DRAGON BLOOD: THE LOST LORD RETURNS

The morning sun filtered through the wooden shutters of the Baker home, casting golden stripes across the floor. Birds sang in the distance, and the gentle breeze brought in the scent of pine and bread baking. But Artemis lay wide awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The pendant around his neck had grown warm again.

It pulsed—not with light, but with something deeper. A feeling. A call.

Something in the forest was waiting.

He sat up quietly and reached for his cloak. His boots were already tucked beneath the bed. He'd planned this. Thought it through all night. He had to go. To speak to the old seer. To find answers no one else seemed willing to give.

The floor creaked as he descended the stairs, trying not to make a sound.

But Mira was already in the kitchen, her back to him as she prepared the morning tea. Steam curled upward. A knife tapped against a cutting board.

"You're leaving early," she said without turning.

Artemis froze.

"I'm just going for a walk."

"You're not a good liar," Mira said, her voice calm but sharp. She turned around slowly, eyes narrowing as she saw the way he held his cloak tight. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"

He said nothing.

Mira stepped closer, setting the knife aside. "That man… Artemis, he's not what you think. He lives alone for a reason. He's filled with strange stories and dangerous thoughts."

"Maybe," Artemis said. "But I need to hear them."

"You think he has answers about that necklace of yours? About those dreams you've been having?" Her voice cracked. "You think some old hermit knows more about you than the people who raised you?"

Artemis met her gaze. "I think… he knows something I need to know. Something you can't tell me."

"I'm trying to protect you!" Mira burst out. "Don't go to him."

"I'm not a child anymore." Artemis replied.

"You're still my son."

That word made his heart twist—but he couldn't stop now. "And you'll always be my mother. But I have to do this."

"No." She stepped forward, gripping his sleeve. "If you leave this house to go to him, don't expect me to let you wander back as if nothing happened."

They stared at each other. Her hand trembled.

Artemis turned away. "I won't go," he lied.

He let her believe it.

---

Hours later, long after Mira had busied herself in the garden and the village bustled with chores and morning chatter, Artemis slipped out the back door.

He moved like a shadow between trees and fences, avoiding the roads, cutting through the old wheat path behind the barn. His cloak flared behind him as the wind picked up, carrying a faint whisper—no words, just the sense of something ancient watching.

At the edge of the village, where the forest rose like a wall of green, the old seer's cottage waited.

---

The road to the old seer's cottage wound along the edge of the village, past the last tilled fields and into the overgrown paths that once led to deeper parts of the forest. The villagers seldom walked this way. Children were warned not to, and adults whispered tales of the strange old man who lived in a crooked house where the earth itself seemed to breathe.

The cottage came into view around midday. It looked like it had grown out of the land rather than been built upon it — its walls covered in moss and ivy, its roof sagging with age, and a small, bent chimney curling smoke into the sky like a lazy snake. A circle of withered herbs surrounded the place, and the air felt heavy, as if time moved slower here.

Artemis hesitated. Then he stepped forward and knocked on the weathered door.

Nothing.

He raised his hand again—before it could land, the door creaked open with a soft groan. A single voice called from within, scratchy and old like crumbling parchment.

"Enter, child of fire"

Artemis froze. "How did you—?"

"Time doesn't move the same for me anymore," the voice answered. "Come in, before the wind changes its mind."

Inside, the cottage was dim, lit only by shafts of light that filtered through cracks in the wooden walls. The smell of incense clung to the air, mixed with something older… ancient. Bottles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. Strange symbols were carved into the floorboards, and a dozen tiny bells jingled without wind.

The old seer sat near a hearth with no flame, wrapped in a tattered cloak that blended with the shadows. His face was long and weathered, beard silver and knotted, and one eye clouded with blindness. The other, though… it shimmered like molten gold.

"You're… the seer?" Artemis asked, stepping closer.

"I was once known by many names," the man said. "Now I'm simply the last listener."

Artemis frowned. "I came to ask about dreams. I keep seeing a ruined castle. A voice calls my name. And sometimes, I see… a dragon."

The old seer's eye narrowed, his expression unreadable. "Dreams are the forest's way of whispering truths to the lost. But not all who hear are ready to understand."

"I need to know who I am," Artemis pressed. "Where I come from."

The old man stood, slowly, like rising smoke. "The blood in your veins remembers what your mind has forgotten. You were not born for this village life. Not the fields, nor the harvest, nor the quiet days beneath the sun."

"Then what I was born for"?Artemis replied.

The seer turned to him fully, and for the briefest moment, Artemis saw something flicker in that golden eye—pain, maybe… or fear.

"If you seek the truth," the seer whispered, "you must ask the forest. It holds your answers."

"The forest?" Artemis echoed.

"It watches. Listens. Waits."

The old man walked slowly to a crooked shelf, hand hovering over several objects—wooden runes, vials of dried roots, a faded book bound in leather—but he touched none of them. Instead, he turned back to Artemis.

"You came searching for a guide. A map. A key." He tilted his head slightly. "But child… the key has always been with you."

Artemis blinked. "What do you mean?"

The old man's voice softened, as though reciting from something long forgotten:

"It sleeps near your heart, where secrets lie,

"Not forged in flame, nor shaped by hand.

It hums when silence rules the land,

And wakes when called by ancient sky."

Artemis slowly lifted his hand to the pendant resting against his chest. As his fingers touched the crystal, it warmed beneath his skin, and pulsed—soft and steady, like a second heartbeat.

The old seer smiled faintly. "When it sings… follow it."

Artemis's breath caught. He looked down at the pendant, then back up. "This… this is what I'm meant to follow?"

The seer's golden eye flickered. "You already carry the question. That is the first step."

Artemis nodded, the weight of it all sinking in.

"But what am I?" he asked again. "Please. Just tell me."

The seer looked away, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If I told you now, you would not believe me. And worse—you would be hunted before you understood why."

"By who?"

"The world," he said. "And those who fear what you may become."

Artemis's throat felt dry. "Will I become something terrible?"

"That is the question only you can answer, child."

The wind rattled the window

As Artemis stepped outside, the sun was beginning to dip low behind the trees. The forest loomed ahead, dark and silent, yet strangely inviting. He glanced back once—but the old man had already closed the door.

His hand tightened around the pendant. It was still cold, but now he was certain — it pulsed with purpose.

He walked back along the winding path, the village lights blinking to life in the distance like stars dropped to the earth. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of stew drifted through the air as he neared home.

Mira stood on the porch, arms crossed, eyes locked on him the moment he appeared.

"You came back later than supper," she said quietly.

"I was working with arion and helping some villagers"Artemis whispered.

She didn't press further. Just gave a small nod and opened the door.

Inside, the house was warm. Familiar. Yet everything felt… different now.

The old seer sat alone in the quiet cottage, surrounded by fading incense and the soft creak of wood. The fire had long died in the hearth, yet he stared into it as if visions still danced among the ashes.

He let out a long, weary sigh.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered to the empty room. "I cannot do more than guide him."

He leaned forward, voice cracking like dry leaves. "I've become too old… too weak. My time is ending."

A silence followed — not empty, but heavy, as though something unseen was listening.

"Now… it's his choice that will decide everything. The boy holds the only spark that can save humanity."

He looked toward the window where the forest loomed like a silent sentinel.

"May the old powers protect him. Because if he fails…"

He closed his eyes. "We all fail."

Outside, a single wind chime jingled — and then the night swallowed everything.