The clouds gathered above Marseille like a leaden shroud, their bellies swollen with darkness that seemed to reflect the tragedy spreading below. When Maélor appeared in the sky, his wings beating with unusual slowness, even the crows feasting on the corpses took flight with mournful caws.

The dragon king descended in cautious spirals, his sharpened senses already assaulted by the smell of death rising toward him in sickening waves. The acrid smoke from fires still smoldering mixed with the effluvia of coagulated blood and decomposing flesh, creating a nauseating cocktail that burned his nostrils.

His paws touched the ground with unusual delicacy, as if he feared to further desecrate what had once been a place of life. Around him, Marseille no longer existed. There were only charred ruins, gutted structures whose blackened beams pointed toward the sky like accusing fingers. The streets, once animated by commerce and conversations, had become rivers of rubble mixed with dried blood.

But what truly froze the dragon king's blood was not the material destruction. It was the bodies.

They were everywhere. Piled against collapsed walls, scattered across public squares, some hanging from lampposts in grotesque positions. Hundreds of dragons – soldiers, civilians, children – reduced to bloody pulp. Their scales, which once caught the light in magnificent shimmer, were now dull, soiled by the reddish mud that covered everything.

Maélor advanced slowly, his claws clicking on the broken cobblestones. Each step revealed new horrific details. There, a young dragon whose head had been torn off with unheard-of violence. Here, a female whose wings had been methodically cut off, leaving membrane shreds that still fluttered in the wind like macabre banners.

The king stopped before what had been a fountain. The clear water had been replaced by a viscous, blackish liquid, a mixture of blood and ashes. Bodies floated on the surface, their dead eyes staring at the sky with an expression of frozen terror.

For the first time in decades, Maélor felt his hands tremble. He who had led wars, who had seen death in all its forms, found himself overwhelmed by the methodical scope of this butchery. This was not the chaos of a battle, but something colder, more calculated. An extermination.

He crouched near a corpse he recognized – Valdris, one of his captains, an experienced dragon who had survived three major campaigns. His armor, forged in the finest forges of the kingdom, had been pierced like parchment. His gaping chest revealed organs shredded with surgical precision.

- "How..." The word came from his throat like a death rattle. "How is this possible?"

He straightened, his gaze sweeping the devastated horizon. Marseille had been one of their most fortified positions. Two thousand dragons were stationed there, equipped with the best weapons, protected by fortifications he himself had supervised. And yet, everything had been swept away. Not just defeated – annihilated.

The humans he knew did not possess such destructive power. Their primitive weapons, their fragile bodies, their chaotic organization... How could they have accomplished such a feat? And above all, how could they have acted without any warning message reaching him?

A detail caught his attention. On a wall still standing, someone had carved a symbol he didn't recognize, a sword surrounded by flames. The line was clean, deep, carved with superhuman force into the stone. This was not the work of an ordinary human.

Maélor approached his hand to the symbol. The stone was still warm, as if the energy that had created this mark continued to pulse in the rock. An energy he couldn't identify, but that gave him goosebumps.

He stepped back, his pupils dilating as a terrible realization began to germinate in his mind. What if this massacre was not the work of an army? What if a single entity had been capable of...

No. It was impossible. Unthinkable.

Yet, the more he observed the scene, the more evidence accumulated. The bodies were arranged according to a precise pattern, as if a single mind had orchestrated their placement. The buildings had been destroyed in logical order, creating perfectly delimited corridors of death. And this energy signature, present everywhere, unique...

The dragon king closed his eyes, trying to chase away these thoughts. But doubt had settled in, gnawing at his certainties like acid.

Three hours later, in the war room of his castle, Maélor contemplated the map spread before him. His generals surrounded him, all aware that their sovereign's mood had shifted into something dangerous.

- "Marseille no longer exists," he declared in a hollow voice. "Two thousand of our best warriors have been massacred."

A heavy silence greeted his words. General Thyron, a veteran with multiple scars, finally dared to speak:

- "Your Majesty, our scouts report that... that there are no survivors. No witnesses. We don't know who has..."

- "It doesn't matter who," Maélor cut him off, his voice rising dangerously. "What matters is that the humans dared. They dared to raise their hand against us. And now, they will learn what it costs."

He straightened, his imposing silhouette casting a threatening shadow on the map.

- "Let all our regiments receive immediate orders: no more clemency. No more distinction between combatants and civilians. Every human suspected of rebel sympathy will be executed on the spot. I want fear to settle so deeply in their hearts that they will never again dare to defy our authority."

The generals exchanged worried glances. Thyron attempted an objection:

- "Your Majesty, such widespread repression risks..."

- "What?" Maélor's roar made the stone walls tremble. "Terrorizing them? That's exactly the point! They wanted to show us they could kill us? We're going to remind them why they were on their knees before us!"

He gestured toward the map, his claws tracing bloody lines on the parchment.

- "Every prisoner camp will select one hundred slaves at random. They will be publicly tortured for three days, then impaled at the city gates. Let their screams resonate in every street, let their bodies rot under everyone's gaze. Let every human understand that rebellion leads to agony."

This time, even the most loyal generals paled. But none dared protest further. They knew their king. When cold anger seized him, all opposition became deadly.

The orders were transmitted within the hour. Throughout the empire, dragons received their new instructions with a mixture of vengeful excitement and apprehension. They had seen the images of Marseille. They had felt fear creeping through their ranks. The brutality ordered by their king gave them back the impression of controlling the situation.

In the camps, the selection began. The slaves, who didn't understand why they were suddenly torn from their barracks, were chained and transported to public squares. Their supplications, their tears, their desperate attempts to explain their innocence fell on the glacial indifference of their jailers.

The tortures lasted exactly three days. Three days during which screams resonated in every city under draconic occupation. Three days during which free humans huddled in their houses, shutters closed, trying to ignore the horror unfolding a few meters away.

When the hour of impalement came, silent crowds were forced to witness the spectacle. Stakes were erected at the main entrances, and the broken bodies of the tortured were hoisted there in ultimate suffering. Some took hours to die, their agony prolonged by the position of the stake that carefully avoided vital organs.

At the castle, Maélor observed the reports flowing in. Every execution was recorded, every detail of the repression was meticulously documented. But instead of appeasing him, this news seemed to fuel his rage. As if no amount of human blood could wash away the humiliation of Marseille.

He stood before the great window of his apartments, watching the pale moon rising over his domain. Somewhere in the darkness, he knew, the one who had destroyed Marseille might also be watching this same moon. Perhaps planning his next move.

- "Who are you?" he murmured to the night. "Where are you?"

For deep within him, a certainty was growing. Marseille had been the work of a human army.

- "My sister, it's time to find a way to wake you up because we greatly need you..."

In the shadow of night, leagues away, Mordred smiled. The first phase of his plan was working marvelously. Anger blinded Maélor, pushing him toward excesses that would only strengthen human hatred toward their oppressors. Each torture, each impalement created new potential allies, hearts thirsting for vengeance.

Soon, very soon, he would strike again. And this time, Maélor would understand that he was not facing an ordinary rebellion, but something that surpassed his darkest nightmares.

The chessboard was in place. The game was only beginning.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi everyone! Just a quick message to let you know that there are about 40 chapters left, so feel free to let me know what you think so I know if I'm on the right track.

Thank you for your time and for reading. Have a pleasant evening, everyone. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones; it's important.

eh eh eh eh eh