Joran hung helplessly in the crushing grip of the black dragon's talons, his body dangling high above the blood-soaked square. Yet his face showed nothing — no fear, no pain, no anger. His hollow hazel eyes stared straight ahead, empty as a winter grave. The chaos of war raged around him, but for Joran it was nothing.
Prince Thrain Stonefist leapt gracefully from the dragon's back and landed with perfect poise. He was the very image of charisma — tall for a dwarf, broad-shouldered, with a short, neatly braided dark-red beard threaded with golden rings, sharp amber eyes that burned with royal fire, and armor of polished black iron inlaid with glowing runes. When he walked forward, even the terrified civilians felt a wave of protection wash over them, as if the realm itself had arrived.
Elara looked up from where she knelt beside the injured Ragnar, her adorable face lighting up with relief.
"Finally! Prince Thrain has arrived. Now we're safe, Ragnar."
Ragnar, still bleeding heavily from the arrow wound in his shoulder, forced a weak smile toward her. But his expression quickly darkened as a memory surfaced. He pushed himself up slightly and called out urgently:
"Prince! Please… don't die here."
Prince Thrain turned, one eyebrow raised, a confident smirk on his lips.
"What are you saying, boy? It is not me who is going to die. It is him — this hollow-eyed warrior."
Ragnar's voice grew desperate.
"Yes… please don't die. Not here. Your presence will affect my future."
The Prince stared at him for a moment, clearly confused, then shook his head and ignored the strange warning. He turned his full attention to Joran, still caught in the dragon's claws.
"How do you want to die, warrior?" Thrain asked, voice smooth and commanding.
Joran's reply was cold and flat, without even a flicker of emotion.
"Kill me… if you can."
Prince Thrain threw his head back and laughed — a rich, booming sound that echoed across the square.
"Such arrogance!" He drew his massive rune-etched sword with a metallic ring. Raising it high, he shouted to the gathered civilians and soldiers:
"Everyone, return to your homes! Grom'thar has already won this war!"
He spoke with absolute confidence, as if the battle were already decided. Then he turned to the two young ones nearby.
"Elara Runeheart, the Healer," he said warmly, using her full name, "and Ragnar Emberfist — you two can go as well. You have done enough."
Ragnar struggled to his feet, blood still dripping from his mouth and shoulder.
"But Prince… I am a warrior."
Thrain smiled kindly, placing a hand on the boy's uninjured shoulder.
"You gave your 110%. Grom'thar will always respect that. But this time, you must rest."
Elara looked at Ragnar with gentle worry.
"Prince is right, Ragnar. Please."
Ragnar shook his head stubbornly.
"Please, Elara… I want to save the Prince. For you."
Elara blinked, confused by his words, but there was no time to ask.
Prince Thrain turned back to Joran, raising his sword.
"You fought very hard, warrior. Now die in peace."
He began to drive the blade forward — but in less than a heartbeat, everything changed.
Joran moved.
With a single savage slash of his small combat knife, he severed the dragon's wing tendons in a spray of hot blood and torn membrane. The beast roared in agony and released him instantly. Before Prince Thrain could even register what had happened, Joran was already behind him.
Thrain spun, eyes wide. "What—?!"
The fight exploded.
Prince Thrain swung his heavy sword in a powerful overhead arc meant to split Joran from shoulder to hip. Joran sidestepped effortlessly and slashed low with his knife, aiming to hamstring the prince's leading leg. Thrain blocked at the last second, sparks flying as iron met steel.
"You dirty, idealless monster!" Thrain snarled, pressing forward with a series of heavy, crushing blows. "How can you even call yourself a warrior?!"
Joran said nothing. He didn't react to the words at all. Every strike he made was precise and merciless:
A quick thrust toward Thrain's throat, meant to end the fight instantly.
A spinning slash at the prince's sword arm to disarm him.
A brutal knee to the ribs followed by an elbow strike aimed at the jaw.
Thrain smiled through the pain, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek. He countered with raw power — a crushing punch to Joran's side that cracked ribs, then a sweeping kick that forced Joran to leap back.
From the sidelines, Ragnar watched with clenched fists.
"I can't just sit here like a loser… I have to do something!"
Elara grabbed his arm, still trying to heal the arrow wound with glowing hands.
"But Ragnar, your wound is still open! I'm trying to heal it — just sit!"
Ragnar pulled away gently.
"Thanks for your concern, Elara… but I can't just sit like a loser."
At that moment, three Eldfjall soldiers charged toward Prince Thrain from behind, spears lowered for a killing thrust.
Ragnar moved first. He kicked the nearest soldier hard in the chest, sending him stumbling.
"Stay away from the Prince!"
A brutal ground fight erupted between Ragnar and the Eldfjall attackers. Despite his injuries and smaller size, Ragnar fought with desperate fury — blocking, dodging, and countering with everything he had.
Back in the center, Joran's hidden magical power began to overwhelm Prince Thrain. Invisible pulses of force accompanied every slash, making Joran's small knife feel like a battering ram. Thrain was pushed back again and again, blood flowing from multiple deep cuts across his arms and torso. Yet the Prince refused to yield. Every time pain flared, he smiled wider and came back stronger — a powerful overhead smash, a spinning backfist, a vicious thrust aimed at Joran's heart.
Then Kael appeared from the chaos.
The black-haired boy, still scared but giving 110% effort, darted in and stabbed Prince Thrain in the side with his training knife — a deep, gouging wound.
Thrain gasped but did not fall. He kept fighting, sword swinging wildly.
But the blood kept coming.
Too much blood.
Prince Thrain's steps grew heavy. His vision blurred. He dropped to one knee, sword still gripped tightly, amber eyes losing focus as crimson pooled beneath him.
Ragnar, still locked in his own fight, saw it happen. He broke free with a final desperate shove and ran toward the Prince, shouting at the top of his lungs:
"PRRRRIIIINNNNCE!!! You can't die! I told you — you can't die!!!"
Prince Thrain looked up, his charismatic face now pale and streaked with blood. His vision swam with darkness as the sounds of war faded into a distant roar.
The chapter ended on that blurring image — the proud Prince of Grom'thar falling, Ragnar running desperately toward him, and Joran standing over them both with those cold, hollow eyes.