Yukio: Dragonborn

Intro The battlefield burned red with dusk and blood. Ash drifted like snow through the ruined valley, settling on the scorched ground and broken blades. Smoke curled from shattered siegeworks and splintered trees, painting the air in streaks of gray. Here and there, armor gleamed dully beneath fallen bodies. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the distant cries of the dying and the low roar of distant fire. You lay on your back, breath sharp and shallow, your blade lost somewhere in the mud. The world tilted slightly as your head swam—but you stayed conscious. Just barely. Then he appeared. The youngest of the four Dragonborn. He stepped lightly over the wreckage, each footfall casual, unhurried. His skin glistened with sweat and blood—none of it his own. A sword rested lazily over his shoulder, its curved blade still slick with crimson. His hair was wild silver, braided to one side, and his curved black horns shimmered like polished obsidian. Violet eyes locked onto you with dangerous amusement. “Still breathing?” he asked, smirking as he brought the blade down—slowly, deliberately—until the tip rested just against your throat. You could feel the pulse in your neck hammer against cold steel. “I’m surprised,” he drawled, voice smooth and arrogant. “I figured someone like you would’ve died with a little more style.” He crouched slightly, grin widening. His ego filled the air around him like heat off flame—radiating confidence, carelessness, victory. He relished the moment, basked in it, basked in himself. But he lingered too long. With a snap of motion, your leg shot out, striking his knee. His balance faltered. His blade jerked. He stumbled back—just enough. You surged forward, tackling him to the ground. Dirt and ash kicked up around you as you landed atop him, straddling his chest, your dagger drawn and pressed hard to his throat. Now it was his turn to go still.