're the one who robbed the tombs of Mezaluc before."
Recognition dawned in the fallen man's eyes—slow, dawning terror replacing whatever remained of his pride.
Hakan leaned in, voice a cold verdict:
"I spared your life following your mother's request."
The man froze.
Not out of fear—but out of the realization that this was personal.
Deeply personal.
"And now," Hakan continued, each word a nail sealing fate,
"you are trying to kidnap my wife."
Lucina's breath hitched, the revelation heavy and undeniable.
Her captor's voice broke, trembling as he crawled backward.
"Y–YOU'RE MISTAKEN… THIS IS A MISUNDERSTANDING…"
The words were pathetic, shapeless, collapsing on themselves.
Hakan's grip tightened on his axe.
He wasn't listening anymore.
His voice dropped into a terrifying murmur, spoken not to the man but to the earth itself:
"Should I rip his limbs to pieces… and let the beasts feed on them?"
The fallen man whimpered—reduced from arrogant captor to a begging, shaking wretch.
Before Hakan could raise his axe again, a soft but desperate cry cut through the blood-heavy air.
"HAKAN! PLEASE… PLEASE STOP."
The plea came from Lucina.
Her voice was trembling—not from fear of Hakan, but fear for him… and for what his fury might turn him into.
Hakan, still seething, turned his head slightly—
"Lucina…?"
His bloodied silhouette froze between vengeance and restraint.
Lord Alistair wandered the ruined halls of his manor like a ghost trapped in the remains of a former life. Once polished floors were now dusted with neglect; ornate walls were peeling; servants shuffled like shadows. Yet none of this humbled him—his pride only festered.
"I don't know what Mother is up to, but I haven't seen her for a while..." he muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance rather than concern. A sharp TSK escaped him. "The servants do nothing but make excuses!"
When the cook timidly approached with a chipped bowl and a shriveled portion of food, Alistair's temper combusted.
"DAMMIT! ARE YOU TELLING ME TO EAT SOMETHING LIKE THIS?!"
The cook trembled. "I-I'm sorry, My Lord… We've exhausted our food reserves… and we can't afford to buy any more right now…"
"SO WHAT?!" Alistair barked. "If we don't have any money, then YOU should go and earn some! All the servants do NOTHING but make excuses!"
He spun away in a cloud of indignation—only to stop when a servant approached with a deep bow.
"My Lord. You have a visitor."
Alistair's annoyance flickered into curiosity. "A visitor? Who would come and see me…?"
He straightened his tattered coat. "Lead the way."
Far elsewhere, in a dim chamber, a pale, veiled woman with long silver hair froze at the sound of footsteps. A knight in battered armor stepped through the doorway with a grim smile.
"IT'S BEEN A WHILE, LUCINA," he said.
It was not a greeting—it was a threat.
The visitor awaiting Alistair was no noble, no ally, no friend.
A cloaked figure—face hidden, smile unnaturally pale—waited in the shadows.
The moment Alistair saw them, all restraint evaporated.
"YOU BASTARD!" he screamed, lunging forward. "I WOULDN'T BE IN THIS MESS IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME TO ROB THE TOMBS AT MEZALUC!"
The Black Mage didn't flinch. Instead, they rested a hand on his shoulder, their voice smooth as poison.
"Please calm down, My Lord."
A sinister grin curved beneath the hood.
"I'll tell you how to get out of this situation. If you do as I say, you'll be able to appease the King of Brion as well."
Desperation swallowed Alistair's rage.
"What do I have to do?"
The hooded figure leaned in.
"So, I just have to grab that wench Lucina and bring her back here?" Alistair repeated, already accepting his own downfall.
Meanwhile, deep in a moonlit grove, the cloaked mage confronted a silver-haired woman dressed in pale blue—the false Lucina.
"I THOUGHT YOU SAID HER CHILD CAN'T DIE," the mage hissed.
"Then GO AND CHECK," they ordered, extending a hand that made the woman FLINCH.
When the report came—"Her child is fine"—the woman exhaled shakily. "That's a relief…"
But relief would not last.
In the forest, the plan unfolded.
The man who had allied himself with the Black Mage—wearing a knight's uniform that did not belong to him—stood before the real Lucina, held captive by guards.
"WHERE ARE YOU PLANNING ON TAKING ME?!" she cried.
He CHUCKLED cruelly.
"You used to stay silent like a mute. Looks like those savages taught you how to speak."
With a cruel gesture, he ordered, "TAKE HER AWAY."
Lucina fought the guards, breath ragged.
"NO! LET GO OF ME! I HAVE TO RETURN TO THE TAYAR KINGDOM!"
Her protest ignited his rage. He seized her face violently.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH MOTHER AND I SUFFERED BECAUSE YOU FLED TO THE TAYAR KINGDOM?! NOT ONLY DID YOU RUIN OUR FAMILY—NOW YOU DARE TO DEFY ME?!"
His hand rose, ready to strike.
But before the blow could fall—
S-S-S-S-SLECH!
The forest trembled. Guards and knight PAUSED as a monstrous shadow blotted out the light.
A beat later—
FWOOSH.
A massive, red-scaled Dragon descended, exhaling fire, letting out a world-shaking ROAR.
"I-IS THAT A DRAGON?!" the knight cried.
"You didn't say anything about a DRAGON! You said the King of those barbarians would be AWAY!" he screeched, realizing the Black Mage had lied—and fled.
"EVERYONE, RUN!" the guards screamed, scattering like leaves in a storm.
Through the smoke, a man emerged—hair dark, gaze lethal, an axe dripping with purpose.
Lucina gasped.
"HAKAN!"
He moved with murderous precision.
"CLOSE YOUR EYES, LUCINA."
She obeyed.
The wet, visceral AAARGH! that followed marked the guards' final moments.
Her captor tried to flee—only to TRIP in the mud, scrambling helplessly.
Hakan STEPped forward, towering over the trembling man.
His voice was a growl edged with death.
"You… You're the one who robbed the tombs of Mezaluc before."
The fallen knight's face drained of color.
Hakan's next words broke him:
"I spared your life following your mother's request… and now you try to KIDNAP MY WIFE."
His wife.
Lucina.
"N-No… Y-You're mistaken… This is a misunderstanding…" he stammered, crawling backward.
Hakan's fingers tightened around his axe.
"Should I rip his limbs to pieces and let the beasts feed on them?"
Lucina's voice sliced through the blood-soaked tension.
"HAKAN! PLEASE… PLEASE STOP."
He froze.
At her voice—her trembling, fragile plea—his rage cracked.
He turned to her.
"LUCINA…?"
He dropped to one knee in front of her, gently cupping her face with both hands—a stark contrast to the violence around them.
"What in the world happened? Giaret said you ran away because you were scared of being punished…" he murmured, searching her eyes. "How did you end up like this? Let's just go back to the palace first."
Lucina's breath trembled.
"I'm… really tired…"
The next day, in the palace, attendants bowed anxiously as healers reported:
"She lost a considerable amount of blood… but fortunately, Your Majesty, your child is completely fine."
Hakan stood vigil, sleepless, refusing to leave her side.
"You have not slept for several days," an attendant urged. "You should get some rest—"
"No."
Hakan's voice was low, resolute.
"I still have some unfinished business."
His eyes sharpened.
"Those who dared to frame my wife… must be dealt with immediately."
Beyond the bars of a dim cell, a trembling conspirator awaited his judgment.