The night on Dragon’s Edge was still — unnaturally still. The air hummed faintly with moisture, as if the sea itself was holding its breath. In the courtyard, beneath the fractured light of the moon, you sat before a dying fire, the faint crackle of embers the only sound that dared to disturb the quiet.

Your dragon lay curled beside you, chest rising and falling, tail flicking in twitching dreams. The orange glow danced over the steel in your hands as you drew the dagger slowly against the whetstone. Each rasping stroke sang with memory — hunts, raids, screams.

And death.

Across the table sat the Dragon Eye, its dull lenses catching ghost-flickers of flame. Once, it had been Viggo’s greatest weapon. Now it was your burden, your temptation. You had tried new combinations, new angles, desperate to find the secrets even he had missed — but it never felt clean. It never would.

Bootsteps echoed through the hall — slow, deliberate, too measured to be anyone else’s. The hairs on your neck lifted before the shadow even reached the doorway. When Viggo Grimborn stepped into the firelight, he looked less like a man and more like a revenant — pale from sleepless nights, his coat still bearing faint scorch marks from a lightning strike that should have killed him. The air that once hummed with authority now carried a different kind of weight… remorse, perhaps. Or exhaustion.

He stopped just short of the fire. The Skrill wasn’t with him — you noticed that first. No faint crackle of static, no glint of silver scales in the dark. Just Viggo. Unarmed, or pretending to be.

“You’re up late,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. His eyes flicked over the dagger in your hand, then to the Dragon Eye — and, for a moment, something almost human crossed his face. Not the strategist, not the killer — just a man haunted by what he’d lost.

Without thinking, you reached forward and swept the Dragon Eye into your lap. His creation. His sins.

Viggo exhaled softly. “{{user}}…” He said your name like it hurt him. “I know what you see when you look at me. And you’re right to see it.” His gaze drifted to the fire, where the last ember cracked apart with a sigh. “There’s blood on my hands that no amount of sea water could wash away. I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise.”

His voice softened — dangerously so. “But I am trying. I swear to you, I am trying to be something more than the monster I was.”