Just then, Sett caught James' face—lit not by firelight, but by a boyish gleam of excitement and anticipation. His brow arched in mild amusement, but before he could say a word, a sweet, smoky aroma wafted into his nose.
He paused.
The scent was unmistakable—earthy, warm, and tinged with the caramelized edge of fire-charred sugar. Roasted sweet potatoes.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
This wasn't some noble delicacy or foreign spiced dish. This was Durnshade food. A poor man's comfort. The kind of meal handed out by guilt-ridden nobles to beggars huddled under archways, or left by roadside altars to feed the crippled and forgotten. A food of survival—and yet, sweetness. Humble and filling. A balm for empty stomachs and colder nights.
And right now, after four straight days of dry meat and stringy fat, it might as well have been ambrosia.
His stomach let out a quiet growl. He gulped.
Nirelle must have seen something in his eyes, because without a word, she passed him a small portion wrapped in a folded leaf. He took it gently, as if accepting a gift from the gods, and bit in.
The golden-crusted skin crackled beneath his teeth, giving way to soft, steaming orange flesh that seemed to melt on his tongue like sugar and ash. His eyelids fluttered for a brief second, and he nearly groaned.
He squinted instead, holding in the sound as pride battled gratitude. It was too good.
Then—he felt them.
Three pairs of eyes. Watching.
He turned his head and saw them: the young dragons—Aion, Keraunos, and Ague—staring at him in eerie silence, their heads tilted in curious synchrony like carved statues awakened by scent.
Sett narrowed his eyes and raised a half-eaten piece. "What? You want this?" he asked, waving the crispy golden edge just out of their reach.
Aion hissed first, pulling back with visible disgust, his tongue flickering in protest. Keraunos followed immediately, recoiling like he'd smelled poison. Both turned away with exaggerated motions, tails whipping behind them as if offended to their very bones.
But Ague stayed.
The red dragoness didn't back away. Instead, she leaned in—her long neck stretching slowly, eyes wide and unblinking, the amber slits of her pupils gleaming with curiosity. She opened her mouth slightly, a low rumble building in her throat—not threatening, but pleading.
Sett chuckled softly. "You're a strange one," he murmured, and tore off a small bite. With gentle fingers, he placed it on her tongue.
For a heartbeat, she chewed.
Then her expression twisted. Her pupils shrank. She spat it out in an explosion of saliva, hitting his palm with wet disdain. She shook her head violently, her wings flapping once as if to shake off the memory of the taste. A wet phleh escaped her throat as she turned her head side to side, tongue flailing, clearly revolted.
And then—she roared.
A shrill, furious bellow that startled the recruits and echoed into the trees. Her eyes, usually so curious and trusting, were now ablaze with grudge. She glared at Sett like he'd betrayed her very soul.
Then she turned and stormed off, claws thudding against the ground.
"Well… that's a first," Swain remarked, his deep voice rumbling with laughter as the recruits burst into giggles, mouths full of roasted potatoes.
"It is," Sett chuckled, shaking his head as he wiped dragon spit from his fingers. He watched the trio slink away from the fire, grumbling in their own reptilian way. "Don't go too far!" he called.
Tiny roars answered in protest—but they didn't stop.
"They're… intelligent," Nirelle said softly, her eyes following the dragons as they disappeared into the dark. Her voice held a wistful wonder. "Legends said they were monsters—mindless beasts that turned cities into ashes. That some grew large enough to swallow oxen whole… or crush keeps with a single wingbeat."
She paused. "But maybe those were just stories."
"They weren't mindless."
The fire seemed to hush.
Everyone turned. Swain sat motionless, his roasted potato forgotten in his hand. His black eyes caught the firelight like obsidian wet with dew.
"Dragons have always been intelligent," he said quietly. "They didn't burn cities for pleasure. They burned because they were called to war. Because we made them weapons."
Sett felt the air still, the fire's crackle the only sound between them.
"What war?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Swain stared into the flames, and for a moment, he wasn't a soldier. He was a shadow of someone who had lived a thousand lives—and lost all of them.
"The First World War," he said. "The war that reforged the world. Once, the Stormborn Empire ruled all of Elyria—from the clouds to the roots of the deepest mountains. From saltwater bays to burning deserts. They were untouchable. And their greatest power was the dragons."
He looked at Sett. "Only they could control them. Stormborn blood had a rhythm that called to the dragons. No one else dared try. Most of them that did, fried."
Sett's breath caught.
He remembered the bond—the surge of warmth and raw power, the way the dragons had responded when he uttered Ignis. As if… something ancient in him had awakened.
But no. He pushed the thought away. Not now. Not here.
"Five Archdukes rose against them," Swain continued, voice darkening. "They schemed for decades, waited for the imperial bloodline to grow soft and complacent. And when the empire blinked—they struck."
"And the dragons?" one of the recruits asked softly.
"They were unleashed," Swain whispered. "But not in unity. The Stormborns were no longer a family. They were broken from within. The dragons turned on each other—brothers against brothers, wings against wings, fire against fire. It was a sky of madness."
Silence fell again. The crackle of fire sounded like bones snapping in the hush.
"I served them," Swain said. "I rode beneath wings that blotted out the sun. I saw breath melt iron and turn flesh to shadows. But even dragons couldn't fix betrayal."
He turned now, slowly, to Sett. His gaze was heavy—full of grief, rage, and the hollow weariness of a man who had carried too many memories alone.
"In that chaos... I lost my wife. My daughters. Slaughtered like cattle in the name of noble vengeance."
A breath shuddered from his chest.
"And I broke. I became what you called the dragons. A monster. In the name of vengeance, I slaughtered innocents—villagers, children, elders. My sword drank the blood of six hundred souls, most of whom never raised a hand against me."
He raised the blade at his side ever so slightly.
"The same sword I was knighted with."
His eyes, black and bottomless, locked with Nirelle's.
"Dragons are not evil. They only reflect what commands them."
Then to Sett—his voice lower now, like thunder behind mountains.
"Men are the true monsters."