THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The forest lay in eerie silence, its once-pure snow now defiled by blood and ruin. White drifts had become burial shrouds, masking the mangled remains beneath. The air was thick with the scent of death, and the crimson-stained ground bore witness to horrors that would fester in the minds of the living long after the screams had faded.

Bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth like discarded marionettes, their strings cut by claws sharper than any imperial blade. These weren't just casualties of war. These were men who'd laughed over ale mere hours ago, who'd complained about the cold and dreamed of warm beds. Now they decorated the snow in pieces, some still steaming in the frigid air.

The scout drake had been an artist of death, and this was its masterpiece.

Amilia knelt in the crimson slush, her white suit mage armour now a patchwork of red and brown. Her side screamed with every breath, three parallel gashes where drake claws had found the gap between breastplate and hip guard. The wounds weren't immediately fatal, but blood loss would claim her within the hour if left untreated. She ignored the pain, ignored the warmth seeping down her leg, ignored everything except the broken warrior beside her.

Svara lay in the snow like a shattered statue of some ancient hero. His legendary strength, the pride of the Masaai tribe, had finally met its match. The scout drake hadn't simply defeated him, it had dismantled him with the patience of a scholar dissecting a specimen.

His right arm bent at an angle, arms weren't meant to bend. His chest rose and fell in ragged, wet gasps that spoke of punctured lungs. One eye had swollen shut, the other stared at the gray sky with the glassy look of someone dancing on death's edge.

"Damn it," Amilia whispered, her voice cracking like ice under pressure. "We failed. We completely, utterly failed."

Her staff, that beautiful, ornate weapon that had channelled divine power just minutes ago, now felt like a lead weight in her trembling hands. Golden light flickered weakly from its crystal crown as she pressed it against Svara's worst wounds. The healing magic that flowed was a trickle where a river was needed.

Not enough, her mind screamed. Never enough.

She could mend flesh, yes. Close wounds, stop bleeding, even regrow tissue given time and power. But Svara needed more than healing, he needed resurrection. The drake had been thorough, targeting organs and arteries with surgical precision. Even now, she could feel his life force guttering like a candle in a hurricane.

Around them, the killing field stretched toward the pine trees where shadows moved behind arrow slits. The survivors, those lucky or cowardly enough to avoid the slaughter, watched from safety. None dared venture out. Not while the monsters might still lurk nearby.

Smart of them. Smarter than she'd been.

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Tears traced icy paths down Amilia's cheeks, freezing before they could fall. Each droplet became a tiny jewel of grief, glittering in the afternoon light that seemed too bright, too cheerful for this scene of devastation.

They'd come north as heroes. Heroes. The word tasted like ash in her mouth now.

The Rouge Saint and the Hero of the Waste, titles that carried weight throughout the empire. Children told stories about them. Bards sang of their exploits. When word spread that they were investigating the drake sightings, people had actually relaxed. If those two were on the case, surely everything would be fine.

We were supposed to gather intelligence, Amilia thought bitterly. Simple reconnaissance. Check the sightings, interview witnesses, compile a report for Lord De Gror.

Instead, they'd walked into a trap so perfectly laid that she wondered if they'd been expected. The volcanic drake, loud, obvious, and aggressive, had been nothing but bait. While they'd focused on the fire-breathing brute, the real killer had positioned itself with patience that spoke of terrible intelligence.

The scout drake hadn't just been hunting. It had been studying them. Learning their tactics, their abilities, their weaknesses. Waiting for the perfect moment when Svara was exhausted from his enhanced state, when her attention was focused elsewhere, when the soldiers were arranged just so...

Captain Dubal's blood still decorated her robes. The man who'd welcomed them with such pride, who'd offered hot meals and warm hospitality, now existed only as a memory and a red stain in the snow. His body, what remained of it, lay ten feet away, shield still clutched in the hand that hadn't been severed.

Svara's eyes fluttered open, focusing on her with visible effort. His lips moved, forming words without sound. She didn't need to hear them to understand.

Leave me. Run.

"Don't try to talk," Amilia whispered, pressing harder with her healing magic even as she felt her reserves dwindling. "Save your strength. I can still get us out of this. I can... I can..."

The lie died on her lips. They both knew the truth.

Her magic was nearly spent, reduced from a roaring bonfire to dying embers. Her own wounds continued to bleed despite her attempts to heal them, she'd prioritized Svara over herself, and now neither would survive. The drake was still out there somewhere, perhaps watching even now, waiting for her to exhaust herself completely before returning to finish their work.

This wasn't how heroes' stories were supposed to end.

Heroes saved the day. Heroes protected the innocent. Heroes came home victorious to songs and celebration.

Heroes didn't die in the snow, surrounded by the corpses of men they'd failed to protect.

Movement caught her eye, a soldier peering from the pines, quickly ducking back when she looked his way. She didn't blame them for their caution. What could ordinary men do against creatures that had torn through legendary warriors like paper?

"Amilia..." Svara's voice came as barely a whisper, each word clearly costing him. "The fortress... warn them..."

She understood immediately. The drake hadn't attacked randomly. They'd shown intelligence, planning, patience. If they could set one trap, they could set others. And Horizon Sentinel Fort wasn't just a military outpost, it was a gateway. Beyond it lay settlements, towns, innocent people who had no idea death was coming on drake wings.

"I will," she promised, though she wasn't sure she'd live long enough to keep that promise. "Just hold on a little longer. Please."

But Svara's eye had already closed again, his breathing growing shallower with each passing moment. The Hero of the Waste, the man who'd carved his legend across a hundred battlefields, was dying in her arms, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

The wind picked up, driving ice crystals across the courtyard like tiny needles. Somewhere in the distance, she heard it, a sound that made her blood freeze more than any winter wind.

The deep, rumbling call of a drake. Not attacking. Not hunting.

Gloating.

The monster knew it won. It was celebrating its victory, and that intelligence, that cruel satisfaction in its calls, terrified her more than all its claws and fangs combined.

These weren't just beasts anymore. They were something worse.

And they were still out there, waiting in the white wasteland beyond the walls.