Timeless Assassin

(Planet Vorthas, The Following Morning)

Anger simmered beneath the pale morning sky as the people of the Cult gathered once more in the Sunsteps Market, their voices rising in restless waves.

The shock from the previous night still lingered in their eyes, their expressions tight with fear and frustration, all of it looking for somewhere to land.

Accusations flew freely as the crowd began blaming the Cult's defenders for their failure to stop the attack.

Their pride had been wounded, their confidence shaken, and Dupravel Nuna's name became the rallying point for both rage and demand.

The people wanted justice, they wanted strength, and most of all, they wanted answers.

"He burned down nine buildings and killed twenty-six guards while escaping…. He came, he killed, he escaped, while our security forces tried searching for stars in broad daylight…. *Spit*," one man spat, veins bulging on his neck as he shouted atop a merchant's stall, riling up the crowd.

"Is this the competence level of our security forces? Are these the people in-charge of protecting our Elder and our Dragon? These idiots can't even face a single enemy on home turf!"

Cries of "Find him!" and "Bring us his head!" echoed through the square, as every citizen, warrior or common, now had a single name seared into their mind like a curse whispered in the dark : Black Serpents Guildmaster Dupravel Nuna.

Spittle flew, not just in words, but literally, as the names of the district captains responsible for organizing the security of the event were read aloud in an official statement broadcast from the news towers, prompting many to hurl insults, fruit, and even stones at the projection.

"He made fools out of our finest."

"Our defense system's a joke!"

"Where were the Elite guards? The best tactical units we have at our disposal?"

Each accusation was louder than the last, all aimed at the Cult's internal security force, whose members now walked with their heads hung low, no longer protectors but symbols of shame, forced to endure the humiliation of failure in full public view.

And yet, amidst this fiery outrage, two names still emerged with fragments of hope and pride attached to them.

"The Dragon did not run."

"The Dragon fought. And lived."

It was a sentiment whispered with awe, one that gained traction as more people began to recognize the almost impossible feat of a young Dragon holding off a Monarch and surviving the encounter.

"And the Twelfth Elder… he risked his life to help, didn't he? That was him… firing [Wind Shots] from the side, wasn't it?"

"Aye. He's the only reason Veyr could hold that wretched Serpent off…. A true leader."

Applause, faint but growing, began to ripple through the crowd, as a strange cocktail of resentment and reverence began to mix.

The commoners were furious at the Cult's incompetence, which was only matched by a fervent gratitude toward those few who had not crumbled in the face of a nightmare.

Dupravel had left them with blood, fear, and broken pride.

But Veyr and the Twelfth Elder had at least salvaged something from the wreckage.

—--------------

(Meanwhile, inside the Vorthas Hospital)

The infirmary buzzed with hushed praise and reverent whispers, as attendants moved around Valterri with cautious urgency, tending to the deep stab wound in his palm.

They used healing magic to slowly purge the residual poison that was beginning to rot the veins around the wound, doing their best to complete the process as painlessly as possible.

To everyone around him, he was a hero….hailed as the man who stood between the Dragon and death, the one whose timely action gave Veyr just enough breathing room to survive the ambush.

But Valterri did not feel like a hero.

Not even close.

Lying on the cot with bandages wrapped around his hand and his breathing shallow, all he could think about was how quickly he had fallen, how useless he had been after taking a single hit.

It didn't matter that the wound had been laced with poison, or that he'd acted on instinct to shield Veyr.

In his mind, he had failed to protect the Dragon beyond the opening moment, and that single truth gnawed at him more deeply than the pain.

'I need to get stronger... much stronger,' he thought, staring at the ceiling as the world outside continued to label him a savior, while all he felt inside was inadequate.

—--------------

(Elsewhere, Veyr)

Veyr sat alone in the Twelfth Elders manor, his back resting against the ornate dragonhide chair reserved for the reigning Dragon, yet for the first time since his appointment, the weight of that seat truly began to sink in.

The attack had passed, his wounds were superficial at best, and the crowd outside now chanted his name with newfound reverence, calling him brave, resilient, even worthy, yet none of it brought him peace.

He had yearned for this spotlight once, longed for the approval of the masses and the respect of the Elders, but now that it was his, now that he had tasted what being the Dragon actually meant, all he could feel was a strange sort of emptiness clawing at the edge of his thoughts.

Between the endless meetings, the exhausting training, the staged public appearances, and now this assassination attempt in broad daylight, it finally became clear that the position he once thought of as the pinnacle of pride was little more than a gilded cage wrapped in ceremonial garb.

The only silver lining to it all was the people's affection, the cheers that drowned his doubt and made his suffering feel slightly less meaningless, but even that, he knew, would fade the moment he failed to meet their expectations.

Being a Dragon was a thankless job.

And the deeper he sank down that rabbit hole, the more he realized that perhaps, the better choice that day would have been to surrender and intentionally lose the bout, letting Leo carry the burden, spotlight, politics, and all the hidden knives that came with it.