Hosan had known the moment his wife died that his world would collapse in on itself. There was no warning, no chance to brace for it, only the sound of her breathing stopping, and with it, the silence that hollowed out everything he was.

Tyron had been only a small child then, barely old enough to understand loss. He lost his mother first, and years later, his father too, though Hosan still lived. The man who remained was only a husk wearing his face.

In those years, Tyron grew fascinated by mana, the heat he said he could see flowing through everything... plants, animals, people, beasts. He spoke of it as though it made no distinction, as though the world itself breathed in the same rhythm. But Hosan knew better. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

There was a difference.

Humans and beasts could both be cruel, yes, but only humans convinced themselves their cruelty was righteous. Beasts killed to eat, to live, to protect. Humans killed to prove they were something more than beasts.

He had seen it with his own eyes, the way they desecrated her grave. The way they carved open his wife's chest, pried out her heart as if she were some sacred offering rather than a woman who once laughed and loved and held their son in her arms. They called her a beast. To them, she was never human.

And in that moment, Hosan understood.

In their eyes, one kind would always be less than the other. To them, he was the animal now, grieving over a corpse that should have been burned, not buried.

So he made a choice.

If that was what it meant to be human, to strip, to take, to justify, then he would become the best of them. He would become what they feared.

He stole back what was his. Morgana's heart, her heart, the heart of a dragon said to grant the wish of any who could awaken its pulse. The same heart from which legends claimed the kingdom itself had been born.

He would take from the beasts, and from the gods if he must. He would become human, truly and completely, by using the one thing that had made his wife less than one.

Her heart.

Of course, everything Hosan did was for his son.

He had always seen that quiet sorrow in Morgana's eyes whenever she looked at Tyron, her only child, born of two worlds yet belonging fully to neither. Despite being half dragon, the boy possessed no more power than an ordinary human. He could see mana, trace its shimmer in air, but he could never wield it.

His sight was a gift, but to Hosan, it felt like a curse.

Morgana had once explained it to him, an old truth carved into the bones of her kind. "When a sacred beast takes a human mate," she had said, "the child will always fall to one extreme or the other."

Tyron had inherited the curse for it.

To Morgana, that difference was something to be understood, even cherished. To Hosan, it was a reminder of how far his son stood from the mana that ran in his mother's veins, the same power that made her both wondrous and terrifying.

She had died trying to find a cure for that difference. Searching through relics, scrolls, and runes that might bridge the rift between their worlds. But in the end, it was mana itself that killed her, the very thing she hoped would bring their son closer to her.

Morgana had been, above all, a sacred beast, one of those rare beast born with a human like form and the mana of dragons in their blood. Her understanding of power was something Hosan could never match.

There were times, even in love, when he feared her. When she spoke of mana, of sacred lands, of the boundary between their truths, there was something vast in her gaze, something that reminded him she could burn Hinnom to ash with a mere breath if she wished.

Yet she never would.

She had chosen to live among humans. To build a home with him and their son, to live a simple life, far beyond the beast ridden borders of Sheol.

Hosan had once asked her how she even made it through Sheol to reach Hinnom. She had only smiled, her expression distant, almost wistful.

"My sister did the same," she'd said quietly. "But she went farther, past little Hinnom, deep into the kingdom itself. I never saw her again."

She had said it so softly that Hosan almost missed the flicker of pain in her voice.

And now, as he looked back, he realized that Morgana's smile that day had been the same one she wore when she was hiding something, something she never wanted for him or their son to know.

And they, in their quiet complicity, had allowed her to. He never questioned, and his son never pried. That must be why… Tyron had never asked why he always had to wear his mother's blood around his neck, sealed in a small vial that hung like a pendant over his chest.

To him, it was simply another one of his father's strange rules. But to Hosan, it was protection. The blood of Morgana, a sacred dragon, carried enough mana to deter any beast drawn to Tyron's scent.

A half dragon not capable of using mana was a beacon for predators, both beast and human alike. That vial was the only thing standing between his son and the things that would tear him apart.

So when whispers began to spread through the village, stories of the dragon's heart that could grant a person's deepest wish, Hosan knew exactly where they came from.

Having lived among them for generations, the old mage from the Academy passed his knowledge and craft down to his followers. It was he who slowly twisted the villagers' thoughts, feeding them tales of power and miracles.

Hosan had never heard these legends from Morgana. He wished they were just stories invented by the old mage to push off outsiders, but they weren't. And now, they were looking at his son.

And he could no longer entrust his son's safety to the pendant.

The vial of Morgana's blood that once shimmered had begun to lose its luster, its mana dimming with each passing year. He knew it wouldn't last forever. And he couldn't bring himself to use Tyron's blood, nor dare use the vial on the dragon's heart to beg for a wish.

So Hosan did what desperate men often do, he sought help.

That help came in the form of Hugo, Diego's older brother, a wanderer who made his living as a hired sword. Hugo had just returned to Hinnom for a short time, taking up a contract from a foreign noble who dealt in rare curiosities, auctioning artifacts and relics for the amusement of the kingdom's elite.

Through him, Hosan found a connection, a man named Genevra.

The noble was wealthy, polite, and far too curious for Hosan's comfort. When he heard about the dragon's heart, his eyes gleamed with fascination. In exchange for gold, enough to let Hosan and Tyron leave Hinnom for good, Genevra offered to 'handle' the matter himself.

Hosan hesitated only briefly before shaking his hand.

The deal was struck.

But even as he smiled, he felt the chill of unease crawl up his spine. Behind Genevra stood a mage, her expression unreadable, her smile too knowing.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost playful.

"A dragon's blood, you say? I'm sure we'll have plenty of those."

Hosan didn't know why he smiled and laughed with them that day. Perhaps it was the relief, all he knew was that he wouldn't let his son live under a 'curse'.

He was there when they brought everything down to the undercroft, the beasts, the crates, the sealed cages that reeked faintly of iron and mana. He was about to place his wife's heart among them when a sudden shouting echoed down the corridor.

Curious, and uneasy, he crept closer and peered through a crack between the stone pillars.

Genevra stood there, flanked by Hugo and the hooded mage, who now was furiously shouting.

"What is this?" her voice snapped like a whip.

"...The one you asked us to get?" Hugo replied, his tone cautious, glancing at the nobleman for support.

Genevra only shrugged, confused.

The mage's sneer twisted into rage. Her hands trembled as she pointed toward the largest iron cage standing at the middle of the undercroft, its contents obscured by a cloth.

"I told you to find me a male sacred dragon," she hissed. "I told you he was hiding near the lands of Sheol! You were supposed to find someone connected to him in Hinnom village!"

The words hit Hosan like cold water.

It was as if a fog suddenly lifted from his mind, fog he hadn't even known was there since before shaking Genevra's hand. His chest tightened as the realization struck him. The descriptions she spoke of, was she meant his son.

'Were they were looking for Tyron?'

"Oh, come on," Genevra said, exasperated. "Do you know how difficult it is to find a dragon, let alone a sacred one? We actually managed to find one young enough to have a human form. Mostly, anyway."

In an instant, her hand was on Genevra's throat, nails digging enough to draw blood. Hugo stepped forward, but froze mid motion, as if something had wrapped around him.

"The prince was lenient enough to allow a foreigner like you to host your little auction in this hall," she growled, her voice low, trembling with restrained fury. "I even served among your hirelings to make sure you delivered what was promised. He asked for one thing, to bring him the dragon."

Hosan saw it then, their eyes. Genevra's and Hugo's eyes lost their color, their will draining away like ink in water.

And he understood.

He was under her influence too. He just didn't know for how long.

Panic surged through him. Clutching the heart of his wife close, he turned to flee.

He almost made it.

"Well," the mage murmured behind him, her voice a whisper that still echoed. "Since he's shown himself in Hinnom… taking him won't be easy. Unless, of course, I can make him come to me."

Before he could move, a hand seized his collar. Hugo, expression blank, eyes glassy, hauled him back and threw him at the mage's feet.

Hosan's breath caught. The hood of her cloak slipped back, and for the first time he saw her face clearly.

Her eyes were large, icy blue, and pitiless.

She crouched down and grasped his chin, tilting his face up to meet hers. Her hand was cold, her hails digging deeper by the minute.

"You have a son, don't you?" she asked softly. "Back in Hinnom?"

His breath hitched as the truth settled in, he would never be the same, not while under her control. His body would move, his voice would speak, but his will was no longer his own. She would use him to turn the gears, to lead his son into the trap, and bring her the 'dragon' she sought.

His last coherent thought was a thankful one, 'it wasn't Tyron.'

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