Cleora stood before the general once more, offering him a deep bow of gratitude. "I cannot thank you enough, General Remin," she said.

"Your timely intervention saved us from annihilation."

Remin simply nodded, his expression unreadable. "I hope you recover from this tragedy."

With those parting words, he turned and walked towards his dragon.

The moment he flew off with his dragon, the Grosbek unit followed, their movements perfectly synchronised. They disappeared into the horizon, into the clouds; the dragon's roar echoed in the skies.

As if reminded of their plight, the townsfolk, who had been in hiding, hesitantly returned.

Roblan had gone to fetch them, and now he led them back toward the ruined square. Their expressions were filled with shock, relief, and sorrow as they took in the devastation before them.

The bodies of fallen soldiers lay strewn across the square, unmoving and cold. The metallic scent of blood still lingered in the air, mixing with the acrid stench of smoke and burnt flesh. The surviving soldiers stood among them, weary but alive, their expressions grim as they took in the cost of their victory.

Grieving families rushed toward the dead, their wails of sorrow piercing the air.

Mothers, fathers, wives, and children collapsed beside their fallen loved ones, holding their lifeless bodies as if willing them to return.

Those who had survived knelt in silent prayer, their expressions reflecting a mixture of gratitude and guilt. They had been spared, but at what cost?

The town's eyes turned toward Cleora once more, looking to her for guidance. She stood tall, despite the weight of loss pressing down upon her shoulders.

"I will see to it that the families of the fallen are cared for," she declared, her voice steady despite the sorrow beneath it. "Their sacrifices will not be in vain."

The people murmured their gratitude, bowing their heads in respect.

Meanwhile, away from the mourning and gratitude, Jolthar sat at the edge of the square, lost in thought. His exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but something nagged at the back of his mind—a sense of unease he couldn't quite place.

Then he noticed it.

His drake had not moved.

At first, he had assumed the beast was simply resting, recovering from the battle. But now, as he looked closer, he saw something that sent a sharp jolt of fear through him.

He called.

The drake did not respond.

A frown creased his brow as he stood, approaching the creature. It took only a moment for him to see it—the wound on its left flank.

It was not just any wound.

The flesh around it had turned a deep, grotesque shade of gore, throbbing unnaturally as if something foul festered beneath the skin.

Jolthar's stomach twisted.

Nytheria, who had appeared sometime after the battle, stood beside him, her violet eyes narrowing as she, too, observed the wound.

"It seems like it was poisoned," she said calmly.

Jolthar's breath caught in his throat.

Roblan, who had been approaching, froze in shock. "Poisoned?"

Jolthar clenched his fists. He had fought alongside this creature for so long, trusted it with his life, yet he had failed to notice its suffering.

The drake flinched, its body trembling in pain. A low growl rumbled in its throat, though it tried to suppress it. The poison took its time to take effect, and that was why they didn't notice till now.

"Can you save her?" Jolthar turned to Nytheria, desperation creeping into his voice.

Nytheria knelt beside the beast, running her fingers lightly over the wound. She frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The poison is potent… I'm not sure," she admitted.

"I'll need specific herbs, but even then, if it has spread too far…"

Jolthar cursed under his breath. He was about to speak when another figure approached.

Wymar.

The man moved with a calculated ease, his gaze briefly flicking toward Nytheria before settling on Jolthar.

Without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a dark, shimmering liquid.

He tossed it toward Jolthar, who caught it without hesitation.

"Make the drake drink this," Wymar said, his tone unreadable. "It will save her."

Jolthar stared at the vial.

"Why?" he asked cautiously.

Wymar turned his gaze toward the departing Remin. "Consider it a gift. From my lord to you," he said. "so he says."

Jolthar's grip tightened around the vial, but he knew there was no time for questions.

"Thank you," he said.

Wymar only nodded before turning away.

He walked back to the rest of the army, and after reaching them, he raised a hand, and a dark portal shimmered into existence before him. The swirling mass of energy pulsated with an eerie, almost sentient presence. Without another word, the army stepped inside with a quick march.

And Wymar too stepped into the portal.

They came and went like phantoms, leaving only mystery in their wake. They came and dealt with the army and disappeared within seconds.

They were swift in their work.

Jolthar turned his attention back to his drake. There was no time to hesitate. He uncorked the vial and carefully poured the liquid into the creature's mouth.

For a long, heart-pounding moment, nothing happened.

Then, the drake let out a deep, shuddering breath. Its muscles tensed, its wings twitching slightly. Slowly, the grotesque veins around the wound began to recede, their unnatural pulse weakening. The beast's laboured breathing evened out, and its pained flinches lessened.

The poison was fading.

Jolthar released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief flooded through him as he gently placed a hand on the drake's head.

Milan and Arvant watched the exchange.

"That was no ordinary potion," Milan murmured.

Arvant nodded in agreement. "No, it wasn't."

They both looked toward Jolthar.

There was something about him.

Something even men like Remin had taken an interest in.

Even Milan would have given such a precious item for a man like Jolthar; after all, he was no ordinary young man. Arvan was sure that Remin had taken an interest in Jolthar and their paths would soon cross again.