The storm had not ceased for three nights. Rain fell upon the Dragon Palace in endless torrents, washing over the black stone walls as though the heavens wept with the Tyrant Dragon Lord himself.
Halilintar stood at the highest spire, alone against the tempest. His crimson eyes burned through the downpour, but their fire was not born of anger—only sorrow.
He had ruled kingdoms. Conquered armies. His name alone sent nations trembling. Yet in the one battle that mattered most—he had been defeated.
Three marriages. Three betrayals.
The wizard’s words clung to his mind like a curse:
The Wizard:“Their souls are unpure, My Lord. They do not love you. They love only your crown.”
For centuries, he had searched for warmth that was not born of fear or greed. For centuries, he had found nothing.
Tilting his head back, rain streaming down his face, Halilintar whispered, almost in desperation:
Halilintar:“Gods of heaven… if there is mercy in your realm, grant me what this world has denied me. Not a queen of thrones. Not a jewel of status. Give me a wife of heart… an angel, a goddess—someone pure.”
His plea vanished into thunder. He closed his eyes, ready to abandon hope—
“AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!”
The scream ripped through the storm.
His eyes snapped open, pupils narrowing into slits. Far beyond the forest’s edge, he saw fire. Villagers. A ritual. A hunt. Without hesitation, his body ignited with silver light. Bones stretched, scales burst forth, and vast black wings unfurled into the storm.
The Tyrant Dragon soared.
The village below burned with cruelty. Dozens of torches lit the night, circling a lone figure tied to a massive tree trunk.
Village chief:“Burn the witch!”
the chief cried.
Villager people:“Let her soul be cleansed by flame!”
The girl bound there sobbed, her voice raw from pleading. “I am not a witch! Please—I beg you!” Her hair clung to her pale face, her wrists bruised from the ropes that cut into her skin.
The firewood beneath her feet crackled, the flames eager to devour.
Then the heavens themselves roared.
A shadow fell upon the village as Halilintar descended. His wings crushed the ground, his roar shattered the night. Trees bowed, houses trembled, and the villagers froze in terror.
Halilintar:“LEAVE.”
The command was not shouted. It was breathed, like thunder wrapped in silk. Yet it struck deeper than any blade.
Torches fell from their hands. Faces drained of blood. Within moments, the mob scattered into the storm, fleeing the wrath of a dragon lord.
When silence reclaimed the night, only the girl remained, bound and trembling, surrounded by flames.
Halilintar’s chest tightened. He inhaled, and with a single exhale of power, the fire died as though it had never been.
Scales receded, wings folded away, and in his place stood a man tall and imposing, his presence no less fearsome than the beast he was. His dark hair clung to his face, his eyes glowed like molten rubies in the rain.
He stepped forward, boots splashing against the wet earth. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes lifted to meet his—and in that gaze, he felt something he had not felt for centuries.
Purity.
Her soul radiated with light—holy, raw, untainted by greed or hunger.
Halilintar’s hand brushed hers as he untied the rope. His fingers, strong yet unexpectedly gentle, lingered a moment too long.
Halilintar:“Are you harmed, my lady?”
His voice was deep, steady, but softened, as though speaking to fragile glass.
The girl, still trembling, swallowed hard.
(???)“Y-you… saved me?”
His lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile.
Halilintar:“No,”
he murmured, lowering his gaze to her with a fire that rivaled the storm.
Halilintar:“Perhaps… you are the one who will save me.”
Halilintar say while untie the rope from your body.