King Alaric the Redeemer stood amid the ruin, his blade cracked, his golden armor stained with flame. He was the first man in a thousand years to face a Firstborn and survive. He had not sought its death, only its silence. But in killing Vaeronth, he had torn open a wound in the old worldand the winds of prophecy stirred once more.
"You are not the victor," the dragon had whispered with its dying breath, its voice like molten stone. "You are the inheritor. And the debt shall come due." Then it had died, not with rage, but with sorrow, as though the world it guarded no longer deserved its breath.
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