(General P.O.V)
A green serpent, thick as a man's arm, wound silently through the underbrush at the edge of the farmland.
It slithered past bramble and thorn, its scales gleaming like wet jade in the fading light. The farm rooster, perched near the fencepost, never saw it coming. The serpent lunged, jaws wide.
A wet crunch.
Silence.
Then the serpent's body twisted, convulsed—and shifted.
Where once there was a snake, now stood a man draped in a black cloak, the hood drawn just enough to shadow his face. His eyes glowed faint green beneath it, like embers in moss.
He walked with purpose through the now-quiet fields, ignoring the whispers and wary glances of workers too stunned to speak.
At the manor steps, he was halted by a nervous guard.
"You can't go in. Lord Egon is… mourning."
The cloaked man's smile was calm. Charming. Sinister.
"And yet I bring urgent business," he said softly. "The kind that will not wait for tears to dry. The kind that involves Fafnir the Dragon of Skyfire."
The guard, unsure, stepped aside.
-
In the stone holding cell beneath the old grain tower, Siegfried sat against the wall, chained at the wrists and ankles.
His face was swollen, blood still crusted along his cheek, but his breathing was steady.
A rat crept out of the shadows, dragging a chunk of crusty bread between its teeth. It dropped it near Siegfried's foot and scurried away.
"Thank you," he murmured, picking it up slowly.
He chewed in silence until footsteps echoed beyond the bars.
Gertrude.
She appeared in the wane torchlight, her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. Her expression was tight, tired.
"You're alive," she said.
"For now."
She leaned against the wall, glancing behind her before speaking.
"You know what you did, right? You called down the Lightning, now everyone is calling you the Thunderer's bastard. Reinhardt is dead. The whole manor's upside down. No one knows what to do. Lord Egon hasn't executed you yet because he wants it… slow. After the funeral."
Siegfried nodded. No fear in his eyes. Just weariness.
"Dia," Gertrude added, "asked me to come. She said she's sorry. Said she didn't mean for this to happen. I'm still shocked you can talk."
"She stood up," Siegfried said. "That's more than most."
Gertrude looked away. "Aye. It's what's going to get her killed."
A noise from above—boots clanging, voices sharp. Gertrude tensed.
"I have to go," she said quickly. "But—one more thing."
She looked directly at him, lowering her voice.
"A messenger came today. From Fafnir."
Siegfried blinked. "The dragon in the mountain?"
"He brought terms. For the village. For the farm. Lord Egon's pretending it's a joke, but he's rattled."
Siegfried frowned. "What's it got to do with me?"
Gertrude stepped back into the shadowed hall.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I hope the dragon burns this wretched place to the ground. And maybe you crawl out from under the ashes."
Then she was gone.
Moments later, more footsteps.
Heavy. Armored. Familiar.
Lord Egon entered with four men at his back. He wore no mourning black—only deep red robes, and a scowl that had not changed since the night his son died.
He stopped in front of the bars and stared at Siegfried like a man assessing a wild dog.
"Do you remember where I found you?" Egon asked.
Siegfried looked up, wary.
"In the forest. Near the edge of the mountain. You were no more than a babe, cradled by the roots of an old tree, wrapped in nothing but moss. No tracks. No signs of a mother. It was as if the Earth Mother, Gaea herself, had plucked you from the soil."
He let the words linger, as if to savor the memory.
"I should've left you there. But I didn't. I brought you in. You grew strong. Too strong."
Siegfried said nothing.
Egon's voice dropped, measured and deliberate. "You had blessed hands. The crops you touched grew faster. Animals under your care birthed twins. You didn't speak, didn't whine, didn't steal. I thought… perhaps the gods had given me a good omen. A sign of prosperity."
"I'm sorry," Siegfried said quietly.
Egon's face hardened. "Sorry won't bring Reinhardt back."
A silence stretched between them.
"But the gods have shown mercy," Egon continued, voice gaining strength. "They've sent me something better than vengeance—opportunity."
He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and unrolled it with a flourish.
"The dragon Fafnir, from his mountain keep, offers me access to the gold veins beneath his lair. Enough wealth to rival kings. All he asks for in return… is a maiden."
Siegfried's eyes narrowed.
"No…"
"Yes," Egon said, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Dia. The girl you and my son were so eager to die over. Her blood will seal the pact. And in doing so, she'll serve a greater purpose. She'll honor Reinhardt. Cement his legacy in gold."
Siegfried's fists clenched, chains rattling faintly. "There must be another way. A way she survives."
Egon laughed, sharp and humorless. "Sure. Kill the dragon yourself. March into his mountain and cut out his heart. Do that, and maybe we'll talk."
He leaned forward, close enough for Siegfried to smell the wine on his breath.
"But you're in no position to save anyone. You're a chained animal, a mistake I've let live far too long."
Egon turned to leave, his men falling into step behind him.
"Tomorrow morning," he said over his shoulder, "you'll be brought to the summit. You'll watch her burn. You'll watch the dragon feast. And then, Siegfried…"
He paused.
"I'll undo my one act of mercy—and end you myself."
The torchlight faded as they left, footsteps echoing up the stone corridor.
Siegfried sat alone in the dark, the chain cold against his skin, heart pounding beneath his ribs.
The storm inside him had only just begun.
(Siegfried's P.O.V)
Sleep didn't come easy. My body ached. My wrists were raw from the chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dia's face—defiant, even when the blade hovered near.
But at some point, the pain blurred, and sleep took me.
And then the sky cracked open.
I stood on a cliff's edge, watching the world drown in storm. Thunder rolled across blackened skies like a war drum. Lightning danced from cloud to cloud, not wild, but controlled—like it was being directed by something ancient. Something angry.
A hammer floated at the center of it all.
It wasn't just a weapon. It was a force. The head was thick, its surface carved with glowing golden runes. Dust clung to its frame like it had been resting for centuries, untouched, waiting.
It sat atop a jagged rock, half-buried, humming with power.
I stepped forward, drawn to it.
The storm fell silent.
Then came the voice. Deep. Ancient. Echoing in my bones.
"Lift it, if you are worthy."
I turned and saw him—a giant, cloaked in shadow and mist. One eye burned like a dying star. His face was carved from age, long beard braided with runes and crow feathers.
He raised his hand.
"Prove yourself. Pick it up."
I reached out. My fingers curled around the handle.
It felt like touching the sky itself.
But when I pulled—it didn't budge.
The weight was crushing. Not physical—existential. Like it was holding the judgment of gods and time itself. I pulled again. It refused.
Then the handle shifted. Slithered.
The runes flickered green.
The leather binding twisted like muscle. And before I could react, it turned into a serpent—coiling up my arm, winding around my chest.
I gasped, clawing at it, but it rose to my neck.
Its mouth opened wide—
And swallowed me whole.
(General P.O.V)
Siegfried shot up in the cell, screaming.
"LOKI, DON'T!"
His chest heaved. Sweat soaked his skin and wrists bled again from where he'd thrashed against the shackles.
Silence.
Except for the faintest scuffle in the shadows, which went unnoticed.
A rat.
It sat watching him—perched in the corner where the torchlight didn't reach. But its eyes glowed green. Intelligent. Amused.
And then—
It smiled.
Not like a beast. Not like a man. Like a God of chaos.
It turned, slinking through the bars, tail trailing behind as it disappeared into the corridor, leaving a whisper behind, soft and knowing:
"Soon… shall we meet… brother."
(Siegfried's P.O.V)
They came for me at dawn.
Chains still on, I was marched through the compound with a guard at either side, their hands on my shoulders like I might explode if given a step's freedom. The sun had only just woke.
The farmhands were already gathered.
They whispered. Then they jeered.
"Ungrateful wretch."
"Should've died with Reinhardt."
"He murdered a prince. And now he wants pity?"
I knew most of their faces. I'd cleaned their wounds. Helped carry their dead. Protected their animals. Reinhardt had spat on them the same way he spat on me. And still, they praised him. The fear ran too deep.
Only Gertrude didn't look away. Her eyes followed me, tight with worry. She said nothing. Just clutched her shawl.
It didn't matter.
Reinhardt was dead. And I was glad.
They dragged me to the center of the compound—where the wooden platform stood. Bloodstained, weatherworn, reeking of old sacrifices.
Tied to a post, Dia hung limp, unconscious, her face bruised and gagged, arms bound so tight her fingers had gone pale.
They shoved me to my knees.
Lord Egon climbed onto the platform, dressed in black and gold. His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice rang clear.
"My son watches from Valhalla," he declared. "And today, I send him a gift. Vengeance."
He turned to a servant holding a horn.
"It's time."
The servant raised it to his lips and blew.
A low, hollow blast rang out. It echoed off the hills, rippling across the land like a curse.
Then silence.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the mountain clouds stirred.
A wind pushed through the trees as the skies darkened again. A shape cut through the swirling mists. It grew as it approached—massive, coiled, wings stretched wide like sails of obsidian.
And then it landed.
Fafnir.
He hit the earth with a thunderous slam that shook the soil. His scales shimmered like armor forged in hell, black with traces of burning copper. Each wingbeat sent waves of hot air rushing across the field. The pressure crushed the lungs, forcing people to their knees.
"Don't look into his eyes!" Egon roared. "The dragon's gaze will burn your soul!"
Everyone bowed low, trembling.
Except me.
I looked.
His eyes—like burning coals—met mine. My breath caught. It felt like my skull was boiling. Tears blurred my vision. But I couldn't look away.
Fafnir sniffed once.
Then snorted, sending smoke billowing through his nostrils.
His claw reached out, grabbing the entire platform, Dia and all, and lifting it like a child would a toy.
He turned to leave.
"Wait!" I shouted, voice cracking.
Fafnir paused. His neck twisted back. A chuckle, low and rumbling, escaped his throat.
"Amusing," the dragon muttered, beat his wings—and began to rise.
"Hold him!" Egon barked.
Mercenaries grabbed me. My muscles screamed in protest as I struggled. Not just against them—but against what I was supposed to be. The weak one. The obedient one. The silent one.
But something inside me broke.
Or maybe it finally broke free.
With a yell that tore through my throat, I pushed against the earth—
—and shattered the chains binding my hands.
Steel snapped like twigs. The guards flew back like leaves in a gale.
And I ran.
Faster than I had ever run. Past the horses, past the gates. The wind screamed in my ears as the edge of the cliff came into view.
The dragon was already ascending, the platform in its claws.
I didn't think.
I jumped.
The air rushed around me, the cliff fell away beneath my feet.
I soared higher than I should've.
And my fingers closed around a broken beam jutting from the edge of the sacrificial platform.
I hung there, heart pounding, hair whipped by the wind as Fafnir carried me toward the mountain.
I didn't know why I was doing this.
But maybe I did.
Because deep down, I knew what I was.
Not a slave.
Not a mute.
Not afraid.
And I was going to get Dia back even if it meant facing a Dragon.