After the dragon's laughter finally subsided—a sound like rumbling thunder rolling over shattered mountains—it leaned forward, its massive head looming over Orion like a dark stormcloud ready to break.
"You, who were banished from Her domain…" the dragon hissed, its voice low and sharp as grinding stone. "Do you truly not realize whose ground you stand on?"
The words cut through the air, but Orion didn't answer. He couldn't. His mind had gone utterly blank—no thoughts, no defenses—just a swirling maelstrom of sorrow, rage, and guilt crashing into each other inside his chest. It was like drowning in a tide of emotions too vast to fight, too heavy to escape.
The dragon's eyes narrowed in disappointment.
"Pathetic. Useless."
A sigh, not of pity, but of sheer disdain followed. "Perhaps… my Lord can extract the answers we need— once He unravels that insolent god's meddling spell."
The beast leaned in further, jaws parting—not to bite, but to gently grasp Orion between its fangs. The protective spell around him didn't activate. There was no physical harm intended… not yet.
Only a quiet promise of something far worse.
A divine blade soared through the air—not forged of metal, but of incandescent will. Its curved crimson edge resembled a dragon's horn, glowing like fresh blood spilled across untouched snow. It sliced toward the dragon with terrifying precision.
Sensing the threat too late, the dragon jerked back. In its haste to dodge, its grip faltered, and Orion slipped from between its teeth, tumbling downwards.
"Who dares?" the dragon shrieked, its voice cracking the sky. "Who dares interrupt me in pursuit of my desire?"
From above, a figure descended—majestic, wrathful, divine.
Crimson hair, wild and flowing like molten lava, shimmered with heat at the tips. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore the weight of judgment. Divine presence radiated from his skin, fair as moonlight, and lips tinted a soft rose, curled now in disdain.
The dragon recoiled, instinctively backing away.
"You… Ignarion?" it hissed, unease crawling into its tone. "What's the strongest of the VlastMoroz's Emblem doing here?"
The divine blade flew back into Ignarion's outstretched hand, elegant as a dance. With the other, he lifted Orion effortlessly into the air—protective, steady, resolute.
"You dare question me," Ignarion growled, voice laced with righteous fury, "while trying to harm one of my people?"
Veins tensed along his temple, glowing faintly with divine energy as his anger surged.
"The audacity of the Anemo Sovereign's followers remains as vile as ever," he spat.
"Your so-called 'freedom' was never earned. It was stolen. And it's undeserved."
The dragon's eyes narrowed, his expression darkening with pride and twisted amusement.
"Undeserved, perhaps…" it sneered. "But undeniable."
A cruel smile spread across its scaled lips. "We are freer than all the dragons. And once we overthrow the other Sovereigns—and crush the Heavenly Principles—there will be no one left to chain us. No gods. No thrones. Only us."
There was no regret in its voice. Only ambition soaked in venom. The scum wasn't just arrogant—he believed this was his destiny.
Ignarion exhaled slowly, a deep, weary breath drawn from the well of divine patience.
"So, no apologies. Not even now." His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly with restrained fury. "Then I shall speak in my Mother's stead…"
He rose, stepping into the open air as though it were solid ground. The sun flared behind him, casting his silhouette in divine radiance. His hair blazed like living fire, and the air itself seemed to tremble around him.
Then, he spoke—and the world listened.
"From this moment forward…"
His voice rang out like a sacred bell tolling the dawn of calamity.
"…Cryo Sovereign VlastMoroz declares open war upon the Anemo Sovereign, Zephyr."
The light around him pulsed as if affirming the truth of his words.
"And I, Ignarion—her Blade—shall use your death, Highfall, as the signal of that war."
He pointed the divine blade at the trembling dragon, its edge reflecting both sunlight and bloodlust.
"Before the Next Light rises, your end shall mark the beginning."
The sky fell into a hush.
Highfall staggered back, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You think Zephyr cares?!" he spat, voice cracking with desperation. "We've been preparing for this for ages! Your little declaration means nothing to what's already in motion!"
But Ignarion advanced, slow and deliberate. His movements held no hesitation—only resolve. And with each step, the dragon's bravado unraveled.
"You are weak, Highfall."
His voice dropped, cold and final.
"Always have been. Always will be."
He leaned in, eyes burning with judgment.
"Isn't it better to die here, while you can still convince yourself it mattered?"
Panic seized the dragon's voice.
"I—I know I can't match you!" Highfall shrieked, desperation twisting his words. "You think I don't know that?! I'm no fool—I've been planning my exit since the moment you arrived!"
And in a blink—he was gone.
Dissolved into the wind, particles of his form scattering like dust caught in a storm. The space he once occupied shimmered with residual energy, vanishing as quickly as it came.
Ignarion watched the emptiness, expression unchanging.
"…So he chose to disintegrate."
The words fell from his lips like a judgment etched in stone.
"Cowardice wearing the mask of strategy."
He turned to the unconscious Orion, now gently floating in the air behind him.
"Rest now," he murmured. "For war has begun."
Ignarion glided down onto the ruined earth, his boots touching the ground with the silence of falling snow. His eyes swept across the battlefield, scanning for remnants of life.
"It seems the only soul left here…" he murmured, eyes landing on a dark-haired figure sprawled beneath the broken canopy, "…is this human."
With a wave of his hand, the unconscious Qinyue rose gently into the air, his body cradled by invisible currents of divine energy.
"The others—your soldiers—must've fled. And those who remained… they've fallen. I sense no life in them now. Only this one clings on."
He turned, gaze falling upon a familiar figure lying motionless amidst the rubble and ash.
The body of Frieda Gunnhildr.
Ignarion stepped closer, and a small, bittersweet smile played on his lips as he looked toward the unconscious Orion.
"This must be your beloved," he said softly, "your Frieda."
Kneeling beside her, he lifted her with surprising gentleness, arms cradling her as though afraid to disturb the last fragments of her fading warmth.
"But don't worry," he whispered, "we won't let her die… not so easily."
He rose, his voice gaining strength—almost ceremonial.
"I call upon the Third of VlastMoroz's Emblem… Morven."
"Grant me your strength… and stop the flow of time for this helpless maiden."
The world froze.
Wind halted mid-whisper. Falling snowflakes hung suspended in the air. Even the warmth of Ignarion's breath paused, as if time itself dared not move.
And then—he arrived.
Morven.
Clad in a cloak spun from the thinnest threads of time-ice, he appeared beside Ignarion like a ghost untouched by the world. A long, pendulum-shaped staff swung slowly at his side, clicking with every eerie sway—each sound marking a moment stolen from eternity.
"You know I hate leaving Arian," Morven spoke quietly, his voice like wind echoing through a long-forgotten clocktower.
"And yet… you summon me."
He approached Frieda's body, never looking up.
"Mother tasked me with maintaining the barrier. Every. Single. Second."
A faint pulse of irritation flickered in his tone.
"If this proves to be anything less than vital, Ignarion… I will make you answer for it."
Then, with a gentle tap of his pendulum staff against Frieda's chest, a frost-blue shimmer rippled across her form—and froze her moment in time.
Morven disappeared without another word.
And the world exhaled.
Time resumed.
Ignarion let out a slow breath and glanced skyward.
"He still refuses to walk in the flow of time like the rest of us…" he murmured.
His sword dissolved into divine light, folding back into the jeweled crown atop his head. Then, one by one, he lifted Orion, Qinyue, and Frieda into his arms with careful reverence.
"I'll fly slowly this time," he whispered, almost to himself.
"Let the skies mourn in silence."
With a soft glow, the crimson-winged sovereign rose into the heavens—carrying the broken, the dead, and the barely breathing—into a new chapter shaped by war, grief, and quiet, divine fury.