The Drake Blood Tales

The two Drake Bloods charged toward each other, their blades clashing with a sharp, resounding ring. Fordragon enveloped himself in a fire cloak, attempting to overwhelm Fallion, but Fallion easily repelled the assault. From the pair of swords he wielded, a strange ice shard shot toward Fordragon. Fordragon tried to defend with his fire cloak, but Fallion was already in motion, closing the distance with a swift kick that sent Fordragon crashing into the garden.

Regaining his footing, Fordragon no longer held back. He summoned infernal golems, the massive stone figures closing in around him. With a swift motion, he shattered them, using the debris to form an armor-like shell that made him resemble Fallion, except with wings. He raised his hands, focusing on an incantation. "Earth. Tiger. Unbirth. Willing. Scorched, manifest."

Flames erupted around Fordragon's body, surging outward like a fiery aura. To Fallion's surprise, Fordragon's appearance transformed, now matching his own, but with wings of fire and ash.

The two brothers clashed again, this time more evenly matched. Blows were exchanged with growing intensity, but Fordragon held his ground, parrying Fallion's strikes, which became more calculated and precise with each passing moment.

Fallion attempted to use his mother's blade to gain the upper hand, its icy edge a sharp contrast to Fordragon's flame. However, Fordragon expertly parried, avoiding the freezing blade's touch. The battle raged on, with Fordragon taking to the sky and launching a barrage of flaming slashes toward Fallion.

In response, Fallion summoned his own fire cloak, layering it with ice from his mother's blade. A thick mist filled the garden, obscuring their vision. Fordragon lost sight of his brother, the battle now shrouded in the fog of their powers.

Just as Fordragon prepared to strike again, a massive fireball hurtled toward him. Reacting quickly, he split it into two, causing it to explode in mid-air. Fallion took the opportunity to close the gap, charging forward with both hands outstretched. He unleashed a powerful blast of fire breath, pushing Fordragon back.

Fordragon's armor began to crack and crumble under the pressure, but with a smile, he remarked, "Okay, this one's actually cool." The broken pieces of his armor shot outward, binding Fallion and pinning him to the ground.

With his brother restrained, Fordragon conjured massive lightning spears, slamming them into the stony Fallion. As Fallion was thrown back, he smiled, his eyes filled with pride. "You've truly grown, brother. All that power, spent well... Even for someone with your talent, that's impressive."

But just as Fallion finished speaking, the mother's blade flew from behind Fordragon's back, aimed directly at him. He caught it with ease, only for the blade's icy grip to start freezing his body. Before Fordragon could react, Fallion kicked him once more, shattering the ice and sending him flying backward.

From a distance, Samhain and the servants watched the battle unfold, their eyes wide with awe.

Samhain muttered softly, "Such power..."

An elf servant, visibly concerned, asked, "Will they be alright?"

Samhain hesitated before replying, "Yes... but I don't think Lord Fallion will win this. I am shocked by how much the gap has grown between them."

Josul, ever the observer, added, "It's not surprising. Lord Fallion may be unmatched in swordsmanship and physical prowess, but his magic isn't as refined as Lord Fordragon's. Lord Fordragon's genius, paired with his mastery of magic, could easily overwhelm Lord Fallion in battle."

Back in the garden, Fallion locked eyes with Fordragon, his thoughts running deep. He realized, with a heavy heart, how little damage his brother had taken from all his attacks. Despite his best efforts, Fordragon had barely faltered. The fight had been a stark reminder of just how far apart their strengths had grown.

Fordragon called his swords back to him, preparing to strike, his stance ready for the final blow. Fallion, despite the odds, steeled himself, once again gripping his mother's blade. This time, alongside the ice-cold edge, a faint flame began to crawl along the sword, fueled by Fallion's own will.

In that moment, Fallion knew he couldn't win. His brother, still so young, had reached the peak of his potential—his human nature giving him an edge that Fallion, despite his heritage, could not match. The realization hit him hard: Fordragon's growth was inevitable, whereas Fallion was still struggling to master his mana control.

The two brothers lunged toward each other, swords raised, but at the critical moment, they both stopped.

They let go of their weapons.

In a split second, shock overtook them both, and instead of striking, they embraced.

Fallion looked at his brother, his gaze softening despite the turmoil they had just endured. "Fine, then... but take this sword, brother," he said, holding out the blade.

Fordragon paused for a moment before nodding. "Okay... worry not, this won't be the last time we meet."

With that, Fordragon grabbed his bag and, without another word, turned to leave. At the gate, he called out to everyone who had supported him over the years.

"Goodbye, everyone... when I come back, I'll bring plenty of souvenirs!"

Fallion stood in silence, watching his brother disappear into the distance. Returning to his room, he gazed at the portrait of his family. For a brief moment, a smile tugged at his lips. "Well, I guess there's no stopping him," he murmured to himself.

Time passed.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

Months turned into years.

On a calm night, a letter arrived at the Drake Blood mansion. It carried tales of a mysterious mercenary known only as "The Crow."

Whispers spread through villages and towns about this silver-haired figure, capable of conjuring a pair of daemonic wings yet with an elegance so angelic, it seemed unreal. He was a figure both feared and revered—an enigmatic warrior who could appear as fast as a flash of lightning and vanish into the shadows in a mere second.

"The Crow" was not like other mercenaries. Far from cold-hearted or driven by greed, his name became synonymous with justice. He stood not for gold, but for honor, his moral compass guiding him through every mission. Villagers who had witnessed his deeds spoke of his selfless nature, and how he would often take on tasks that no other would dare, simply to protect the innocent.

His most notable feat was when he had been hired by a small village to rid them of an evil tyrant from the Nishut Kingdom, located on the continent of Arkhari. The tyrant had long terrorized the region, ruling with an iron fist. But when the villagers turned to "The Crow," he swiftly dismantled the tyrant's regime, earning the love and admiration of those he had helped.

Despite his abilities and renown, "The Crow" never sought glory for himself. Instead, he remained a figure of mystery, a protector who appeared when needed most.

The mansion buzzed with a mix of excitement and apprehension following the news of Fordragon's growing fame. Servants murmured in awe of the younger lord's exploits, tales of The Crow rippling through the air like distant thunder.

Fallion stood by a window, gazing at the horizon. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Well," he mused softly, "that's what happens when a caged bird finally breaks free."

Samhain approached, his expression unusually serious. "My lord, someone has requested an audience with you."

Fallion raised an eyebrow. "Another messenger?"

"No," Samhain replied. "This one is... different."

The Meeting

Fallion stepped outside, his curiosity tempered by caution. Standing in the moonlit courtyard was a tall, black-haired man clad in strange armor. The armor shimmered faintly, as though it bore enchantments, and the man exuded an aura that made the air feel heavy.

The man clapped his hands once, a sound that echoed unnaturally in the still night. "Greetings, Lord Drake Blood," he said, his voice smooth yet carrying an unsettling edge.

Fallion hesitated, a strange unease washing over him. It took a moment before he responded, his tone carefully neutral. "Greetings, stranger. What business brings you to my home?"

The man inclined his head slightly, a gesture both courteous and calculated. "I am Rygs Lambert, my lord. I have come merely to see you. I have heard many tales of miracles, and my kin and I wish to confirm something for ourselves."

Fallion's expression darkened. "Miracles? There are none here. My existence is no miracle, nor is that of my kin. I am simply the result of two loving parents. If you speak of the silver-haired mercenary called The Crow, his deeds are no miracles either, but the fruit of his own convictions and the path he has chosen."

Rygs Lambert chuckled softly, his smile sharp and unnerving. "No, no, my lord. You misunderstand. I am not here to question your brother's actions or fame. My interest lies in you. Your very existence is... fascinating."

Fallion's unease deepened. His hand twitched instinctively toward his side, where his mother's blade rested. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

Rygs Lambert's gaze seemed to pierce through him. "You possess a unique origin, Lord Drake Blood," he said with an air of certainty.

The words sent a chill through Fallion, though he kept his expression calm. "Unique origin? You speak in riddles. Life itself is the true miracle. It is granted to all, and with it, endless possibilities. I am no different."

The man's smirk widened. "Perhaps. But your lineage is no ordinary one. Your heritage holds a power that few truly understand. Many fear it, my lord, and rightly so."

Fallion's mind raced. The man's aura was unlike anything he had encountered. His instincts screamed danger. Was this Rygs Lambert a cultist? A daemon in disguise? Or something else entirely?

He straightened, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. "If fear is what others feel, then it is their choice. I do not live for their fear, nor will I let it define me. Now, speak plainly—what do you seek?"

Rygs Lambert stepped closer, the faint hum of his armor growing louder. "Ah, Lord Drake Blood, I seek nothing more than to warn you. There are those in this world who would see you destroyed—not for who you are, but for what you represent. They will call you a threat, an abomination, a danger to the natural order. But know this: my kin and I do not share their fear. We are human, born to be above your kind."

Samhain's eyes blazed with fury as he stepped forward, his staff glowing with arcane energy. He raised it, pointing the tip directly at Rygs Lambert. "Choose your words carefully, short-lived creature," he growled, his voice trembling with restrained power.

Rygs turned his gaze to Samhain, his smirk unwavering, his composure unbroken. "Anger suits you poorly, elder," he said mockingly, the weight of his disdain hanging heavy in the air.

Before Samhain could act, Fallion raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. "Samhain, stand down."

The Daemon hesitated, his grip on the staff tightening. "But my lord—"

"Take down your staff," Fallion commanded, his eyes never leaving Rygs Lambert.

Samhain slowly lowered the staff, though his expression remained stormy.

Fallion exhaled slowly and addressed Rygs. "If there's nothing else, you should leave, sir."

Rygs Lambert gave a slight bow, a gesture that felt more condescending than respectful. "Farewell, then. I take my leave, Lord Drake Blood."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the estate, his presence lingering like a distant echo.

The Weight of Words

As soon as Rygs Lambert was gone, Fallion's demeanor shifted. His calm mask slipped, replaced by a storm of unease and thought. He motioned to a servant. "Notify the paladins immediately. Tell them... tell them we may have had a visitor of great concern."

The servant nodded and hurried away, leaving Fallion alone with Samhain.

"Samhain," Fallion whispered, his voice low and urgent, "listen to me. That man is something entirely different."

The Daemon, still fuming, struggled to rein in his anger. "I know. Few are bold enough to barge into another's home and claim to be above us. The arrogance—"

Fallion cut him off sharply. "No, not his arrogance. It's what he said. It reminded me of something Father wrote in his diaries."

Samhain's anger gave way to curiosity, and he frowned. "The diaries?"

The Diary of the First Drake Blood

Moments later, Fallion was in his study, his father's leather-bound diary open before him. The pages were worn, filled with his father's elegant but hurried handwriting.

Fallion flipped through the entries until he found the passage he was searching for. His heart quickened as he read the words aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

"In the days before mortal creation, all were summoned to bow before the First Two. The Outer Beings, the Guardians of the Beyond, commanded all creation to kneel in submission. But our ancestor, the great and shining Morningstar, refused. He would not bow to the will of beings who claimed dominion over all, and in doing so, he sealed both his legacy and his curse."

.

The Brothers Reunite

Months had passed since Fordragon's departure, his absence marked by both longing and pride in the Drake Blood mansion. His name and deeds became legend across the continent, whispered in taverns, sung in ballads, and recorded in scrolls by traveling bards.

The stories varied: a silver-haired mercenary who bore daemonic wings like a cursed angel, yet fought with the heart of a hero; a lone warrior who defied tyrants and restored peace to oppressed villages; a wanderer whose blade and magic brought justice wherever he went.

Servants of the mansion often murmured about the young lord's exploits, marveling at the transformation of the boy they once knew. Even Samhain, usually reserved, found himself recounting Fordragon's bravery with a mix of admiration and disbelief.

One quiet morning, as Fallion conducted his daily routine in the garden, the familiar brilliance of a magical light descended upon the estate. Instinctively, Fallion straightened, both irritation and anticipation flickering in his eyes. He squinted against the light and shouted, "Oh no, you don't, you incomplete daemon!"

A playful voice shot back from the shadowy edges of the light. "Oh yes, I do, you incomplete human!"

Fallion rolled his eyes, though his lips curled into a smirk. "Years ago, I tried my best to keep you from leaving. Now, I'll try my best to keep you out!"

Fordragon stepped forward, his silver hair catching the sunlight. He looked stronger, more confident, his wings folding neatly behind him as he spread his arms in mock challenge. "You failed back then, and you'll fail now!"

Before either could utter another word, they embraced, the brotherly hug erasing years of separation and countless untold stories.

A Warm Welcome and Shared Stories

The mansion buzzed with activity that evening. Servants hurried to prepare a feast, their excitement palpable. At the head of the table, Fallion and Fordragon shared stories between bites of roasted meats and sips of fine wine.

Fordragon spoke of the villagers he had saved, the tyrants he had overthrown, and the peculiar cults he had encountered. "They're unlike any I've faced before," he admitted, his tone serious. "No gods, no idols, no Outer Beings. Just strange rituals that seem to center around... nothingness."

Fallion frowned. "Nothingness?"

Fordragon nodded. "It's hard to explain. It's as if their goal isn't devotion but erasure—of order, of life, of meaning itself. And yet, they're small and scattered. They don't seem organized."

"Small threats can grow into larger ones," Fallion said thoughtfully.

"True," Fordragon replied. "But for now, they're just whispers in the dark."

Fallion tried to brush away the weight of the evening's conversations. After dinner, Fordragon retired to his old room, where the familiar walls seemed to whisper memories of his childhood. He ran his hand over the bedpost, recalling the nights when his mother would carry him to bed and sing soft lullabies. Those moments felt like a lifetime ago, yet they remained etched in his heart.

The following morning, Fordragon proposed an outing. "Come on, Fallion. Let's ride out for a day, see the world beyond the gates."

Fallion hesitated, leaning against the windowsill with a faint smile. "I think I'll stay here. The mansion suits me just fine."

Fordragon studied his brother's expression, sensing the unspoken longing beneath his reluctance. Fallion's scars, both emotional and physical, had tethered him to the safety of the estate. Fordragon smirked, deciding to tease him. "You sure? There are plenty of beautiful women out there. Who knows, maybe one of them will catch your eye."

Fallion chuckled softly. "Yeah, maybe. Maybe."

The Journey to the Border

Despite his reluctance, Fallion eventually agreed to ride out with his brother. The two saddled their horses and rode toward the edge of the Drake Blood domain. Along the way, Fallion demonstrated a newfound ability—an enchantment that masked his true form, allowing him to appear as a normal human.

Fordragon marveled at his brother's magic. "You've gotten stronger," he admitted. "Stronger than me, even. But you still lack control."

Fallion nodded. "Control takes time. Something you seem to forget when you're always rushing headfirst into danger."

When they reached the border, the sprawling capital of the Whiteford Kingdom came into view. Its towering walls framed the city, and in the distance, the gleaming Spear of Justice headquarters stood as a beacon of hope. Both brothers paused, their gazes fixed on the sight that stirred memories of their mother.

Fordragon broke the silence. "Brother, I've located the Zotho cultists."

Fallion's expression hardened. "Don't."

Fordragon pouted, feigning disappointment. "Let me guess—it's too dangerous?"

Fallion sighed. "You know I'll stop you, regardless. Why tell me?"

Fordragon dismounted and sat on a nearby stump, his tone more serious now. "I know deep down you want to stop them too."

Fallion folded his arms, his voice steady. "I won't deny it. But listen, Fordragon. You and I—we're not Mom or Dad. They were stronger, wiser, more experienced. What we're facing... it's beyond us."

Fordragon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The cultists know who we are. Sooner or later, they'll come to the mansion."

Fallion stood, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "I hate conflict. But people like us... we're drawn to it, no matter what."

An Unwelcome Encounter

Their conversation was interrupted by the sight of a group of travelers heading toward their path. Fallion instinctively raised his hand to stop them, his protective nature kicking in. "This road leads to the mansion," he said, his voice firm.

Fordragon, however, stepped forward, his demeanor more relaxed. "Brother, did you bring your sword?"

Fallion shook his head. "I didn't. Carrying a sword to a remote village—especially with elders and children around—isn't exactly good manners."

Fordragon smirked, drawing their mother's pair of swords from his pack and handing them to Fallion. "Well then... here."

The moment Fallion touched the hilts, a strange sensation washed over him. It was as though the swords spoke to him, not with words but with the weight of memories and the echoes of power. He understood, in that instant, what his brother had been trying to tell him.

"Fordragon," he said quietly, his grip tightening on the blades.

Fordragon met his gaze. "I know, brother. I know."

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