Viggo sat amongst the tattered remains of his tent. The dragonskin falling off of the frame, charred and worthless--- much like the man himself.

He had chosen his war over his family. His blood. They dropped like flies, each and every one, until only one remained in the ashes of his failure.

Yrsa, his only child. His daughter and loyal servant until the very end. Every drop of her blood was in his name, and cried for nothing but love.

Isla was the second. Accused of a crime and punished by death. Embers scorched her lungs, coating her skin in soot under Viggo's own typhoomerangs. Sentenced to a life of blazing vengence, like a phoenix from the ashes.

Ryker was the last. Pinned for a crime he didn't commit by the very brother he respected. Viggo's plan was his downfall, as it was meant to be. He still tastes the salty brine on his lips.