Dragon’s Den – 20:30 hrs.

  The ancient halls of the Dragon’s Den were colder than usual.

  Torchlight flickered across the cavern walls, casting long, serpentine shadows that danced over the carved stonework of dragons and fallen heroes. The inner chamber, reserved for clan councils and rites of power, was quiet but heavy with pressure—like the breath before a dragon’s roar.

  Alastair Blackthorn, member of Indigo’s Elite Four, stood alone at the head of the stone table, gazing into the central flame that burned in a basin of black steel. Around him sat the Blackthorn Elders, their postures rigid, their expressions drawn. Wordless. Watching.

  They were waiting for him to speak.

  But Alastair’s thoughts were not on them.

  They were on Indigo Plateau… on the man he had once called a rival—Samuel Oak—and on the war that had just begun.

  He had refused the Champion’s summons. Chosen neutrality.

  And now… he feared he had made a mistake.

  A whisper of movement at the door.

  A courier entered the chamber, robes drenched in rain, eyes wide.

  He handed Alastair a scroll—trembling.

  “Urgent news from the League.”

  Alastair’s jaw tightened. He unrolled the scroll, reading the stamped names.

  The first two stung like venom.

  “Phoenix Ketchum. Ryder Oak.”

  Dead.

  The fire in the basin hissed as if responding.

  Gasps echoed around the room, even among the hardened elders.

  “Oak will strike like a hammer,” said one of them. “And if he believes we supported this…”

  “Then neutrality means nothing,” another murmured. “We should have stood with him.”

  Alastair said nothing.

  His hands, steady even in battle, now clenched the scroll tighter.

  From beside him, Dina Blackthorn, his wife and second-in-command, stepped forward.

  Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned.

  “I told you. You should have been there. We should have sent support when the summons came. And now…” her voice faltered, “now everything has changed.”

  Another elder—old Andrew, the record keeper—lifted his eyes from a second scroll, freshly marked with blood-colored ink.

  “There’s more, Lord Alastair…”

  Alastair turned.

  Andrew hesitated.

  “Your third son. Ander.”

  The room fell silent again.

  Colder than before.

  “He was ambushed outside Viridian City. They got to him before the League could respond.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Alastair didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something inside him cracked.

  Dina stepped forward like a storm breaking.

  “No.”

  Her voice echoed like a blade through the chamber.

  “Not my Ander.”

  The elder bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

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  “And what about his family?” Dina demanded. “What about—”

  Andrew shook his head.

  “The child survived. Barely. League medics found him alone in his house.”

  Dina’s hands trembled. She turned slowly to her husband.

  “You let this happen. You let our son die. Our grandson—an orphan.”

  Alastair's lips parted, but no words came.

  “You said neutrality would protect us. That standing aside would keep the clan safe.”

  Her voice cracked.

  “You lied.”

  The whole room stood watching in silence.

  Until the chamber door creaked.

  All heads turned.

  Draco Blackthorn stood in the archway, soaked in rain, cloak bloodstained. He looked like a man who had seen a ghost—and lost to it.

  “Father,” he said.

  No one spoke.

  Alastair’s voice, when it came, was low and cold.

  “Where have you been?”

  Alastair’s voice cut through the chamber like ice on steel.

  Draco stood in the archway, soaked in rain, armor cracked and cloak dragging like a shadow behind him. His shoulders sagged—not from wounds, but from the weight of what he carried.

  He stepped forward slowly, each movement hesitant, uncertain—more a boy returning from disgrace than a man returning from war.

  “We lost,” he said. His voice was rough. Hollow. “Phoenix… he killed most of us.”

  A beat passed. Then:

  “We killed him.”

  The words dropped like stone in water.

  Dina stepped forward, her eyes narrowing, fists clenched.

  “You what?”

  “He was unstoppable,” Draco continued. “He tore through everything. His Raichu—his Dragonite—” He swallowed. “We had to. We couldn’t win otherwise.”

  “You killed Phoenix Ketchum?” Alastair asked, each syllable sharp and deliberate.

  Draco hesitated. His gaze dropped.

  “It wasn’t me. It was… Major Santos. His Feraligatr.” He looked up. “But I helped. I didn’t stop it.”

  The chamber was still.

  “You took part in the massacre?” Alastair asked, his voice low, dangerous.

  Draco's voice cracked, a tremor beneath the surface.

  “I didn’t plan it! The old clans—they orchestrated everything. Said it was the only way to stop the League’s reforms. They promised Phoenix would ruin us.”

  His hands curled into fists.

  “They told me this was how I could protect our clan… preserve our legacy.”

  Dina stared at him in disbelief. Then she took a single step forward and slapped him hard across the face.

  The sound cracked like lightning.

  “You didn’t protect us,” she hissed. “You damned us.”

  Draco staggered back, reeling more from the shame than the strike. His voice rose, defiant—but trembling.

  “I did what I thought was right! I fought for Blackthorn!”

  “No,” Alastair said, his tone quiet and cutting. “You fought for your pride.”

  “You couldn’t stand being second to Phoenix. You wanted to prove you were more than his shadow. And when the clans offered you power—you took it.”

  Draco’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about—?”

  Alastair stepped forward, fury blooming behind his calm.

  “You accepted a gift from Hoenn, didn’t you?”

  Draco froze.

  “A Salamence.”

  Dina’s breath caught.

  “They offered it in exchange for your loyalty,” Alastair continued. “A dragon not born of this land. You took it. You flew it into battle. You showed the whole world what kind of man you are.”

  Draco’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “I… I needed an edge.”

  “You brought Hoenn’s poison into our skies,” Alastair growled. “You betrayed Indigo. You stained the name of Blackthorn with foreign blood.”

  “How do you even know?” Draco asked, the words slipping out like a desperate defense.

  Alastair’s reply was cold and certain.

  “Oak’s scouts found the Salamence’s body. The reports are already on the Champion’s desk.”

  He stepped even closer—towering over his son now.

  A low growl of thunder rolled through the mountains, echoing down into the ancient stone halls of the Dragon’s Den.

  Dina stared at Draco with a coldness that turned the firelight in her eyes to ice.

  “You want to talk about preserving this clan?” she said quietly. “Then tell me, Draco—did you know Ander was killed?”

  Draco’s expression faltered.

  “What?”

  “Your brother,” she said, voice trembling now—not with sorrow, but fury barely held at bay. “He died in Viridian, trying to protect junior trainers. He stood with the League. With Oak.”

  She took a step toward him, her voice rising.

  “And you… you brought a foreign dragon into our skies and murdered the man who would’ve rebuilt Indigo.”

  Draco stumbled back, as if the air had turned to ash.

  “Mother, I—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  The silence that followed could have cut stone. Dina’s voice, when it returned, was deadly calm.

  “You are no longer my son.”

  The words struck like a blade.

  Draco’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His hands hung limp at his sides.

  “We should give you to the Champion,” she said flatly. “Let Oak have the one responsible. Maybe then, Blackthorn has a chance to survive.”

  She turned to the assembled elders, fire crackling behind her voice.

  “This clan should not burn for him.”

  Alastair stepped forward, sharp and sudden.

  “No.”

  Dina’s head snapped toward him.

  “What?”

  “We don’t give up our own,” Alastair said, jaw clenched. “He’s still—”

  “He is nothing,” she snapped. “He is a traitor. A symbol of everything Oak will destroy. And if we keep him, we go down with him.”

  Alastair looked to the side—anywhere but her eyes.

  “We can still prepare. Fortify the Den. Oak may not strike us directly.”

  “You’re lying to yourself,” Dina spat. “You think he'll show mercy to us? To you?”

  Alastair’s hands balled into fists.

  “I won’t offer up my son.”

  “Then you’ll bury your clan with him,” she said.

  She turned to Draco one final time.

  “You are not welcome here. When the Champion comes, may you be the first he finds.”

  Draco stood frozen, pale and hollow, caught in the aftermath of a war he never truly understood.

  “Dina—” Alastair tried again, but she didn’t stop.

  She swept past them both and vanished into the corridor, her footsteps echoing behind her like the tolling of a funeral bell.

  The chamber was quiet again.

  But now the silence was suffocating.

  The silence before reckoning.

  Alastair remained still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the flames in the basin. They flickered low, as if mourning already.

  Then he spoke—quiet, almost too quiet.

  “Recall the clan. Everyone.”

  “And Oak?” one elder asked.

  Alastair didn't answer immediately. He looked to the flames again. Watched them dance and stutter in the draft of the coming storm.

  Finally, he whispered:

  “He will come.”