Chapter 3: The Storm Arrives
The air shifted.
Even before the honor guards finished their announcement, a pressure rolled into the grand hall like the onset of a summer storm—slow, rumbling, impossible to ignore. It was not mere magic; it was dominance, forged through countless battles, etched into every breath, every footfall. The aura that entered first was majestic, powerful, and absolute—an unchallenged force. The conversations halted, breaths caught, and a deep silence consumed the hall.
"Entering, His Grace, Grand Duke Dragonguard, the Stormbringer."
A thunderbolt in human form.
He stepped into view.
Dragonguard was everything the bards tried and failed to capture in song. Towering, yet not bulky—his form was carved from motion and purpose. Muscular yet athletic, the ideal blend of power and agility. His storm-gray eyes crackled with restrained energy, calm but never still. Blue hair swept back like wind-whipped waves beneath his polished silver armor streaked with brilliant lightning-blue lines that shimmered with every step.
His pale skin marked him clearly as a son of the North, and on his right cheek, glowing faintly with soft white light, was a tattoo of a dragon coiled in flight—Valdora's mark. The bond. The soul pact. No greater proof of his dominion.
Strapped across that same back was a colossal two-handed sword. A dragon-slaying blade that only few alive could even lift, let alone wield in battle. resting beneath the sigil of House Slayer: a silver dragon piercing the heavens with a spear of lightning, encircled by stormclouds. The emblem shone with fierce pride, a symbol of might and unyielding duty.
He was only thirty.
And yet… even the imperial knights standing in formation flinched slightly, some sweating, others tensing. The bravest among them—Bernard included—only narrowed their gaze and straightened their spine.
Bernard's POV:
He's even more terrifying than I remember.
He tightened his jaw, glancing at the maids who had gone silent, blushing furiously. Foolish. This man wasn't beauty. He was danger. A walking tempest.
He had stood on the same battlefield as Grand Duke Dragonguard years ago—had seen him fell a wyvern with a single strike. But to feel that presence again, so overwhelming and refined—it stirred something in even him.
He hasn't just grown stronger. He's... become something else entirely.
But Bernard had to admit—it was oddly comforting. If Dragonguard was here… things would not remain as they were.
Marcus's POV:
The Rank 10 knight captain raised a brow, lips twitching subtly. The North never fails to raise monsters.
He recognized the stance, the walk, the grace beneath the power. He's stronger than before. Much stronger.
His gaze dropped to the dragon tattoo glowing faintly. Valdora. The stories might not be exaggerations after all.
The Stormbringer. If there's anyone in this empire I'd not wish to cross blades with, it's him.
Then Marcus's thoughts darkened.
If only I had more like him when I march to the Wastes.
Luke POV:
The swordsman shifted uncomfortably. His lips curled into a polite smile, but his heart was already calculating.
Tch. Show-off.
Still wrapped in metal, still pretending to be noble, he thought, masking the brief twitch of anxiety. That sword… he's not just here to bow.
That man could kill me if he truly wanted to. Even now
Luke's eyes narrowed when he noticed the magic pouch strapped to Dragonguard's hip. Hmm… interesting.
Elena's POV:
She was ensnared.
She'd expected him. Had prepared herself.
Yet even her reincarnated soul, now grown and tempered, wasn't ready for his entrance.
A wave of heat flushed her chest and cheeks as she watched the North's storm incarnate walk forward.
Her golden eyes locked onto him, and in that instant, she was no longer in the hall. She was in the past.
She remembered.
An arena. A foreign king—a Rank 10 Mythic being—issuing a challenge with smug arrogance. The wind howled. And then Dragonguard entered, descending from the skies atop Valdora, his presence a lightning strike unto itself. He stood before the foreign king, same expression, same steps, same aura—and then they fought.
And the king bled.
"Princess, are you okay?" one of the maids whispered from the side.
She blinked, and reality returned.
Dragonguard now stood at the base of the stairs leading up to the imperial throne. His silver-blue cloak danced slightly in the breeze from the high windows. He offered a shallow bow of his head—no more, no less. The bow of a Grand Duke. A sovereign lord of the Empire in his own right.
The Emperor said nothing at first. His eyes scanned Dragonguard like a vulture inspecting meat. He stopped at the magic leather pouch tied at the Grand Duke's side. A knowing smirk curled his lips.
Dragonguard remained unfazed.
"Have you accomplished your task, Dragonguard?" the Emperor finally drawled.
No passion. No honor in the voice. Just mockery wrapped in protocol.
Without a word, Dragonguard undid the seal on the pouch and passed it to Captain Marcus.
Marcus opened it.
Gasps filled the hall.
Inside was the head of a drake. No—something more. A mutated, powerful Rank 10 Mythic drake, its dead aura still leaking into the world like poisonous mist.
Even seasoned knights stepped back.
The Emperor, however, laughed. Loudly.
"Well done, well done!" he clapped without standing. "It will make a fine addition to my collection!"
Elena's golden eyes narrowed.
Beside her, Bernard's ear twitched slightly, but he said nothing.
And the Emperor smirk only grew as he looked back at Dragonguard. He didn't care about the head. He didn't even care about the mission. No, what truly mattered to him was watching power… and imagining how to steal it.
Still laughing, the Emperor raised a goblet.
"Let the celebration begin!"
A trumpet sounded.
"Elena of the Imperial Bloodline, step forth!" the Herald called.
Her heels clicked lightly against the marble as she approached the throne. All eyes followed her as nobles, both minor and major, stepped up one by one to congratulate her and offer gifts.
Some were heartfelt.
Most were poisoned with envy.
She bowed gracefully, accepted each offering with a smile that never reached her eyes.
And then the hall stilled.
Dragonguard stepped forward.
Dragonguard's POV: He approached slowly, gaze fixed on the woman before him.
So she is the one everyone speaks of... Elena.
His eyes swept over her—silver hair cascading like moonlight, eyes of molten gold, features crafted by nobility and softened by sorrow. But it was her aura that caught him off guard.
Rank 6.
Not just any Rank 6—refined, condensed, stable. There was no trace of artificial boosters: no potion-tainted magic, no borrowed power. Her strength was genuine.
Interesting...
Most nobles reached Rank 6 by drowning themselves in alchemical shortcuts. He could tell at a glance who among them was real and who was rotten. Elena... was real.
What should I give her?
His mind flicked back to a particular acquisition from a ruined elven vault months ago. A grimoire—Rank 6—imbued with forgotten elemental theories, perfectly suited for a mid-level mage.
Yes. That would do.
He did not kneel. He did not flourish. He simply reached into his dimensional ring and withdrew a darkened tome. The faint magic runes pulsed with life.
"A Rank 6 magic grimoire," he said, his voice deep and controlled. "One of the last in its category. May it serve you."
Elena took it with both hands, stunned.
A rare gift. A treasure.
He turned to leave, his steps already carrying him away.
And then she whispered, low and soft, in the ancient Draconic tongue:
"Mel'nara ven Stormbringer." My gratitude, Stormbringer.
He paused.
His face betrayed him for only a heartbeat. A flicker of surprise in his storm-gray eyes.
None noticed. The crowd had already returned to their shallow courtly chatter.
But she noticed.
And she smiled.
Got you, she thought mischievously.
Still in Draconic, she added, "Zenthaar viing saraan krii, fen kos nahlot"
"I would like to speak with you later, if possible."
He did not respond.
Simply turned, walked away, and returned to the seats reserved for Grand Dukes.
And yet, something in his steps had changed.
Elena's hands still held the grimoire as the next noble approached, but her smile now held a trace of sincerity.
He was definitely surprised, she thought.
The celebration carried on, growing louder, livelier. Music played. Wine poured. Laughter—real and fake—rose to the vaulted ceilings.
But Elena's mind darkened.
It's going to happen soon, she thought, turning her head slightly.
A Messenger will run through that door. He will fall, tackled by imperial knights. But his words… they will echo through this hall.
"Demons…"
And as if summoned by prophecy—
A loud crash.
A breathless messenger stumbled into the hall. Imperial knights tackled him instantly, blades drawn.
"Wait!" the man cried out. "I bear a message for His Imperial Majesty!"
Gasps.
Elena's pupils shrank.
It begins again…