Dawn arrived. Ventren, Gwendolyn and the villagers of Gejhetz were already gathered within the Chapel of Myriam, its doors thrown open to welcome the most sacred day in all of Valkraun—the founding of the kingdom.
Foreigners would have called it a holy day. For Valkrins, it was something deeper: a binding rite, observed in every village and city, every chapel, church, monastery and cathedral without exception.
On this day, each individual received a single crumb of mamyr, a mixture of crumbs from fish, meat, bread and even small amounts of dirt dipped in a special red sauce prepared by the Order of Matrem Myriam and delivered across the realm in time for the rites. The crumb symbolized how Myriam had lived—surviving on scraps, starving in the streets of the ancient world's hedonistic cities. The sauce represented a piece of her herself. Her blood.
After partaking, each worshipper prayed in their own way, kneeling before the statue of Myriam to ask for her blessing upon their lives and labors.
Gejhetz's chapel was modest but lovingly kept. Along its walls hung paintings, likely crafted by volunteers rather than masters, yet rich with devotion. To the right, Myriam was shown leading her followers away from persecution, fleeing soldiers bearing the sickle—the hated religious sigil of the Great Empire of Tytia. To the left, another depiction showed her standing her ground, defended by a dragon blacker than night, its breath burning purple flame. Her mount.
That a beggar girl—starving and powerless—had convinced such a creature to serve her was one of the cores of the faith. Myriam did not conquer through force. She inspired loyalty. Even the greatest of beasts had chosen her.
Ventren's thoughts drifted from the painting to the legend of the dragon's extinction. Dragons no longer existed in the world. They had been exterminated by the hands of Dragonslayer Alnurax.
The stories said Alnurax began as a knight of an ancient noble house. When war was declared upon dragonkind, he discovered that armor layered with Valkraun-grown pineapple fibers resisted dragonfire. He sought the Oracle of Saint-Witches, enhancing his affinity for lightning magic as dragons continued to threaten mankind.
In time, he reforged himself entirely—dragonscale armor upon his body, their tailbones fashioned into his spear, its head coated in black silver.
He did not spare the young. Dragon infants were slaughtered, their skulls strung from his belt as trophies.
The most infamous tale spoke of Neldasax—a Greater Wyvern who could shift into human form, a great warrior among her kind. Alnurax defeated her so thoroughly that she felt fear for the first time in her existence.
He pressed his bloodied sabaton upon her face and demanded she fly him to the Dragonlands. As they flew, legend claimed he tore her hair out strand by strand, until none remained by the time they arrived.
In the Dragonlands, he shattered her knees in human form, drank her blood and claimed immortality. For a hundred years thereafter, he hunted every dragon he could find. Neldasax became his slave, forced to butcher her own kin until the Dragonlands were nothing but a graveyard of scorched bone. Then—another turn of the blade. Alnurax married Neldasax.
From their union came the first kings of Valkraun—children born of dragon's blood tainted by human seed. Mostly human, stripped of wings and flame, bearing only one remnant of their origin: fire could not harm them.
Alnurax the Dragonslayer became Valkraun's first king. Slayer of god-like beings.
Neldasax lived on in shame and servitude, hollowed out by centuries of slaughter. When she finally died, it was said she was unloved by all—save for her husband in their final moments.
Immortality, however, was not a gift Alnurax cherished. After two hundred and thirty years, he ended both his own life and his wife's, erasing the last trace of pureblood dragons from the world.
Or so the story went.
Ventren's gaze returned to the chapel wall—to the painting of Myriam astride a black dragon crowned in purple flame.
The histories contradicted themselves.
Some claimed Neldasax survived and she broke free. That she became Myriam's steed—the last dragon, a symbol of Valkraun's might.
Scholars argued endlessly over that final truth. Heretics and infidels claim that Myriam rode no such dragon. Some even went so far as it was fabricated by King Valen IV the Great to ensure her teaching's legitimacy.
It was Ventren's turn to pray.
He knelt before the marble statue of Matrem Myriam, resting two fingers against his brow. The chapel was silent now, all eyes elsewhere. His gaze locked onto the statue's amethyst eyes.
"O thee, our Icon," he murmured, voice low, steady. "Blessed be thy name. Thy will be done. Endue us with strength and will. Lead us away from false gods, for thine alone is pure and granted our Matrem." His breath caught.
"Forgive me, for I have sinned. I walk among the living as an abomination—a headless one." His jaw tightened. "Forgive us our transgressions, Matrem. I swear an oath of repentance. The heretics of House Menzo shall be punished in Your name, Matrem."
He bowed fully, pressing his lips to the statue's feet—the final act of reverence.
Gwendolyn stepped forward next.
"O Mother," she said clearly, without tremor. "Blessed be thy name. Come blessed desire—set us ablaze in the face of thine enemies. Absolve me of my sins and grant me the strength to shoulder the burdens of my dead men."
She spent a few more minutes praying before kissing the statue's feet and turned away.
Outside, Ventren was already mounted when she emerged.
"We're leaving already?" Gwen asked.
"Yes," he said shortly. "Time is of the essence."
"All right—let me grab my things." She hurried toward the inn.
Ventren was patting Vesper's armored neck when a voice—thin, trembling, sharp with grief—interrupted him.
"You."
Ventren looked down from the saddle. "Hm? What is it that you need?"
"How dare you show your face here," the old woman spat. "Child killer."
Heat flared beneath Ventren's helmet.
"I've done no such thing."
"You got my dear Martin killed!" she screamed. "He was the only one I had left!"
The anger vanished at once, replaced by something hollow and heavy.
He said nothing.
"You didn't have to bring him into those caves…" Her voice broke. Tears streamed down her face. "Poor boy…"
Ventren stared at her, silent.
"I'm sorry—"
"That won't bring him back!" she shrieked. "Get away from my village and never show your face here again!"
She spat at Vesper's armor. In Valkraun, spitting on a knight's steed was often a death sentence.
Ventren merely reached down and wiped the spit away as the woman continued to sob and ramble, her words dissolving into grief.
This grieving soul doesn't deserve death. I'll let her let it all out. This too, shall pass.
Gwendolyn returned just then, fully armed, her horse in hand.
"We can leave—" She froze. "What the hell are you doing?"
She dismounted instantly and seized the old woman's arm.
"Don't hurt her, Gwen," Ventren said quietly. "She's kin to Martin. Let her grieve."
"Oh really?" Gwen snapped, fury igniting. She stepped between them. "Listen to me, hag. Sir Ventren saved your village. He did nothing to deserve this."
"He still got my boy killed!"
I did not mean to… I swear.
"Martin chose his path," Gwen shot back. "He chose to lead Ventren into that cave. He chose to fight and he died for it, for YOU and for this village too."
Ventren stared at her, stunned at Gwen's adamant defense on his behalf.
"You don't get to blame my partner for that," Gwen continued. "Ventren didn't force him. I'd wager he told the boy to stay behind. But Martin chose otherwise. That's the truth—even if it hurts."
"But he should've been the responsible—"
"Responsible what? Adult? He wasn't his father," Gwen cut in. "The boy was old enough to make his own decisions. He made the wrong one in your eyes."
The old woman collapsed to her knees, her anger finally breaking into raw, helpless sobbing.
Gwen turned away and mounted her horse. "Let's leave this place, Sir Ventren."
She just… Defended me.
Ventren lingered a moment longer, looking down at the grieving figure.
"A-Alright," he said softly. "Thank you."
They rode out without looking back.