I Got Married to a Yandere Queen-Chapter 51 - The Dragon’s Lament

The evening sky was shrouded in thickening gray clouds, hanging low as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. In the distance, a faint red mist rose above scorched earth, mingling with the acrid stench of smoke and sulfur that stung the nose. There were no birdsongs. The air felt heavy. Silent. Too silent.

From behind the last remaining trees at the edge of the burned forest, a cavalry procession emerged. The hoofbeats struck the ashen ground—still faintly smoldering—leaving blackened trails behind them. At the very front, a man pulled the reins of his horse to a halt.

He was Louis Havel, Commander of the Royal Army of Belmore.

He appeared to be around forty, yet his body remained as firm as tempered steel. He wore a dark silver light armor, partially covered by a deep crimson cloak, its edges torn from a long journey. On the left side of his chest was a distinct emblem: a lion’s head pierced by two swords forming an X—blood red in color.

His neatly cropped black hair fluttered slightly in the wind that carried the bitter scent of ash. His chiseled, stone-like face narrowed its gaze forward. For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes scanned the wide expanse that had become a graveyard.

What was once a dense forest... had turned into dead land.

The soil was cracked and blackened, littered with charred remnants of trees standing like bones. Among the scorched trunks, massive burnt bones of beasts lay scattered. Some still emitted smoke, as if they had been roasted alive by unnatural fire.

Louis Havel dismounted with steady steps. His leather boots crushed the scorched debris beneath him. Without hesitation, he walked forward, knelt, and dipped two fingers into the blackened soil. He rubbed it between his fingers and brought it to his nose.

He stood again, inhaled deeply, then muttered in a low, cold voice:

"Which madman dares to provoke the dragon Agnithrax...?"

His head turned slightly to the right, his gaze landing on the row of officers waiting behind him.

"Was this the work of the Pendragons?"

His tone carried restrained fury—not of fear, but of disappointment and suspicion. He knew the Pendragons well: a noble family claiming dragon blood, known to act without royal sanction, following only their own will.

One of the younger officers straightened nervously and stammered, "S-Sir Commander... there are no reports of Pendragon troop movements in this region. We are still tracking any trails left behind."

Louis narrowed his eyes. The wind grew stronger, carrying the scorched scent into their lungs. He lifted his gaze to the darkening sky, his mind sharpening even as the restless mane of his horse danced in the breeze.

’First came the surprise assault from Arkham... and now a dragon.’

His thoughts honed, sharp like the blade that had never dulled at his hip. His expression held no fear—only memories... and calculation.

’It seems this kingdom is about to erupt again after so many years of silence.’

He exhaled through clenched teeth. His thoughts returned to the western fortress—an old outpost guarding Belmore’s frontier. The sudden attack by Arkham’s forces a few days ago had shocked even him.

The covert investigation he led revealed a horrifying truth: most of the garrison stationed at that fort were no longer loyal soldiers of Belmore, but rebels who had secretly allied with Arkham for years.

"Arkham couldn’t have smuggled in that many troops through Virewood Forest undetected... unless they had help from within the fort, sneaking in soldiers little by little."

He gripped his horse’s reins tightly. Arkham’s plan had been clear: destroy the outpost first, assassinate the Queen during the chaos, then launch a full-scale invasion into the kingdom’s heart.

But something had ruined their plan.

The Queen was not at the attack site.

Louis narrowed his eyes further. He had searched for her for days without success. When he stopped briefly in Dorthlam to congratulate an old friend on his son’s marriage, he hadn’t expected to encounter Her Majesty there.

Their meeting was brief, but enough for Louis to sense that something larger was at play. They spoke at length—about Arkham, and the raging dragon in the south: Agnithrax, King of Flame.

The Queen... had changed, or perhaps it was just the perception of an aging man. Her eyes seemed sharper. Her voice, colder. And yet... there was something else within her—a dormant fire on the verge of consuming everything.

He could not stay here any longer.

’I must find that dragon before it causes more destruction.’

With firm motion, he climbed back into the saddle. His troops immediately followed, as if silent orders had already been given. Hooves pounded once more against the scorched earth as Louis glanced back one final time.

The dragon’s fire had razed part of Belmore... but this was not the end. Only a sign.

A sign that fire and blood would once again flood the lands of Belmore.

.

.

.

Fairfield Village lay in a lowland region surrounded by golden wheat fields and young forests. There were no stone walls. No stationed guards. Just dirt roads, wooden houses, and a simple, peaceful life.

That evening should have been ordinary.

Mothers began calling their children in from the meadows. Smoke drifted from chimneys. The scent of soup and fresh bread hung in the cool air. Men returned from the fields, wiping sweat from their brows, chuckling as they carried baskets of harvest. The setting sun painted the sky in soft orange hues.

Yet something... felt wrong.

The sky was dimmer than usual. The wind carried not peace, but bitterness. Birds were silent—eerily so, as if long gone.

A young boy stood by the roadside, clutching a wooden toy. He squinted at the western sky.

"What’s that...?" he muttered.

A massive shadow split the clouds, approaching with terrifying speed. At first, they thought it was a giant eagle. But moments later, everyone in the village realized—it was no bird.

It was a dragon.

Massive. Its dark red scales glimmered like rusted iron under the fading sun. But up close, its body bore damage. Scales shattered. Deep wounds across its belly. Its wings riddled with holes, torn by powerful magic or monstrous weapons.

One by one, villagers looked up. Some froze. Some stumbled back. Others dropped baskets and tools, fleeing in panic.

But before anyone could escape... the voice came.

Not from the dragon’s mouth—but from within their minds.

A low, ancient voice, soaked in wrath—like the world itself crying out in rage.

"Where... is my child?!"

The words crashed into their consciousness like lightning, piercing bone and soul. Children screamed and clutched their heads. Women collapsed, blood seeping from their ears. Even the men fell, vomiting or fainting, their eyes rolling back.

An old man near the western path tried to pray, but his mouth refused to move. A young girl crawled on the ground, dragging her baby brother toward shelter, her body convulsing with pain.

Then... the world turned red.

The dragon opened its jaws.

No warning.

No mercy.

A torrent of fire swept across Fairfield like the heavens falling. The flames were more than heat—they devoured more than flesh. They melted soil, shattered homes, and birthed a storm of flame that swallowed every breath of life.

The screams lasted only a second.

Then came silence—only the sound of fire. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Fairfield was no more.

All that remained was ash and smoke... and the stench of burned flesh clinging to the evening sky.

The dragon soared over the ruins, its wings beating slowly. Its eyes—twin blazing coals of hatred—scanned the ground that now hid nothing.

But its rage had not passed.

Because its child... was still missing.

And its hunt... had only just begun.

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