Chapter 51 - The Dragon’s Lament
The evening sky was shrouded in thickening gray clouds, hanging low as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. In the distance, a faint red mist rose above scorched earth, mingling with the acrid stench of smoke and sulfur that stung the nose. There were no birdsongs. The air felt heavy. Silent. Too silent.
From behind the last remaining trees at the edge of the burned forest, a cavalry procession emerged. The hoofbeats struck the ashen ground—still faintly smoldering—leaving blackened trails behind them. At the very front, a man pulled the reins of his horse to a halt.
He was Louis Havel, Commander of the Royal Army of Belmore.
He appeared to be around forty, yet his body remained as firm as tempered steel. He wore a dark silver light armor, partially covered by a deep crimson cloak, its edges torn from a long journey. On the left side of his chest was a distinct emblem: a lion’s head pierced by two swords forming an X—blood red in color.
His neatly cropped black hair fluttered slightly in the wind that carried the bitter scent of ash. His chiseled, stone-like face narrowed its gaze forward. For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes scanned the wide expanse that had become a graveyard.
What was once a dense forest... had turned into dead land.
The soil was cracked and blackened, littered with charred remnants of trees standing like bones. Among the scorched trunks, massive burnt bones of beasts lay scattered. Some still emitted smoke, as if they had been roasted alive by unnatural fire.
Louis Havel dismounted with steady steps. His leather boots crushed the scorched debris beneath him. Without hesitation, he walked forward, knelt, and dipped two fingers into the blackened soil. He rubbed it between his fingers and brought it to his nose.
He stood again, inhaled deeply, then muttered in a low, cold voice:
"Which madman dares to provoke the dragon Agnithrax...?"
His head turned slightly to the right, his gaze landing on the row of officers waiting behind him.