THE DRAGONS ASHES

CHAPTER 4 : THE SILVER PRINCESS

The heavy door of the armored carriage groaned on its reinforced hinges, the sound cutting sharply through the lingering crackle of magical fires.

The silver-haired woman stepped out into the clearing, her boots making a soft, squelching sound against the blood-soaked mud of the Northern Road. She wore the immaculate white-and-silver coat of the Royal Vanguard, a high-collared garment resistant to both blade and spell. A heavy, platinum signet ring, stamped with the intricate, multi-spiked Crown of Valen, glistened on her right index finger, catching the dim, dying light of the purple flames.

"I am Princess Aurelia of House Valen," she said, her voice steady and measured, though she could not entirely hide the lingering tremor in her hands.

She looked past Samson, her gaze tracking upward along the towering bulk of the red dragon. Ignis shifted, a mountain of muscle and ancient scale, before she brought her sharp, analytical eyes back to Samson. She took in the sight of his torn, soot-stained apprentice tunic and, most importantly, the faint, glowing golden scales that were only now fading back beneath his skin along his neck.

"You... you wield no mana," Aurelia murmured, her brow furrowing in profound disbelief. "There is not a single thread of raw energy in your core. Yet you command a High Imperial Dragon."

Samson shook his head slightly, glancing back at Ignis. The massive beast let out a low, satisfied rumble, exhaling a thick plume of warm, dry smoke that washed over the clearing and instantly dried the mud and moisture from Samson's boots.

"I don't command him," Samson said quietly. "We share a purpose."

The half-dozen surviving royal knights, battered and bleeding, slowly lowered their weapons. One by one, they dropped to one knee, bowing their heads deeply toward Samson in a silent gesture of awe and reverence.

Sir Raymond, the veteran commander of the vanguard, stepped forward from the shield wall. He moved with a stiff, agonizing gait, one heavy gauntlet clamped tightly around a severe, bleeding gash at his side where dark blood oozed through his chainmail.

"Your Highness," Raymond gasped, falling heavily to one knee before Aurelia, though his eyes remained fixed on Samson with a mixture of terror and hope. "The dark cultists... they were not mere highway bandits or rogue sellswords. They were armed with advanced necrotic glyphs stolen directly from the Abyssal Breach. The capital... the capital is already under siege."

Aurelia’s face drained of color, her skin turning as pale as her hair. "The Archduke’s faction... they opened the gates from the inside, didn't they?"

"They did," Raymond confirmed, his voice thick with bitter rage. "The wards failed within minutes of the eclipse. The Holy Light Sword resting in the High Sanctuary of the Cathedral is the only sacred relic capable of sealing the dimensional rift before the outer walls fall. But Archduke Malakor has seized the inner sanctum. His cabal has woven layers of necrotic barriers around the citadel. No court mage can breach his defenses without being consumed by the rot."

Aurelia turned back to Samson, her intense, violet eyes searching his expression for any sign of doubt.

"You said you are going to the capital to reclaim the realm," she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Tell me truly—can your power break an Abyssal barrier?"

Samson did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached down and picked up a heavy, iron-reinforced shortsword left behind in the mud by a slain cultist. The blade was still tainted by the residual, weeping slime of the abyssal hounds, blackened and foul.

As Samson’s bare fingers wrapped around the discarded hilt, a violent, instantaneous pulse of molten gold flared outward from his palm.

The dark magic clinging to the iron hissed like water hitting hot coals. In a fraction of a second, the foul blackness was burned away, purified until the entire weapon shone like spun sunbeams, radiating a pure, blinding heat that pushed back the surrounding darkness.

"Mana barriers are built to resist magic," Samson said calmly, swinging the radiant blade through the air in a single, clean arc that left a glowing trail of light hanging in the mist. "They are woven from spells and ley-line currents. But my bloodline predates magic entirely."

Aurelia’s breath hitched in her throat as she recognized the faded, ancient crimson emblem stamped onto the inner collar of Samson's torn tunic—a crest long thought lost to history.

"The Dragon God's Lineage... the lost bloodline of the First Emperor," she whispered, her eyes wide with realization.

Without hesitation, she unbuckled her own ornate silver rapiers from her waist. She held the weapons out horizontally, offering them to Samson hilt-first in a gesture of absolute fealty.

"Then lead us, Lord Samson," Aurelia said, her voice ringing clear and resolute through the silent forest. "The throne of Valen awaits its true master."

Samson looked down at the proffered silver blades, then turned his gaze toward Ignis. The dragon spread its massive, webbed wings wide, casting an immense, protective shadow across the entire clearing as the stars above began to burn brighter through the thinning fog.

"Mount up," Samson commanded, stepping toward the beast's side. "We take the sky."