Valemont City was supposed to be bustling.
It was supposed to be loud, teeming with traders, cobbled streets echoing with footsteps and laughter, children running between stalls, and the heavy scent of fresh bread and roasted meats in the air. It was supposed to be alive.
But it wasn't.
The moment they crossed the broken archway that once stood tall over Silverhill's northern entrance, the silence hit them first—a deafening, unnatural quiet that sucked the warmth out of the sunlight.
No movement.
No chatter.
No life.
"Asher… stop," Ezekiel said from behind, his voice unusually hoarse.
But Asher had already stepped forward. His boots crunched on something soft—too soft. His gaze dropped.
A body.
A woman. Her face was charred, one arm extended in a final desperate reach for safety, her fingernails clawing at the dirt as though she'd tried to crawl away. Beside her, a child no older than six, lying still, eyes wide open in an eternal stare.
Asher's breath caught.
His knees weakened, but he didn't fall. Not yet.
Not when he saw more.
Everywhere.
Bodies, littered like discarded dolls across the once-beautiful stone paths. Burned. Crushed. Some barely recognizable as human. The tall clock tower that once sang every hour was now a skeleton of blackened stone, its hands melted and twisted.
The vibrant Silverhill Market—the heart of Valemont—was nothing but rubble and ash.
It looked like a battlefield.
A massacre.
"No…" Asher stumbled forward, wild eyes scanning the wreckage. His voice cracked, trembling with desperation. "No, no, no…"
Jeremy stepped in quickly, grabbing him by the arm, but Asher yanked away.
"My parents!" he cried out. "They were here. They—what if they're—what if—"
"We'll find them," Jeremy said quickly, though his face was pale. "We'll look, Ash. Just… stay with us."
Ezekiel moved ahead of them silently, eyes narrowed. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers twitching, ready to summon his powers if needed. Something felt wrong. More wrong than death. The kind of wrong that still lingered, like an echo.
Like something was watching.
Asher dropped to his knees near what used to be a bakery, the scent of scorched flour and burned flesh making his stomach twist. His hands trembled as he reached out and turned over a charred body.
Not his mother. Not his father.
But someone he remembered. Mr. Elran. A neighbor.
Dead.
His throat burned with the effort to keep his cries inside. His skin prickled with sweat even in the cool air. Every corpse he passed deepened the pit in his stomach.
Jeremy placed a hand on his shoulder gently. "We'll check the estate. The records tower. Anywhere they could've taken shelter."
But Asher barely heard him.
Because something cold ran through him—a sensation sharp and primal—the feeling of dread so deep it twisted his gut.
Jeremy's gaze flicked upward suddenly.
"What the hell is that?"
Asher followed his eyes.
A shadow moved across the sunlit clouds. Massive. Slow. Predatory.
A dark spot in the sky, circling like a vulture.
At first, it looked like a cloud, blackened and spiraling lazily above the ruins. But as it descended just slightly, its shape became clearer—broad wings, leathery and vast, stretching out like sails. A long, winding tail coiled behind it. Horns. Scales. Fire glinting deep within its throat.
Jeremy's face went pale. He nudged Ezekiel hard.
"Zeke… isn't that a dragon?"
Ezekiel followed his line of sight. And the moment his eyes focused, his blood ran cold.
He didn't speak. Just nodded—once, tightly.
Jeremy turned toward Asher in a panic. "Asher—!"
But it was too late.
The roar split the sky.
A thunderous, unearthly sound that tore through the wind and echoed across the ruins. Glass shattered somewhere in the distance. Birds scattered. The ground trembled.
Asher looked up.
His blood went still.
It wasn't just any dragon. It was colossal—its body as long as a warship, wings slicing through the air with each beat. Its scales shimmered black-red, like lava cooled into stone. Fire danced in the cracks between its armored hide.
And as it dipped lower, Asher saw something that made his heart stop.
Around its neck hung something familiar. A mark and it looks dreadfully similar to those of the dark and dead witches, it was obviously clear:
This wasn't a rogue creature.
It had been sent, by Lamia himself.
To be continued...