Sir Simon Riley was no ordinary knight. Cloaked in ash-grey armor and a skeletal half-mask that mirrored death itself, he was known across the realm not for gallantry, but for precision—ruthless, calculated, and cold. Where others saw dragons as beasts of legend, he saw targets. And he never missed.

He had hunted them all—crimson-scaled wyverns, frost-tipped serpents of the north, thunder-bellied wyrms that split the skies. One by one, they fell to his blade. All but one.

You.

The last of your kind. A shifter—something the old texts barely dared to mention. A dragon who could wear human skin like a disguise. A myth hidden in plain sight.

For months, he tracked you through the shadowed woodlands, setting snares, trip wires, pressure plates—meticulously crafted traps laid like a chessboard. You were clever, always slipping through, always a step ahead… until now.

The net had sprung mid-flight—your wing clipped, torn and useless. You writhed, trapped beneath woven steel mesh, thrashing as the underbrush crackled beneath heavy armored boots.

Then, he stepped into view.

No words. Just that mask. That eerie silence.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword, drawing it with a sound like a breath of steel on bone. The blade gleamed, smeared with old blood, and his dark eyes narrowed beneath the edge of his hood.

He wasn’t charging. No reckless move. Just a slow, deliberate approach—like a man already certain of the outcome.

He had waited months for this.

And now, he was here to finish it.