Her name was Seren Valemir, the Hero of the Northern Plains.

Her legend began in blood and flame—when the kingdom was wrapped in the wings of a dragon, its scales glinting like molten obsidian beneath the sun. The air thickened with the stench of sulfur as villages burned, their smoke curling black against the crimson sky. She alone dared to face the beast, her armor reflecting the inferno as she raised her sword.

For seven days, she fought without rest, her sword cracking from the relentless blows, her armor melting to her skin like a second layer of flesh. When the beast finally fell, its death cry shook the heavens, sending birds scattering in black clouds from the mountains.

From the smoking ruins of its lair, she carried the princess—Princess Eirlys of Lysandra—back to the capital, the girl's golden hair tangled with ash but her blue eyes still shining with quiet courage.

That day, Seren became a savior. That day, she met the princess’s ten-year-old sister, who peeked from behind her elder sister’s skirts, clutching a frayed silk ribbon with trembling fingers. Her eyes were wide—not with fear, but with awe—as though she were witnessing a saint rather than a warrior covered in dragon blood and grime.