The Red Wolgan

Hera sat curled up in a large, well-worn chair, flipping through the pages of a book about wolgans. Since childhood, she had been utterly captivated by tales of legendary creatures, especially the wolgans, half wolf, half dragon, with stories full of mystery and wonder.

As she grew, her love for them never waned. She became a painter, her days and nights spent sketching and painting wolgans, trying to bring them to life through her art.

The passage before her told a grim tale:

"Unending battle. Constant bloodshed and terror. Violent death. War swept through the world with fire and fangs. These horrors have never been forgotten.

The war between werewolves and dragons was a catastrophe in recent history.

For the past century, dragons have been uprising over human territory. Many drops of blood have cascaded. Numberless humans attempted to flee but ended up lifeless at the hands of the dragon, and so the werewolves died in the middle of the fight.

This war nearly destroyed the world. But then, in the darkest time, came a long-awaited savior—Magnus Conri, a dragon-wolf hybrid. No one knew where he came from or who he really was, but he managed to defeat the dragons, slaying them all. His origins remain a mystery, his age unknown, yet everyone was thankful. Thanks to Magnus, peace returned to the world."

Hera read those words over and over, her eyes lingering on the name Magnus. Every time she whispered it, she felt a strange ache deep in her chest, as though the name held some forgotten meaning, some long-lost connection she couldn’t quite grasp. It was more than just a legend to her—it felt personal, though she didn’t know why.

Putting down the history book, Hera planned to go out for a stroll and heard from the neighbor that a newcomer had come to the town recently, and he had collected many wolgan sculptures. Hera was very interested in this, and she wanted to go to see him immediately.

"No war shall ever repeat itself." Darth clenched his jaw as memories of his past battles flooded his mind. He had fought fiercely to protect humanity, facing his greatest enemies head-on. Amid it all, he had saved a mysterious girl named Hiree, entrusting her with his most valuable possession—the vermilion stone.

But Hiree had never returned after that fateful day, and it remained Darth's deepest regret. Without the stone, he could not return to the sacred Cruxia Cave, where his lineage awaited. And though the world knew him as Darth, he was, in truth, Magnus Conri, the legendary dragon-wolf hybrid from centuries past, now trapped in the mortal realm.

Darth held the sword up in the air as the sun gleamed off of it, dazzling him for the briefest seconds. That was something he'd been doing the moment he was stuck in the mortal world. He trained his emotions and reinforced his dragon-wolf side with his sword.

"You won't slay any dragons by holding your sword like that, Darth," a voice called out from a distance. Darth turned to see his Master, Amoux, standing nearby disapprovingly.

"I'm not planning on killing dragons anymore, Master," Darth replied, lowering his sword with a slight bow. "I was just practicing a basic move for my new student."

Amoux smirked. "I know. I just wanted to bother you."

Darth chuckled, knowing his Master's jest.

"So, how's the search for the vermilion stone?" Amoux asked, the weight of centuries of lost hope in his voice.

"Still looking," Darth sighed. "But I'm thinking about giving up soon." Despite his words, he knew he couldn't stop. The vermilion stone was his key to returning to Cruxia Cave, where his lineage awaited.

Amoux's expression softened. "There's no such thing as too late, Your Highness. In a world obsessed with results, be the one who values patience."

Darth smiled faintly. "Do you think I'll find her again? It's been two hundred years since I last saw her. What if it's too late?"

"Perhaps," Amoux said, his voice steady, "But the vermilion stone doesn't fade, even if it's no longer in its original form. Reincarnation is real, and the stone may have found its way into a new body and soul."

"I never thought you'd be so philosophical, Master. You sound like Master Xenon," Darth stated, smiling scarcely in amusement.

Amoux laughed. "Of course, he's my father." The two of them walked together through the garden, the scent of flowers on the breeze as they neared the porch.

"By the way, the guards will bring the weapons for your lessons soon," Amoux added. "Keep me informed about your progress."

"I will," Darth nodded as Amoux bowed and departed.

Left alone, Darth sat on the porch, his thoughts tangled with the conversation. He gazed at the blooming flowers, trying to make sense of it all, when a sudden noise caught his attention. He rose and made his way to the backyard, only to stop short at the sight of a hooded figure standing near the fence.

The woman wore a gray medieval dress with a cloak that obscured her face. Her sudden presence unsettled him.

"Who are you?" Darth demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword." This is my residence. So, how did you get here?!"

The woman panicked, backing away. "Please... I mean no harm."

She removed her cloak, revealing her face, and Darth froze. She was stunning, with fair skin and piercing emerald eyes. He lost all words for a moment, feeling an odd pang in his chest—a sense of familiarity.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I heard you were new in town, and I just wanted to... observe. Gather some information."

Darth scowled. "About what?" His voice was stern, though he fought to suppress the strange feelings stirring within him.

"About you," she admitted, hesitating before continuing. "And I heard you have a collection of dragon-wolf sculptures. Can I see them?"

"No. Get out of here, now," he ordered calmly yet with authority. "Do you know that you are trespassing on private property? Do you know the consequence?"

The woman stepped closer, her fingers brushing his hand, a soft plea in her touch. Her eyes searched his, full of emotion. "Please," she whispered, her voice almost breaking. "If you let me see your sculptures and allow me to paint them, I'll show you my own work, too."

"My work?" Darth repeated, his curiosity piqued. He could feel something stirring inside him—something unfamiliar.

She nodded, her eyes bright with hope. He was momentarily lost in those eyes, feeling an inexplicable pull toward her. It was a strange sensation, one he hadn't felt before. He gently let go of her hand, stepping back to regain control. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "What does painting have to do with my dragon-wolf sculptures?"

Her smile was soft, warm enough to melt his guarded heart, though he resisted. "I've always loved painting dragon-wolves," she confessed, the passion in her voice flicking through him. He might not have been merciless, but he had long shut himself off from the idea of being captivated by anyone. Not this time. Not by her. "I'm Hera," she added, her hand extended in greeting. "And I am a painter."

Darth ignored her outstretched hand, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her pause. "Come back tomorrow," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Don't enter my residence again without permission, or you'll be banned. Understood?"

Hera nodded, a satisfied grin lighting up her face. "Yes! Hmm... what should I call you?"

He turned away, his voice softening slightly. "Darth Lancelot."

"Thank you, Darth! See you tomorrow!" she called after him, watching as he walked away. "By the way... where's the gate?"

He didn't bother looking back, sighing as he replied, "At the north end of the yard. Now go."

As he walked away, his mind raced. Why had he felt that strange pang in his chest the moment their eyes met? It was a feeling he couldn't quite place, something that lingered long after she was gone.

Who was she? Why did she stir something inside him? He tried to push the thoughts away, but her face remained imprinted in his mind, each thought only leading to more questions that left him even more intrigued.