...When moon is crowned with silver flame,...

...And ash falls soft as snow,...

...A child of night, unnamed, unclaimed,...

...From broken halls shall go....

...She bears no blade yet ends the reign...

...Of fire that cannot die,...

...For heart of dark must meet its end...

...When moon and dragon cry....

...Beware the cure the stars conceal,...

...Mistaken for a foe,...

...For death shall kneel where love stands still,...

...And ash to dawn shall grow....

...Not by her wrath the king is slain,...

...Nor by his fire her fall—...

...But by the choice the two deny,...

...Till truth has burned them all....

Before the world learned to fear his name, the Dragon Lord was revered.

Azhryon ruled the skies in an age when dragons were not monsters but guardians, when fire was law and balance was kept by flame. His wings cast long shadows across continents, not as a threat but as a promise. Kingdoms flourished beneath his watch, oceans calmed at his passing, and even the gods measured their words when speaking his name. He was power restrained by principle, wrath bound by justice.

It was mercy that broke him.

When the gods marked a mortal kingdom for erasure—judging its people unworthy of continuation—Azhryon defied divine will. He stood between heaven and earth and refused to burn what still breathed. The punishment was not swift. It was not loud. It was eternal.

The Dark Heart was sealed within him.

It did not steal his strength; it corrupted its purpose. His fire remained endless, but its warmth vanished.

Century by century, joy hollowed into endurance, endurance into silence. The Dragon Lord still ruled, still protected, but something vital within him began to starve. The world felt the change long before it understood it.

Two thousand years passed.

Then the stars shifted.

On a night when the moon burned silver instead of white, a child was born beneath a palace roof hidden from prophecy and prayer alike. At the moment her first cry broke the air, the heavens answered. Moonfire surged through ancient leylines, awakening seals long thought dead.

Azhryon screamed.

The Dark Heart—dormant, patient—woke fully for the first time. Pain unlike any before ripped through his chest, tearing him from the sky as fire spiraled beyond his control. He crashed into obsidian stone, wings shattering columns as centuries of restraint collapsed into agony.

Hope followed the pain.

A prophecy was spoken, not by gods, but by fate itself—whispered through stone, blood, and moonlight. A child had been born who could end the curse. Or end the world.

Those around the Dragon Lord heard only one thing: an end to suffering.

His Second-in-Command, Varyx, knelt amid the ruin and watched his lord writhe beneath a sky of burning embers. To him, mercy was weakness, and salvation demanded sacrifice.

“There is a solution,” Varyx said, voice steady where the world shook. “Destroy the source. Destroy the child. End your pain.”

Azhryon did not answer.

His silence was mistaken for permission.

The hunt began that night—not for salvation, but for erasure. Dragon legions scoured realms, burning records, slaughtering bloodlines touched by moonlight, silencing any whisper of prophecy. The truth was reshaped into something simpler, crueler:" the child must die so the Dragon Lord may live".

One kingdom refused to obey.

They hid the child, buried the prophecy beneath stone and secrecy, erased her lineage and raised her as human. For sixteen years, she lived loved and unaware, her life protected by silence rather than walls.

But silence does not last forever.

The moon marked her birthday.

Azhryon arrived too late.

He came not as executioner, but as a king seeking answers. Yet dragonfire does not distinguish intent from consequence. His presence tore the sky open, and in the chaos that followed, Varyx struck without hesitation.

The banquet hall burned.

Screams drowned beneath collapsing stone. Those who loved the child died shielding her with their bodies, their blood sealing her escape as the palace fell around them. She ran into the night with smoke in her lungs and terror in her heart, unaware that the monster she would come to hate never saw her face.

When the fire settled, Azhryon stood alone among ruins.

Ash clung to his wings. The scent of death filled his lungs. Somewhere in the wreckage, the prophecy had slipped through his grasp—and the cure he had waited two thousand years for had learned his name as a curse.

History would record the night simply:

The Dragon Lord destroyed a kingdom in search of the prophecy child.

It would never record the truth.

That both savior and salvation survived the fire believing they were enemies, and that the ashes of that night would one day give birth to moonfire strong enough to rewrite fate itself.

The moon was full the night Luneth turned sixteen.

It hung low and pale above the palace gardens, caught in the branches of silver-leaf trees like an omen no one dared to name. Lanterns glowed softly along the marble paths, music drifted through open arches, and for one fragile evening, the world pretended to be kind.

Luneth sat at the long banquet table, hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to laughter that felt almost unreal. Candles flickered, reflecting in crystal goblets and polished armor. Faces she loved surrounded her—warm, familiar, safe.

She did not know this was the last time she would see them alive.

“Make a wish,” her guardian said gently, pushing the small moon-shaped cake toward her.

Luneth smiled. She closed her eyes.

She wished for nothing extraordinary.

No crowns. No power. No destiny.

She wished for this—only this—to last.

The moment she exhaled, the candles went out.

Not blown.

Extinguished.

The music faltered. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the night went silent—too silent. Luneth felt it then, a pressure in her chest, sharp and sudden, like the air itself had turned against her.

The moonlight dimmed.

A scream tore through the far gate.

Steel rang. Stone cracked.

“Lock the doors,” someone shouted.

Too late.

The ceiling shattered in a rain of marble and fire. Heat slammed into the hall, violent and suffocating. Flames roared to life where there had been silk and flowers moments before. The scent of burning wood and blood filled the air.

Luneth froze.

Her guardian was already moving, dragging her from the chair as a shadow fell across the hall—vast, ancient, wrong. A roar shook the palace, deep enough to rattle bone and soul alike.

Dragonfire.

“They’ve found her,” someone whispered in terror.

She didn’t understand.

Found who?

Arrows flew. Magic flared. None of it mattered.

People threw themselves in front of her—servants, soldiers, friends—forming a wall of flesh against something that could not be stopped. One by one, they fell. Blood streaked the marble floor, mixing with ash.

“Don’t look back,” her guardian ordered, voice breaking as he pushed her toward a hidden passage behind the tapestry.

Luneth did look back.

She saw the hall collapse.

She saw the fire consume names she would never speak again.

She saw the moon reflected in a pool of blood—burning silver.

The passage sealed behind her with a final, hollow echo.

Darkness swallowed her scream.

She ran.

Barefoot through stone corridors, through tunnels carved long before the palace existed. Her lungs burned, her vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. The world above thundered and died while the earth hid her like a guilty secret.

At last, the tunnel opened into a forgotten chamber. The old guard stopped there, shaking, wounded, eyes full of apology.

“Listen to me,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “Your name, your past—forget them. Live. That is the only way you honor the dead.”

She wanted to argue. To demand answers. To go back and burn the sky in return.

Instead, she nodded.

Because she could still hear the roar.

When dawn came, smoke stained the horizon where her home had been.

Luneth did not cry.

Something colder settled into her chest—heavy, patient, enduring.

That night, the girl who wished for peace died with her kingdom.

And somewhere far above the clouds, an ancient curse tightened its hold—unaware that the child it sought had survived.

Unaware that one day, she would seek it back.