Chapter 18

The night was heavy. Arren's wounds burned, but the fire inside him burned hotter. The squad had stopped to rest in a clearing, hidden beneath the shadows of the trees.

Lyara was gone.

The empire had branded him a traitor.

Fri lay curled at his side, this little pup sneaked on horse big satchel, silent for once, his silver fur matted with dirt. Noor and Mira sat nearby, tending to their own wounds. No one spoke.

Then, the wind stilled.

A presence unfolded from the shadows.

At first, it didn't seem human. The figur moved too smoothly, its steps silent as death. A pale hand reached out from beneath a flowing white robe, and a voice followed—calm, patient, but so cold it sent shivers down Arren's spine.

"Arren"

Arren was on his feet instantly, sword drawn. The squad followed, weapons raised, but something felt wrong.

The figure stepped into the moonlight. A man—no, something else—stood before them. His face was too perfect, too symmetrical. His golden eyes held no warmth. He was a being carved by divinity, and yet, looking at him filled Arren with nothing but dread.

"I come as a disciple of the divine," the messenger said, his voice soft but empty. "I bring the will of the gods."

Arren's grip tightened. "I don't care what the gods have to say."

The messenger tilted his head. "You misunderstand. It does ot matter whether you care."

Silence.

Noor took a step forward. "If the gods have something to say, say it."

The messenger's gaze never left Arren.

"he gods have decreed that you have strayed from your purpose."

Arren stiffened. "What purpose?"

The messenger sighed, as if speaking to a child who didn't understand. "You were meant to be a guiding flame. A knight who would lead the people toward salvation. Instead, you have become a shadow, consumed by doubt and rebellion."

Arren's heart pounded. He could feel something twisting in his chest, something breaking.

"You have been given more than most," the disciple continued. "Power. Strength. A name that people trust. Yet, like your father, you have chosen defiance."

Arren froze.

The world tilted.

"…What?" His voice came out hoarse.

The disciple took a step forward. "Did you truly think your father was just a man?"

Arren's sword shook in his hand.

The messenger's golden eyes gleamed. "Your father was a child of balance—born between light and darkness. Both forces sought to claim him, yet neither could control him. So, in the end, they broke him."

Arren's breath hitched.

His mind screamed at him to not listen, to not believe, but the words dug into him like knives.

"Your father was not a hero," the disciple said gently. "He was an inconvenience. A mistake the gods had to erase."

The air turned too thick to breathe.

Arren's chest burned. His body trembled, rage and pain clawing at his soul. He had always believed—always been told—that his father died fighting for something greater.

Now, this being—this messenger of the gods—was telling him his father had been nothing but a problem to be discarded.

Lies.

It had to be lies.

But Fri whimpered.

Arren turned, his breath catching in his throat.

Fri—the stubborn, playful wolf pup who never feared anything—was trembling. His ears pressed flat against his head, his silver eyes filled with sorrow.

He wasn't denying it.

He knew.

Arren's heart shattered. And feel hollow inside him

The disciple watched him closely. There was no malice in his expression—only patience.

"You see now," he murmured. "You were never meant to forge your own path. The gods will not allow it."

Arren barely felt the pain in his body anymore. He barely felt anything at all.

His squad stood frozen behind him. Noor, Brynn, Mira, Torren—they didn't know what to say.

He had lost his home.

He had lost Lyara.

He had lost the truth about his father.

And now, the gods were telling him that his entire existence was a mistake.

The messenger stepped forward, extending his hand.

"It is not too late," he said. "Submit, and we will grant you purpose once more. The gods are merciful."

Arren's breath was ragged.

Submit.

His entire life, he had done nothing but follow orders.

Follow the empire. Follow the knights. Follow the will of those who claimed to know better.

And what had it given him?

Nothing but pain.

His knuckles turned white around his sword hilt. His mind screamed. The flames roared inside him, begging for release.

The disciple's golden eyes narrowed.

"Do not choose destruction, you will regret it "

Arren's body burned. His vision blurred with unshed tears.

And then—

He struck.

(Next Chapter— A dragon was born)