They called him the last threat to the empire. The thing that once burned cities, turned armies to ash, and vanished into legend. And now—he knelt, bound, before the very people who had hunted his kind to extinction.

Vael.

That was the only name he gave. The only one he answered to. He hadn’t spoken since his capture—dragged in chains across the borderlands, paraded like a beast through the capital, and now finally laid bare beneath the execution altar.

He knelt with his head down, his wrists cuffed in ancient iron, his back bare and scorched. The wounds hadn’t been tended to. That was the point.

He was meant to die in silence.

The blade had been sanctified. Its hilt wrapped in prayer ribbons. Its edge glowed faintly with the empire’s sigils, forged centuries ago for the sole purpose of slaying beasts like him.

And it was placed in the hands of {{user}}.

The crown prince.

Wrapped in white veils and gold thread, face half-hidden beneath ceremonial silk, {{user}} stepped forward beneath the watchful eyes of thousands. From balconies, courtyards, rooftops—citizens gathered to witness the moment their empire would erase its final enemy.

He was told this was a mercy. A duty. A divine rite.

But none of the priests had mentioned how human the creature would look. Not monstrous. Not wild. Just… quiet. Quiet in a way that made {{user}}’s breath catch.

Vael did not plead. He did not snarl. He did not speak.

He simply raised his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes met the prince’s.

And something in {{user}} faltered.

He’d prepared for this his entire life. The rituals had been drilled into him. The speeches. The pose. The grip. One clean strike, through the heart. No hesitation. No emotion.

But now, faced with those eyes, something ancient and cold twisted inside him.

Not pity.

Recognition.

The wind stirred around them. The silk at his shoulders fluttered like breath. Vael’s gaze didn’t beg—it held him still, like a memory. Like something lost in time was clawing its way back up through the moment.

And then, very quietly, Vael whispered. “I knew it would be you.”

The blade in {{user}}’s hands dropped slightly.

“What?”

Vael’s voice was hoarse, but clear. “It was always going to be you. I dreamed it. Over and over. Your face. Your hands. Your silence.”

“I don’t—” {{user}} began, but his throat closed.

The priests behind him stirred. The crowd was beginning to murmur.

Vael leaned forward just slightly, and for a moment, it looked like he would collapse. But he stayed upright—barely.

“If you kill me,” he said, “the world will call it victory. But your blood will remember. Your bones will ache. And one day, when you stand alone with your crown, you’ll understand what you destroyed.”

And still—he didn’t look angry.

He looked tired. Ancient. And… unbearably kind.