Beyond the Portal – The World Maelstrom
The moment Alter and Ignivar passed through the portal, the world behind them disappeared.
There was no sky. No stars. No Vein.
Only light.
It pressed in from every direction—searing and chaotic, alive and unchained. Not divine, not demonic. Something older. Something that didn't obey the rules of structure or form. It surged around them like raw cosmic fire, twisting through every angle of vision.
Ignivar growled beneath him, wings flaring against the pull.
"Don't stop," Alter said, steady despite the storm raging around them. "Fly through it."
The great fire dragon gave no answer, only pushed forward with every ounce of strength in his core.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the light peeled away.
A roar of wind replaced the silence.
And Alter found himself staring into the eye of a monster.
The World Maelstrom wasn't a storm—it was a chasm in the sky. A celestial spiral that spanned miles in every direction, like a hurricane carved into the fabric of the atmosphere. Shards of land floated around its spinning edge: pieces of mountains, broken towers, shattered roads. Stone bridges twisted like snapped bones, swept in the orbit of the storm's endless rotation.
Ignivar was already beating his wings hard, trying to push forward through the wall of wind. The maelstrom resisted, forcing them backward with each flap.
"Don't fight it," Alter called, shielding his eyes as dust and fragments whipped across his vision. "Turn around. Fly with it."
Ignivar angled to the side, turned with a tight spiral, and caught the wind instead of challenging it. The difference was immediate. The current caught them, pulled them forward, and they surged into the vortex.
It was not safety. But it was movement.
Now came the challenge of navigation.
Massive stones the size of temples rotated past them. Debris rained from above—pillars, statues, shattered pieces of long-forgotten buildings. This was not just a storm. It was a graveyard of civilizations, circling endlessly in a sky that had no center.
"Watch the front," Alter said. "I've got the rear."
Ignivar's wings adjusted, his body weaving between spiraling stone masses. Alter crouched low, his hands crackling with energy.
A slab of marble spun toward them from behind—too fast, too close.
"Photon Burst!"
The blast struck midair, shattering the debris into fine dust.
Another came from below—sharp and jagged.
"Flame Pulse!"
Ignivar exhaled fire ahead, clearing a path through a tumbling stone corridor. Alter continued to guard their flank, unleashing rapid bursts of elemental magic, rotating through flame, wind, and lightning.
It went on like that for hours.
Debris never stopped coming. Each loop around the maelstrom's core drew them closer to the outer rim—but not without cost. Alter's magic reserves were burning fast. Ignivar's flight path began to tighten, his movements no longer crisp, but heavy with exhaustion.
They were nearing the wall.
"Push it," Alter growled. "Now's the time."
The outer edge of the maelstrom shimmered, and the tailwind hit like a dragon's roar.
Ignivar tucked his wings, dropping into a dive as the current accelerated behind them. Alter gritted his teeth, gripping the mounting brace on Ignivar's back. The world blurred.
They burst through the edge of the storm like a meteor, a shockwave of wind trailing behind them.
Ignivar spiraled to bleed speed, then snapped his wings wide to stabilize. Wind tore at them, but the chaos was gone.
They were free.
Above them, the clouds rumbled. Below, jagged terrain and distant peaks drifted through layers of mist. The sky still churned, lit by flickering arcs of lightning—but it was natural. The air was wild, but it made sense again.
Alter exhaled. His arms trembled slightly from strain, but he nodded to his partner. "Good work."
Ignivar didn't speak, but the tilt of his wings and the steady beat of flight carried his answer well enough.
They kept flying.
An hour passed. The storm gave way to calm. The skies opened, a pale sun breaking through a veil of silver clouds. The horizon stretched outward like a great canvas—and at the far edge, land came into view.
Forest-covered ridges, winding rivers, cliffs that fell into distant fog. A new continent. Unmapped. Unknown.
And near its center, rising quietly above the trees, stood a city.
"There," Alter said. "Head that way."
Ignivar banked into a slow arc, descending gradually as they approached the edge of civilization. Watchtowers flickered on the outskirts. A long stone wall ringed the lower terrain, tucked into the curve of a shallow valley. A road split from its gate, winding into the forest below.
"Set us down," Alter commanded. "Away from view."
They landed in a wide, empty clearing about a mile from the city's outer perimeter—just beyond the treeline. Wildflowers rustled beneath the dragon's shadow. The scent of pine filled the air.
Ignivar settled with a rumble and folded his wings.
"Rest now," Alter said softly.
The great fire dragon's body shimmered—breaking apart into radiant strands of light. The glowing particles coiled upward and were drawn into the tribal dragon mark on Alter's forehead. It flared red for a moment, pulsing with heat before fading.
Alter stood alone.
He adjusted his armor. Rolled his shoulders once. Cracked his neck.
His golden dragon eyes narrowed as he turned toward the city on the horizon.
"Let's get going, then."
And he walked forward—toward whatever waited in the world beyond the storm.
🌍 Beyond the Portal – Chapter One: Stranger Beneath New Skies
The forest floor whispered beneath Alter's steps.
Each footfall landed with purpose, yet no sound escaped the plated soles of his celestial boots. Trees parted before him in hushed reverence, the canopy overhead filtered light in fractured gold as he walked, slowly, calmly, toward the city rising in the valley below.
Though his body bore the weight of battle, ascension, and ancient bloodlines, there was no hesitation in his stride. His armor—the Sovereignborn Draconic Plate—gleamed beneath the new world's sun, silver-blue scales refracting the sky's reflection in silent promise. It moved with him like a second skin, a shell shaped from reverence and rebirth. Wing-shaped pauldrons swayed as he passed through tall grass. The dragon-wing mantle along his hips brushed the ground, trailing behind him like a king's cloak sewn from skyfire.
He was no longer a man alone.
He was the True Prime Dragonic Sovereign.
And the world had not yet caught up.
The city walls came into view after half an hour of steady travel—tall but aged, ringed in stone carved with unfamiliar symbols. Watchtowers flanked each gate, archers moving lazily along parapets, unaware of what approached. The city itself sprawled against the edge of a river, with three bridges spanning it—roads of trade and life, radiating from the central fortress like spokes of a wheel. Markets bustled within, faint shouts echoing out into the wilderness. Smoke from blacksmith chimneys curled upward into the clearing skies.
It was a living city.
And Alter walked toward it like a star fallen to earth.
The moment he stepped into view of the outer patrols, the wind changed.
The two gate guards, who had been talking in idle tones about a tavern brawl the night before, turned sharply as soon as the air shifted.
Their laughter died mid-breath.
The taller of the two reached instinctively for his weapon. The other froze, half-reaching for the horn on his belt.
But they did not raise their voices.
They couldn't.
The moment they looked upon Alter, their instincts screamed a single word—run.
His presence struck them like a thunderclap, though he had made no move. No gesture. No threat. Only walked.
The aura that hung around him was not violent. It wasn't cruel. But it was vast. Endless. Ancient.
Like standing beneath a dragon's wings in a canyon of flame.
Like staring up at the eye of a storm and knowing it sees you.
The nearer he came, the harder it became to breathe.
The guards pressed back toward the gate subconsciously, fingers curling around weapons they knew were useless.
Then he stopped—just twenty paces away. Still. Silent.
From this close, they could see every gleam of his armor.
The tribal markings that shimmered faintly at his hips.
The claws on his gauntlets.
The rack on his lower back, where a blade larger than most men was strapped in mounting locks.
The mask that covered his face, leaving only two slits for the burning gold of dragon eyes.
Time held its breath.
Then… something clicked.
A faint hiss of divine gears, a pulse of light—and his helmet retracted.
It didn't vanish. It unfolded, sliding back piece by piece in precise mechanical alignment. The dragon-faced helm didn't disintegrate; it coiled into a regal draconic head crest that rested on his upper back, horns still sweeping back along either side of his jawline like a crown that refused to fade.
His face—now visible—was young.
Too young.
A face unmarred by age, war, or time. Smooth skin, sharp angles, a trace of wildness in the eyes, but no sign of wear. It was the face of someone in his early twenties.
And yet…
The eyes told a different story.
Gold. Slit-pupiled. Alive with sovereignty. Those weren't the eyes of youth.
They were the eyes of something that had lived, died, risen, and remembered.
The guards could not speak. Not yet.
Then Alter tilted his head slightly, his lips curling just enough.
And in a tone far too casual for the aura he radiated, he said:
"Hi."
A beat.
"It seems I'm lost."
The guards blinked.
"Could someone tell me where I am… or maybe… what year it is?"
There was a long, horrified pause.
As if a dragon had just politely asked for directions to the nearest bakery.
The taller guard—the one with the mustache trembling against his upper lip—made a noise that might have been a question, or perhaps a death rattle.
The other took a cautious half-step forward, brow furrowed, lips parting slowly.
"…What skies did you fall from?"
Alter's brows lifted slightly in amusement.
"That's… a long story."
Then he held up both hands in a gesture of peace, claws visible but relaxed.
"I'm not here to cause trouble. Just need a little information. Maybe a map. A name. Something that'll tell me what world I've landed in."
Still silence.
Then the horn guard leaned toward his partner and whispered, perhaps a little too loudly:
"Did he just ask what year it is?!"
The other nodded slowly, his hand gripping his halberd like a man clinging to a raft in a typhoon.
"He did. And I think he meant it."
Alter shifted his weight and looked past them toward the city gates.
"Look, I can stand here and keep being dramatic, but I'd rather not. I've had a long flight. A bit of a fight. A few thousand dragons bowing. You know. Busy day."
A pause.
"You two can either let me in—or run. Either way, I'm walking through that gate."
Another silence.
Then both guards stiffened and saluted at once, fists slamming over their chests in synchronized panic.
"W-welcome, traveler!" the taller one choked out. "You may, uh, proceed through the gate! No interference! Please—don't disintegrate the walls!"
The smaller guard turned and began shouting toward the inner courtyard. "Sound the bell! Get the captain—NOW!"
Alter gave a slight bow, bemused.
"Much appreciated."
And with that, he strode past the guards—each step sending small tremors through the cobbled path—and entered the city of a world he did not yet know.
🌍 Beyond the Portal – Chapter One: Stranger Beneath New Skies (Continued)
Alter paused at the edge of the gate, just before crossing under the shadowed arch.
The wind had settled. The trees behind him rustled with faint memory, and the guards still stood frozen in a state between awe and cardiac arrest.
He glanced back at them.
"Actually, before I go in… one last thing."
They both flinched like someone had set off a divine judgment behind their eardrums.
Alter pointed at the horizon with a vague circular motion.
"Where exactly is this place?"
The mustached guard blinked.
"Uh…"
"I mean continent, city, region… something," Alter clarified, vaguely waving a clawed finger. "You know, the kind of thing travelers tend to write down before flying through planar rifts at Mach twelve."
The guards exchanged a glance.
Then the younger one, perhaps trying to be helpful in the face of celestial terror, quickly dug into his satchel and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
"A map, sir! Er—Your Highness? Uh… Exalted Skyborne?" he stammered, thrusting the map toward Alter with trembling fingers.
Alter raised a brow, took the map, and unfolded it.
To his relief, it wasn't written in demon-tongue or celestial runes—just plain old trade script, the kind taught to any merchant's apprentice or wandering bard.
He scanned it quickly.
There was Terravane, to the west—his home, once upon a time. He saw Seraveth to the east—where the Twelve Commanders trained under Takayoshi. Both continents felt distant now, veiled in memory and history.
And here—nestled in the bottom crescent of the map, carved with winding mountain ranges and vast forests—was a third continent. Southern. Remote. Separated by vast sea currents and dimensional chasms.
Its name was written in bold:
"Drakareth."
Alter repeated it aloud. "Drakareth…"
The older guard perked up, sensing less immediate incineration.
"Aye, that's this land. Drakareth, southern continent. You're currently standing outside Skyharbor City—capital of the central midlands."
Alter nodded slowly. "Skyharbor… and Drakareth… Right."
The guard cleared his throat.
"And… if I may, sir. This continent—Drakareth—was once known as the Land of Dragons. They say the old ones carved the skies here. The great flights went dormant centuries ago, but they're still revered. Shrines in nearly every province."
Alter raised a brow at that. "Still around?"
"Mostly asleep, according to lore," the younger one offered. "The people treat them like minor gods now. We offer flame-prayers during solstice festivals, and some knights still carry dragonbone relics from the old flights."
"Huh," Alter muttered. "Dormant dragons. Worshipped ones. That's… cute."
He handed the map back.
"Appreciate the geography lesson. Just making sure I'm not on the backside of the astral plane."
He turned again to the gate, ready to resume his dramatic entrance…
But stopped.
He frowned.
Then turned back around, one finger raised like he'd forgotten his keys.
"Wait. Sorry. One more thing."
The guards flinched again in synchronized despair.
Alter tilted his head.
"What year is it?"
The two guards visibly paled.
They looked at each other, then at him, then at the ground, then at some invisible deity to plead for guidance.
The older one finally spoke.
"Sir… uh… it is the third age of flame, year 7947. According to the southern calendar."
Alter blinked slowly. "…I don't remember what year it was when I left."
The guards stared, completely unsure what to say.
He rubbed his chin.
"I never really kept track. Calendars weren't a high priority when you're getting flung across time-locked realms by divine sentinels."
The mustached guard coughed. "Time-locked what?"
Alter waved it off. "Don't worry about it."
But something tugged at his mind. He narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight.
"Alright. If calendars are out… maybe events will help."
He leaned in slightly, and both guards instinctively pressed back against the gate wall.
"Do you know about the demon invasions? In Terravane and Seraveth?"
They both nodded quickly.
"Yes, my lord!" the younger said. "We heard news from across the sea. Two continents were nearly overrun. It sparked panic here as well—one of the southern rifts opened just outside the Ridge of Flame six years ago."
The older nodded gravely. "We lost hundreds before the dragon guardians stirred. They answered the flame-call, drove back the demons, and sealed the rift."
Alter blinked.
"The dragons here woke up?"
"A few of the shrines activated, yes," the mustached one replied. "They say three guardian dragons fought together to close the breach. After that, the continent fell silent again."
Alter processed this slowly.
Then asked, voice quieter:
"How long ago did that happen?"
"Six years, sir."
"…Six years?" Alter repeated, like the words had stabbed him.
He stood motionless.
The leaves rustled quietly behind him. A breeze swept through the trees. The sun moved an inch across the sky.
He exhaled.
"Six years…"
He closed his eyes briefly. The Trial of Ascension… the Forbidden Vein… time had no frame there. Each moment could have been a heartbeat or a century. The skies had no sun. The moon never changed. His entire being had been forged across flame, storm, and void—but never once had he considered the cost in real time.
"They've been fighting that long… without me."
His eyes reopened, golden slits burning brighter than before.
Then he gave the guards a polite nod.
"Thank you."
Without another word, he turned and walked through the gate.
The city reacted as though a god had stepped into a farmer's market.
People froze. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Coins dropped from shaking hands. A woman dropped a basket of fruit. Somewhere, a child pointed with a half-eaten pastry and whispered, "Mommy, is that a boss monster?"
The guards behind him didn't say a word.
They were too busy wondering if their grandchildren would believe the story.
🏙️ Scene – A Dragon Walks Into Town
The moment Alter stepped through the iron-framed gates of Skyharbor, the air shifted.
It wasn't magical—at least not in the spellwork sense—but it felt like the entire city had drawn a breath and forgot how to exhale. Conversations died mid-sentence. Pots clanged against stone. A fruit vendor holding a pear stared with such intensity that the pear quietly rolled out of their hand and plopped to the ground.
Alter, the freshly ascended True Prime Dragonic Sovereign, casually walked down the main thoroughfare like he was just another lost tourist.
The difference?
He wore silver-blue celestial draconic plate, etched with sigils lost to time. A tribal insignia glowed on his forehead. Draconic scales shimmered faintly along his fingers and neck. And his eyes—those golden slit pupils—were the kind of thing one might find staring at you just before divine judgment.
"...Okay, this is definitely not Terravane," Alter muttered as he turned a corner, pausing before a fountain shaped like a coiled dragon mid-flight. "No floating temples, no ruined amphitheaters, no twelve-foot statues of war heroes flexing."
He squinted at the skyline. Everything looked different.
The architecture was softer here—graceful, even. Buildings curved upward like dragon wings in mid-lift. Homes and towers were shaped in spirals, built with polished volcanic stone and pale crystal inlay. Stained glass shimmered along arched windows, not in depictions of saints or gods—but dragons.
Dragons napping in clouds.
Dragons gifting rain to fields.
Dragons coiled protectively around cities.
"Huh. Worshipping dragons as gods," he murmured. "I'd feel flattered if that didn't mean I technically count now."
He took a few steps further and immediately sidestepped a screaming child who ran past him with a paper dragon kite. The kite froze mid-air, suspended for a moment as its string slackened, and the child skidded to a halt—staring up at Alter with pure wonder.
"Mom! Mom! He looks like the shrine dragon statue in the plaza—except alive! And hotter!"
"WHAT?" came a distant, horrified voice.
🍡 Marketplace Misunderstandings
Alter continued into what seemed to be the central bazaar, marveling at how little it resembled the stone-clad, industrial cities of Terravane or the glass-like spires of Seraveth. Here, colors ruled.
Fabric awnings fluttered above rows of shops. Incense drifted from fire-warmed lanterns. A merchant waved an oddly curved pastry in his face.
"Care for a flaming wyrm roll, stranger? Guaranteed to sear your tongue and cleanse your soul!"
"Tempting," Alter grinned, "but I'm not sure I still have either of those."
As he passed a smithy, a blacksmith polishing a crystalline sword looked up—froze—then slowly, reverently dropped to one knee. His apprentice peeked out behind him, took one look at Alter, and immediately followed.
"...I don't think I've walked this straight-backed since my coronation," Alter muttered, arching an eyebrow at another baker who knelt mid-dough, flour-covered hands trembling. "This is going to get exhausting."
🏛️ The Guild Building – Divine Chaos
Eventually, after another block of majestic dragon statues, vine-covered towers, and a woman loudly whispering "That's gotta be one of the Progenitors," Alter stopped.
Before him stood a massive three-tiered structure—ivory pillars shaped like curling dragon tails, banners rippling in the breeze.
Above the arched entryway read:
"Skyharbor Adventurer's Guild – Sanctuary of Flame and Flight"
Alter tilted his head.
"A guild, huh?" he mused aloud. "It's either this… or keep pretending I'm not drawing attention like a comet in a wine cellar."
He stepped forward.
"Let's see how this goes."
The moment Alter pushed open the doors, time stopped.
Inside, the guild was alive with adventurers—some polishing gear, others eating, betting, arguing. Voices ricocheted like music through the massive stone hall.
But the instant the doors creaked open, the entire room froze mid-bite, mid-step, mid-yell.
A spoon clattered.
A coin bounced once on a wooden table—then fell silent.
Alter stepped inside with casual stride, pausing in the doorway. His armor gave off a subtle golden shimmer as the overhead crystal lanterns reflected off his pauldrons. The floor beneath his boots didn't creak. It resonated.
One poor clerk behind the front desk choked on her tea.
"Oh no," she whispered. "It's happening again…"
"Wait… who is that?" a rogue muttered.
"I don't know, but I think my soul just bent the knee."
"Did his hair just move like fire?"
"Bro, his armor has a mounting rack. That's advanced class nonsense."
"Shut up and bow!"
Alter walked to the center of the room and just… looked around.
"Nice place," he said casually. "Good lighting. Less blood on the floor than I expected."
Someone in the corner gasped. A warrior dropped his warhammer. The barkeep ducked under the counter. The guild receptionist tried to find her panic button but accidentally pressed the intercom.
"DIVINE PRESENCE DETECTED. INITIATING ANCESTRAL PROTOCOL."
"Wait—what?!" Alter blinked. "That was not me!"
The room went completely dark for three seconds.
Then a voice from the walls began playing:
"Welcome, O Winged Flame. He Who Bears the Sovereign Flame. He Whose Eyes Burn with the Light of Stars—"
"Nope," Alter said, turning to the crowd with both hands up. "That is absolutely not my title. Nobody call me that."
"—He Who Walks Between Realms, Lord of the—"
"Okay seriously shut it down—"
System override: Sovereign Prime Registered.
The entire room was bathed in a soft gold light. Dozens of adventurers knelt involuntarily.
A few cried.
A few passed out.
One archer just whispered, "I'm not even religious but I'm converting now."
😂 Closing Beat
Alter looked around at the now utterly devastated guild lobby, his hands still half-raised.
"Okay…" he said slowly. "Maybe I should've just asked someone for a pamphlet."
He stepped forward to the main desk, leaned down to the pale-faced receptionist, and said in the most cheerful tone he could manage:
"Hi. I'm new. Can I speak to someone about registering for… local activities?"
The poor woman blinked. "...Are you a god?"
"Nope."
He winked.
"Just visiting."
🏛️ Scene – The Guildmaster's Awakening
The silence that followed Alter's registration attempt lasted approximately four heartbeats before chaos erupted behind the scenes.
The front desk receptionist—still pale and trying to remember how breathing worked—didn't answer. Instead, she slammed her hand on a crystal-embedded brass orb behind the desk.
The orb pulsed once.
A faint whummm echoed from deep within the walls.
A few seconds later, from the second-floor corridor, the double doors of the Guildmaster's Office burst open with an audible boom.
"WHAT IS IT NOW—WHO IN THE NAME OF THE HIGH COUNCIL KEEPS TRIGGERING THE DIVINE ALERT SYSTEM?!"
The voice belonged to a man halfway between middle-aged and immortally stressed. Cloaked in silver-trimmed robes with faint ember runes along the hem, he looked like someone who'd wrestled bureaucracy, monsters, and three forms of paperwork in the same hour. His hair, graying but voluminous, was tied back in a chaotic braid.
His eyes landed on Alter—just standing there, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised.
The Guildmaster froze.
He didn't scream.
He didn't kneel.
He did, however, blink so hard it looked like his soul momentarily tried to log out.
"...Please," the Guildmaster said flatly, turning to the receptionist, "tell me that's just a new ceremonial cosplayer from the shrine festival."
"Sir," she whispered, "he broke the divine override system just by entering."
"...Wonderful," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not even noon."
⚖️ A Meeting of Titans and Tired Clerks
The Guildmaster descended the staircase like a man preparing to meet his death—or worse, a god with a paperwork request.
He approached Alter with every ounce of dignity a man could muster while his entire guild was still frozen in reverent horror.
"Greetings, Sovere—ah, visitor. I am Master Kaedros Vallin, Guild Overseer of Skyharbor."
Alter offered a brief smile and extended a hand.
"Alter. Traveler. Recently landed from… very far away."
Kaedros cautiously shook the hand, surprised to find it warm. Solid. No divine light scorching his skin. Just a firm, mortal handshake.
"You said you're registering?"
"I thought about it," Alter replied. "But now that you mention it, I might've… caused a scene."
Behind him, a paladin was still praying.
Kaedros waved his hand and barked, "Somebody give that man a muffin and tell him to stop apologizing to the floorboards!"
He turned back to Alter.
"You didn't just cause a scene, you woke the Shrine Bell. That hasn't happened since the celestial comet sighting of Year 1187. Which was, for the record, a hoax involving three mages, a bottle of soulwine, and a floating sheep."
Alter stifled a laugh.
"Sounds like a guild I'd want to join."
"Maker preserve me," Kaedros muttered. "Fine. Let's talk somewhere less likely to induce mass devotion."
🛋️ Private Office – The Decompression Room
Kaedros led Alter into his personal office—an expansive chamber filled with maps, glowing runes, and an unhealthy amount of locked drawers. A small tea set sat on the table, along with a half-eaten cheese bun.
Kaedros gestured toward a cushioned seat. Alter sat, politely.
Then the Guildmaster collapsed into his own chair and stared at him like a man staring into the eye of a god… and realizing the god wanted directions.
"So," Kaedros said slowly, "you show up out of nowhere wearing the most advanced armor I've seen since the War of Wyrmkind, set off divine alarms just by being here, and ask what year it is as if time's a suggestion."
"It is, in some places," Alter replied honestly.
"Of course it is," Kaedros sighed.
He poured himself tea. His hand trembled. The cup clinked.
"You're not… planning on attacking anyone, are you?"
"Only if someone attacks me first," Alter said, folding his arms. "Or if they threaten dragons."
Kaedros's eyes narrowed.
"You're a dragonkin?"
"Something like that."
"...You rode in on one, didn't you?"
"Big. Fire-breathing. Wings like solar flares."
"Heavens above," Kaedros whispered. "That was you?"
"Mm."
"That thing broke through five weather wards and scared off an entire migration of storm hawks."
"Didn't mean to. We were aiming for subtle."
Kaedros sipped his tea and muttered, "You failed. Heroically."
📚 Questions, Answers, and a Hunch
Kaedros leaned forward, tapping a glowing rune on the desk. A three-dimensional map of Drakareth unfolded in midair.
"You said you came from outside. From where, exactly?"
Alter paused. His golden slit pupils scanned the floating lands. He lifted a hand and pointed to a distant blank space beyond the map's edge.
"There."
"That's the maelstrom. No one goes there."
"We did."
Kaedros stared for a long moment.
"What exactly… are you here for?"
Alter smiled faintly.
"To see if the world's still worth saving."
Kaedros blinked. That was not the answer he was expecting.
"You're serious."
"Deadly."
"Then I hope you don't mind attention," Kaedros muttered. "Because this continent already has whispers of 'dragon saviors' from the old shrine prophecies. If word gets out that someone matching the prophecy casually walked into Skyharbor—"
"Too late."
Kaedros looked toward the door, where multiple sets of ears were pressed against the wood. Whispering, scribbling, praying.
"Right," Kaedros sighed. "Too late."
🧭 Offerings and Options
He tapped a crystal switch embedded in his desk. A list of assignments appeared—ranging from lost cat retrieval to rogue necromancer extermination.
"I'm assuming you're not here to herd sheep or clear rats from cellars?"
"Not unless they're demon-possessed," Alter replied dryly.
"...I'll just skip to the category labeled 'Apocalyptic.'"
He scrolled.
Paused.
Scrolled again.
"Ah, this one. There's a temple ruin outside the western cliffs. Something's been stirring in the deeper layers. Monsters acting out of sync. Time distortions. A few adventurers reported sightings of… dragons."
Alter's brow rose.
"Dormant kin?"
"Maybe. Or echoes of them. I'd rather someone qualified look into it."
Alter stood.
"Then I'll take it."
Kaedros sighed again. "You don't need to do everything yourself, you know."
"I don't plan to. But if the world still whispers about dragons…"
He turned to the door.
"Then it's time they heard one roar again."
🛕 Scene – The Shrine of the Silent Roar
The bronze-inlaid doors of Skyharbor's guild closed behind Alter with a gentle thud, muffled slightly by the murmurs still trailing him like startled echoes.
Kaedros had been generous with information, and amused enough to hand him a satchel of local guides and a recommended tea spot—as if divine emissaries often needed directions to shrines.
Alter chuckled to himself as he walked beneath the canopied thoroughfare. Skyharbor was a marvel in its own right.
Where the cities of Terravane had towering walls of stone and Seraveth shimmered with arcane elegance, Skyharbor flourished in open breath and ancient reverence. Its streets were carved from silvered obsidian, polished and etched with soft-glowing runes. Homes were shaped like coiled waves or arched wings, structures built not to defy nature, but to harmonize with it.
And towering above all—crowned atop a terraced rise veiled in sacred fog—was the one building Alter felt drawn toward like a heartbeat in his bones.
The Shrine of Dragons.
🐉 The Awakening Hall
Alter's boots made no sound on the mist-veiled staircase that led to the shrine. Civilians parted instinctively, whispering with awe as they saw his draconic armor shimmer beneath the high sun. His golden pupils swept the surroundings like an ancient specter returned to mortal lands.
Then, the doors opened.
Not by hands. Not by force.
By recognition.
The twin gates of silver and basalt glowed softly, then swung inward as if the wind of time itself bowed to him.
Within the shrine was a cathedral of stone, scale, and silence.
Pillars shaped like coiled wyrms spiraled toward the dome high above. Candles floated in gentle orbits. Ancient murals of draconic warfare, celestial accords, and the founding of Drakareth sprawled across the curved ceiling.
There were dozens of others inside—monks, pilgrims, local families with incense bundles. They turned as Alter stepped through the threshold.
Then, it happened.
The air hummed.
Every dragon statue lining the shrine's central corridor—massive effigies of fire, wind, earth, light, and storm wyrms—lit up at once. A deep azure light shone from their carved eyes. Some exhaled radiant fog from their nostrils. Others emitted faint roars that stirred the banners hung along the columns.
People gasped. One woman dropped her offering bowl.
Alter blinked once.
"...They're welcoming me."
He stepped forward slowly.
With every step, the glow intensified—not as a threat, but as recognition. As if the very shrine itself remembered his soul.
At the heart of the hall stood a circular dais, engraved with a seven-pointed seal—each point representing one of the prime dragon aspects. Alter stopped within its center.
Then came the voice.
🔊 The Ancients Speak
At first, it was a whisper, like a breeze across worn stone.
Then, many voices joined—some deep as oceans, others sharp as wind through mountain peaks. Their syllables twisted at first, layered and indistinct, before converging into a single harmonic pulse that echoed through the shrine.
"Zar'thuun… vey'ol… Krah'vin dral'Zharal…"
The statues vibrated as the voice grew clearer, rearranging itself into words both ancient and divine.
"We welcome thee, True Prime Dragonic Sovereign... born of dual flame and storm… soul of harmony, breath of cataclysm."
A hush fell over the hall. Every living soul dropped to their knees.
Even the monks—ancient and hardened in discipline—bowed their foreheads to the stone floor.
But Alter smiled, his draconic eyes softening.
He tilted his head, then replied.
"Vahn'ur delathor, shaal'ven thuul."
(And I return to you, elders of flame and wind.)
His voice, carried on breath touched by dragon heritage, resonated with a deep tone that turned every flickering flame in the hall still.
The statues pulsed once more in reverence.
"The sovereign returns… after eons sealed in the Vein. We have watched… remembered… and kept the flame alive."
Alter looked up, his gaze tracing the high murals where dragons once soared above titanic mountain ranges now lost to time.
"Tell me," he said in the tongue of his kind, "what has become of this land? What stories do your stones still keep?"
📖 The Living Archive
The shrine darkened—or rather, the light narrowed to focus on the center dais.
And then, from the ceiling murals and statue-carved walls, glowing tendrils of magic extended outward, painting the air with illusion.
Drakareth—once a continent where dragons flew freely—was revealed in a flowing vision.
Six Dragon Shrines, each tied to a different element, once governed the land in harmony with mortals.
The dragons withdrew into slumber centuries ago to prevent divine manipulation.
In their absence, humanity raised temples, cities, and tributes in their honor.
Demonic rifts appeared nearly a decade ago, but the Shrine Guardians—echoes of draconic power—awakened just enough to fight them back.
The rifts were closed—but the continent was never the same.
Prophecies began to circulate of a sovereign who would return not to awaken dragons… but to lead them.
"You have returned at the time foretold, Sovereign," the statues said in unison, their eyes gleaming brighter.
"The winds shift. The sky cracks. And the blood of dragons… stirs once more."
Alter stood silently as the vision faded. The hall dimmed. The people still knelt.
And then, with quiet reverence, he turned his gaze upon the statues once more.
"Then let the skies bear witness," Alter said softly in Draconic.
"The Sovereign has come home."
🌆 Scene – The Sovereign's Echo
The Shrine of Dragons stood still in the midday light, its great double doors closed once more—but something had changed.
Something unseen… yet undeniably felt.
Like the breath between thunder and its echo.
And that echo began to ripple.
🏙️ City Pulse – Skyharbor Whispers
It began with whispers among the shrine monks, passed in hushed reverence to the shrine guards, who told the incense merchants, who told the food vendors just outside the shrine gates.
"He spoke in ancient dragon tongue."
"No, not spoke—conversed."
"The statues glowed. All of them!"
"He stood in the center seal, and they called him… what was it? The Prime Sovereign?"
"And the dragons responded. Not visions—real energy."
By the time Alter had walked two streets away from the shrine, the first rumors had begun to spread.
By the time he reached the lower markets, they were legends.
And by sunset, the name Alter had reached every inn, tea stall, bathhouse, and rune-fueled news crystal within a dozen miles.
🍵 Innkeeper Conspiracies
Inside a tea house called The Blooming Ember, two retired adventurers leaned over a steaming pot.
"You see his armor?"
"Looked like it was forged by the gods."
"You think he's a god?"
"Nah. But he smelled like dragons."
"You smelled him?"
"I was behind him in line. You don't forget that scent. It's like… ozone and lava and honor."
The innkeeper, polishing glasses nearby, muttered under his breath.
"Storm above, we're gonna be full for weeks."
🛕 Shrine Prophets React
In a smaller shrine dedicated to foresight, a blind oracle sat trembling, runes etched across her palms glowing erratically.
"It was him," she whispered. "The one from the sun-dreams. The sovereign wrapped in scales of silver and blue… born not of time, but from the breath between worlds."
Her acolytes exchanged panicked glances. One of them bolted to the guild.
🧵 Marketplace Mayhem
Artisans began sculpting miniature versions of Alter's armor before they even confirmed his name.
"You sure that's what his mask looked like?"
"Positive. I sketched it. Look, right here—dragon horn sweep, layered jawlines, the visor flares just so."
"You think kids will want Sovereign masks?"
"Not just kids. Everyone."
A cloak merchant pinned a banner with a stylized dragon crest over her stall.
"Guaranteed Sovereign Style or your coin back."
📜 Guild Records Update – Emergency Addendum
Back at the guild, Kaedros Vallin stood before the administrative crystal, rubbing his temples.
"They've already renamed the tea district to 'Sovereign's Crossing.' That happened in the last hour."
His assistant blinked. "That's… fast."
"We'll have thirty new registrations by morning from people claiming distant dragon ancestry. And seven active parties just requested missions near ancient ruins 'in case the Sovereign needs help.'"
"Should I... approve them?"
Kaedros exhaled through his nose.
"Why not. If we're going to ride this storm, might as well do it with momentum."
He tapped the record crystal, adding a new category:
Global Rank: Mythic (Confirmed – Draconic Sovereign)
Name: Alter
Status: Unaligned – Draconic Guardian Class. Interaction Advised.
He hesitated… then added a personal note.
Warning: Not hostile. But very, very serious about dragons.
📣 The Sovereign Sightings
Alter himself walked through the city without fanfare—at least, as little as one could manage when cloaked in divine aura and draconic energy.
Children peeked from alleyways.
Elder scholars abandoned scroll readings just to watch him pass.
At one point, a street bard paused his song to quickly compose a new verse:
"From skies unknown and stars gone dim,
He came with fire 'neath armored limb.
The Sovereign walks, the ground now still—
May dragon's breath bend to his will."
Alter, amused, dropped a coin in the bard's hat. The bard fainted.
🌌 Atop the Tower
As dusk bathed Skyharbor in orange light, Alter stood atop one of the upper spires, gazing over the skyline.
He could feel it—energy.
Not divine. Not demonic.
But draconic.
Ancient dragon remnants. Dormant powers. Lost kin.
Something was calling. Stirring. Like the world itself waited to exhale.
His voice was quiet, but the wind carried it.
"They remember. Even after all this time."
Behind his golden pupils, he saw echoes. Of winged cities, of flame-wreathed spires, of thunder-scarred skies.
"Then I will answer. I will wake them."
The stars blinked to life.
The people slept.
But the city dreamed of dragons.
🐉 Scene – Wings Over Drakareth
The gates of Skyharbor stood behind him like watchful sentinels, their silver-and-black stone reflecting the amber hues of a waning sun. Alter strode down the gentle slope beyond the outer walls, the long trail of his scaled battle-kilt rustling faintly in the breeze.
Behind him, footsteps.
Not one pair. Dozens.
Civilians, acolytes, adventurers, shrine keepers, and even a handful of children followed at a cautious distance. Some held sketchpads. Others whispered like they were walking in the wake of a comet.
"He's leaving…"
"Did you see the shrine light up earlier?"
"I swear the statues bowed."
"Where's he going now?"
Alter said nothing.
He didn't need to.
His draconic aura whispered volumes in the wind. And when he paused on a grassy rise just beyond the city's outer farms, a few among the crowd instinctively stopped in place, sensing what was to come.
He stood there quietly, facing the open fields of Drakareth—a realm both ancient and unknown to him. And for a brief moment, the wind around him stilled.
Then he reached up… and touched the tribal dragon mark glowing faintly on his forehead.
"Come."
A pulse of light ignited from the sigil—deep crimson edged in solar gold. The air around Alter shimmered like it had been set aflame by breath unseen. Then the light leapt from his brow and spiraled upward, growing and expanding until it stretched wide across the sky.
A draconic roar thundered across the plains, shaking the ground gently beneath the crowd's feet.
From the sigil-born light, a form began to take shape—immense, regal, and wreathed in fire.
🔥 The Return of Ignivar
Ignivar, the Flameborne Apex, emerged from the light in a blaze of molten gold and obsidian crimson.
His wings spread wide—each one casting shadows across the field as if eclipsing the very sun. Flames curled from his nostrils. Molten-glass scales shimmered along his flanks like living armor. His tail swept once and left a heated shimmer in the air behind him.
The crowd gasped.
Several stumbled back. A few dropped to their knees. Even the hardened adventurers froze at the sheer majesty of the creature before them.
Ignivar landed beside Alter with a single heavy beat of his wings, causing the grasses to ripple in all directions. His claws dug into the earth with practiced ease.
His enormous head lowered, golden ember-eyes gazing toward his rider.
"You called, Sovereign," came the voice—deep, resonant, and projected directly into Alter's mind and soul.
Alter smirked faintly, placing a hand on Ignivar's warm-scaled cheek.
"The dragons of this land… they still sleep."
Ignivar blinked, his eye narrowing with interest.
"Dormant?"
Alter nodded. "Worshipped. Revered. But mostly forgotten in truth. They defended this realm six years ago… then returned to slumber. No one has seen them since."
Ignivar growled softly, fire flickering across his throat.
"So the echoes remain, but the roar has faded."
Alter turned his gaze toward the far-off ridges that marked the horizon.
"Not for long. The statues in the shrine knew me. Spoke to me. Welcomed me. This land… remembers dragons. And if they remember, they can awaken."
Ignivar rumbled with approval.
"Then let us remind them what it means to soar."
Alter nodded and turned to glance over his shoulder.
The crowd still stood there, now dead silent. Many had dropped what they carried. Others just stood… stunned.
He gave them a slight two-finger wave from his gauntlet.
"I'll be back," he said casually, before turning and walking toward his dragon.
With fluid motion, Alter leapt upward—his foot catching an invisible airstep formed by his aura. With another short burst of wind, he landed atop Ignivar's back, where a narrow groove was naturally molded between the great horns that crowned the dragon's head.
He sat easily, his long cloak fluttering behind him.
"Let's head for the western cliffs. The shrine voices hinted at ruins buried beneath the mountain spines. It might be time to stir old bones."
Ignivar let out a low, rumbling chuckle.
"I've been waiting to burn something again."
Then, with a roar loud enough to stir the leaves from nearby trees, Ignivar launched skyward.
The crowd below shielded their eyes from the twin flares of wingbeat and firetrail. Some cried out in awe. Others wept openly. All of them—every single soul—watched the figure ascending into the crimson sky, carried by a dragon that belonged only to the legends of old.
Alter, silhouetted by the sun, vanished beyond the clouds.
🏔️ Scene – Cliffs of the Forgotten Flame
The wind howled across the serrated peaks of Drakareth's western cliffs—violent, biting, and ever shifting like a living barrier. Few dared fly through these skies. Fewer still returned.
But this wind parted.
It parted because something older had returned to it. Something the cliffs themselves remembered.
A shadow streaked across the sky—a burning sigil etched across the clouds.
Ignivar cleaved through the winds like a comet trailing flame, carrying Alter atop his back. The Sovereign's cloak snapped in the wind, and his dragon eyes scanned the horizon with glinting gold.
Below them, jagged mountains twisted like petrified waves frozen mid-crash. Old stone temples, half-buried by time, peeked from ridgelines and broken mesas. Some were swallowed by vines. Others glowed faintly—wards that should've long faded still flickering in defiance of age.
Alter narrowed his eyes.
"There. Beneath the serpent ridge."
Ignivar banked hard, folding his wings partially as they dove. The wind roared. The earth rose up fast.
And then—wings flared. Impact softened.
They landed in a wide hollow of stone, where a plateau opened before a colossal ruin. It was carved into the mountain face itself—an arched entryway thirty feet tall, flanked by two crumbled dragon statues whose heads had long since shattered.
A massive glyph pulsed above the arch—dormant for centuries—now flickering faintly in reaction to Alter's presence.
He stepped down from Ignivar's back, boots crunching against ancient gravel. His breath misted in the cold air as he looked toward the temple entrance.
"This place… feels like a memory."
Ignivar's voice rumbled softly.
"I remember stories. A conclave once stood here. The kind that chose peace over conquest."
Alter turned slightly.
"Not all dragons craved dominion?"
"No. Some sought to preserve the balance. To guard life… from gods and demons alike."
Alter nodded, then stepped toward the gate.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold of the temple's outer ring, the glyph above the arch ignited—a beam of pure golden light shot into the sky like a beacon.
The air grew heavy.
The ground trembled.
The doors… creaked open.
🛕 Inside the Forgotten Temple
The hallway within was immense—its walls covered in dragon script, faded murals, and worn reliefs of dragon-kind soaring over mountains and oceans.
Each step Alter took echoed like thunder.
Magic pulsed beneath the surface—old magic. Elemental threads of fire, wind, stone, and storm danced in the very breath of the air. His presence was stirring the bones of the mountain.
Then, a sudden flare of light.
The central chamber bloomed before him—circular, massive, with seven braziers circling the room. At the center stood a pedestal surrounded by concentric rings of etched runes.
Alter approached carefully, eyes flicking to each brazier. Each was shaped to resemble a draconic aspect:
Fire – shaped like a horned serpent wreathed in molten flame
Ice – a serpentine wyrm frozen in prayer
Wind – wings fully unfurled in silent motion
Earth – head bowed low, spine carved of obsidian
Light – etched in crystal filigree, glowing faintly
Shadow – obscured partially, cracked in half
Storm – a sleek drake leaping forward with lightning crackling from fangs
As Alter reached the center, the runes glowed faintly. Then the pedestal shifted—rising slowly to reveal a recessed circle, pulsing with warm golden energy.
"Place your hand," a voice whispered.
Not from a speaker. Not even from the air.
From the stone.
Alter obeyed, pressing his clawed palm against the central seal.
The chamber exploded in light.
🔮 The Echoes Awaken
Images flooded his mind.
He saw ancient dragons—massive and wise—gathered around this very room. A conclave. Council of the Flame-Guarded Pact.
They had sealed away knowledge. Hidden their young. Buried their legacies here.
Why?
"Because we foresaw the world's unraveling," the voices echoed. "And we chose to preserve, not perish."
He saw flashes of titanic battles—dragonkind fighting gods, demons, even their own corrupted kin. He saw the creation of vaults beneath Drakareth, filled with artifacts and eggs, sealed in divine runes.
"You who awaken us… bear our mark. Our blood. Our breath."
A faint silhouette formed before him—one of flame and memory.
A dragon, translucent and regal.
"Sovereign of All Skies… are you ready to reclaim what we once hid?"
Alter's voice was low, steady.
"Yes."
The flame-dragon bowed its head.
"Then let the vaults open, and let dragonkind rise again."
The seven braziers erupted in elemental fire—one by one—casting shadows that danced like spirits around the walls. The temple itself shuddered, and a pulse of energy rippled outward from beneath the chamber floor.
Deep below… ancient gears turned.
🌀 Back at Skyharbor
At the same moment, shrines across the continent pulsed.
Elders gasped. Oracles fell to their knees.
Somewhere in the far reaches of Drakareth, an egg that had been dormant for six centuries cracked open.
In the guild hall, Kaedros snapped upright from his ledgers.
"Oh no. He found something."
🐉 Back at the Ruins
Alter pulled his hand back from the pedestal.
He could feel it now—a pathway buried beneath the cliffs. Something old and waiting.
He turned to Ignivar, who stood quietly at the edge of the chamber, flames licking from his breath.
"The vaults are still intact."
"Then we begin the awakening."
Alter nodded once.
His eyes flashed gold. And in the distance, he heard a low rumble echo across the mountains.
A dragon's roar.
👑 Scene – The Crown Awakens
High above the golden spires of Veyr'Zhalar, the capital of Drakareth, the evening sky gleamed with twin moons reflected off rooftops of sapphire-tile and obsidian glass. The city stretched across a highland mesa cradled by cliffs and rivers, its architecture laced with dragon motifs—stone wings, winding scales, and luminous glyphs carved from bygone eras.
At the center of the city rose Aetherflame Palace, a spiraling citadel built into the flank of an extinct volcano—said to be the resting place of one of the last Shrine Dragons.
And within its grand hall, beneath a vaulted ceiling of starlight crystal, the Royal Family of Drakareth sat around a long table adorned in redgold, dragonbone, and steaming platters of cloud-stew and smoked wyrm-flesh.
King Vael'Zarion, a silver-eyed man with broad shoulders and a timeless air, set down his chalice as the room suddenly stilled.
Queen Elanra—graceful, veiled in a sapphire hood—paused mid-toast.
The two princes, Kaelen and Ryvar, stopped their playful banter.
And the youngest of them, Princess Alyxthia, lowered her fork and stared up at the ceiling as if some hidden chord had been plucked in her soul.
A sudden pressure rolled through the room. Like thunder without sound.
A pulse—raw, ancient, and undeniable.
"...Dragon authority," the Queen whispered.
"Not just any," the King said, rising slowly. "A sovereign class."
They all stood—chairs scraping back with ritual sharpness.
Then—
BANG!
The great side doors of the dining chamber burst open.
A court messenger stumbled through, still panting, his travel cloak soaked with rain and sweat. He dropped to one knee, his scroll case nearly falling from his belt.
"Your Majesties—!"
The King raised a calm hand. His voice was deep, steady as a forge.
"Breathe. Then speak. You're among kin."
The man exhaled shakily. Then, with practiced clarity:
"A phenomenon reported from Skyharbor… less than an hour past. A foreign armored warrior entered the Grand Shrine of the Flameborne Kin. All statues… reacted to him."
The royal family went still.
"They lit with draconic resonance. He was welcomed. By name. By language. The voices called him—" the messenger hesitated, eyes wide, "—the True Prime Dragonic Sovereign."
A silence like a blade filled the chamber.
"He responded. In ancient dragon-tongue. Fluent."
"Impossible," muttered Prince Ryvar, glancing at his elder brother.
Prince Kaelen stepped forward, frowning. "Is this verified?"
"Eyewitness reports confirm it. Several priests fainted. The shrine's protective enchantments all yielded to him."
Queen Elanra's eyes widened slightly. "He bore the mark, then."
Princess Alyxthia stepped to the window, her gaze piercing the distant mountains.
"It's him. The one in my dream," she said softly.
King Vael'Zarion strode forward to the head of the chamber. He snapped his fingers once.
A captain of the royal guard stepped from a shadowed alcove, kneeling swiftly.
"Your command, my King?"
"Dispatch the 6th Division. Have them ride within the hour to Skyharbor. The Captain will approach this so-called Sovereign with due honor and caution."
"Objective?"
"Observe him. Gauge his intent. And if he is not hostile… invite him to Veyr'Zhalar."
The Queen stepped to her husband's side, her voice cool and composed.
"He must meet the royal bloodline. If the dragons acknowledge him, we must know why."
Prince Kaelen gave a single, crisp nod.
"If he's a fraud, we'll know. But if he's not—"
"Then the age of dragons," the King finished, "is not yet over."
🐉 Scene – Vault of the Forgotten Flame
The descent was long.
Beneath the fractured spires of the cliffside ruins, hidden beyond weathered statues of dragons lost to time, Alter stepped into a stone maw sealed for centuries. Each step down the spiral corridor echoed not with sound—but with resonance. The walls thrummed faintly, reacting to his presence. Glyphs that once lay dormant flickered with light, casting hues of amber and azure across the curved granite.
It was not just a passageway.
It was a throat—and Alter was being welcomed into the heart of something ancient.
The air grew warmer as he descended.
Steam hissed from cracks along the walls. Faint trails of molten energy pulsed through channels beneath the floor like veins feeding a slumbering beast.
At the base of the descent, the stairs ended in a massive circular door, encrusted with three concentric dragon seals—fire, storm, and light. The final seal glowed red the moment Alter raised his palm. His tribal dragon mark responded, blazing briefly with sovereign flare.
The door did not creak.
It inhaled—a slow pull of air as the stone parted in perfect silence, revealing a vast subterranean chamber.
🔥 The Vault of the Forgotten Flame
It stretched wide—wider than any cathedral, lit by thousands of small flame orbs suspended like fireflies frozen mid-flight. At the far end rose a mural made of molten glass and radiant crystal, depicting the six Shrine Dragons of old in a coiling dance across the sky. Beneath their forms were etched what looked like mortal warriors—not riding, but walking beside the dragons.
Alter stepped forward, footsteps echoing.
In the center of the vault stood a raised altar—a draconic pedestal forged from obsidian, copper, and divine-infused scales.
Upon it rested three relics.
A fragmented crown—shaped from fused dragon horns.
A draconian pauldron etched with ancient battle runes.
A sealed tablet, wrapped in crystalline chains.
Alter narrowed his eyes, stepping to the pedestal.
"This place… wasn't made for worship," he muttered aloud. "It's a memory. A message."
As if on cue, the flames in the room flared once. The air warped above the altar. Then came the voice.
Not one.
Six.
Distorted, echoing as if spoken across realms. But familiar. Ancient. Resonant.
"Prime Sovereign... your blood has stirred the last embers."
"We are the echoes of the Flameborne Pact. The guardians before you. The brothers and sisters who bore the skies in the first war."
"You stand where we once fell."
Alter remained silent. His golden dragon eyes focused sharply as the flames swirled.
"The relics you see... are not weapons. They are burdens. Proof of betrayal, of sacrifice. The world has forgotten them."
"But you are not of this world… not anymore."
Alter stepped closer to the mural. He reached up and touched the etched depiction of one of the Shrine Dragons. The moment his finger made contact, heat surged through his arm—but it did not burn.
It recognized him.
"I'll remember them," Alter said quietly. "Tell me what happened here."
The voices grew clearer now. The flames condensed around the mural like memory coalescing into form.
"Once, this continent bore the full legacy of dragonkind. The Shrine Dragons guided mortals. Together, we shaped balance, carved storms into sky paths, and sang flame into civilization."
"But the rift opened. The demons came. The shrine guardians fell to protect the seals."
"And the kings of man buried their memories—fearing the chaos their return might invite again."
"We left these ruins not as a tomb, but as a promise. If ever a sovereign of true blood awakened… the vault would answer."
Alter looked to the altar, then slowly lifted the shattered crown.
It was heavier than steel—yet it pulsed with weightless memory. His fingers curled around it.
He did not place it on his head.
Instead, he held it to his chest.
"I'll bear your promise forward."
"I will not let this land forget what it means to walk beside dragons."
The flames dimmed to a soft red. The voices receded, replaced by an echo of flame-song humming low in the chamber.
As Alter turned to leave, the mural behind him changed—just slightly. One of the mortal figures in the glasswork now bore his silhouette. Cloaked in scaled armor. Backlit by sovereign light.
He didn't notice.
But the Vault did.
🐉 Scene – Beneath the Crimson Sky
The stone maw of the ruin closed behind him, sealing once more with a low thrum as Alter emerged into the fading twilight.
The wind had shifted.
Gone was the dry, still heat of midday. In its place came a cool breeze drifting down from the western peaks, brushing against his armor like the sigh of an ancient world waking from sleep. The sun bled low over the cliffs, painting the sky in strokes of crimson, gold, and amethyst—colors that echoed the flames still flickering behind his eyes.
Alter took a breath and gazed toward the horizon.
"Their legacy still burns," he murmured to no one.
He looked down at his gloved hand, fingers curling slowly. A faint ember-like glow pulsed beneath the scales of his gauntlet—the Vault's resonance hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled into him, like the heartbeat of the land itself had chosen to linger.
Without further hesitation, he closed his eyes.
The tribal mark on his forehead shimmered.
It pulsed once… twice… then ignited.
A crimson beam of draconic light surged skyward from his brow, spiraling into the heavens with a low, melodic howl. The air shimmered. The grass rippled outward in concentric waves.
A moment later, the clouds above parted.
The sky responded.
With a searing flare of flame and thunder, the silhouette of a dragon pierced the dusk.
🔥 Ignivar Descends
He came like a meteor of sovereign fire.
Ignivar—the mythic Fireborne Apex, mount of the Prime—descended with wings of living solar flare, each beat scorching the sky and setting the high-altitude mist ablaze in golden arcs. His molten obsidian scales glowed with heartforge heat, and his burning crimson eyes locked onto Alter before he even touched the ground.
FWOOOM.
The fire dragon landed beside Alter in a controlled crash of heat and power, flattening the grass with a shockwave. He reared back, wings folding with a hiss of cooling magma. His neck arched low, snout just above Alter's head, a growl rumbling like distant thunder.
"You called, Sovereign," Ignivar rumbled, voice deep, metallic, and laced with ember-borne reverence.
Alter looked up, smiling faintly.
"Had to take a walk through memory lane. Turns out this continent buried its soul beneath stone."
Ignivar's nostrils flared.
"The flames speak louder than tombs now. I could feel the Vault's song in the sky."
"So could the dragons," Alter said quietly. "And probably more than just them."
He placed a hand on Ignivar's armored cheek, warm as a forge, and climbed onto the dragon's neck, locking into the saddle forged for his armor's draconic frame.
"Come on. Let's report back to Skyharbor. The guildmaster's probably aging another decade waiting on my return."
Ignivar huffed, amused.
"Very well. But if he faints again, I'm not catching him."
"He's your size. I'm not either."
The two shared a brief pulse of dragonrider humor.
Then the wings unfurled.
With a single beat, they launched into the air—blasting off the cliffs and ascending into the clouds with sovereign speed. The currents caught them mid-arc, and the warm winds of Drakareth welcomed them with thermals and drifting embers.
☁️ In the Sky – A Moment Between Flames
They soared in silence at first.
Skyharbor shimmered in the far distance, a city of white spires and blue banners hugging the coast like a pearl set in the crown of the continent.
But Alter didn't look at the city.
He stared ahead, letting the wind tug at his armor, letting the fire-slick air wash over him.
"They gave everything," Alter said suddenly, voice carried through the mindlink they shared. "All six of them. The dragon lords in the Forbidden Vein. And now… these dragons, these ruins. It's like the world's trying to remember itself."
Ignivar's voice was quieter than usual.
"You are the thread that binds those memories. Flame, frost, storm… all the tribes stir because you walk among them."
"Does that bother you?" Alter asked with a smirk. "Carrying me around like I'm some glorified dragon conductor?"
Ignivar snorted.
"You are heavier now than when we first soared."
"I am wearing ten layers of divine plate."
"And six dragon hearts," Ignivar added with dry humor.
They both chuckled softly—an ancient beast and his rider, weaving through the clouds like they'd done this for centuries.
Then, after a pause—
"When you touched the Vault…" Ignivar asked, "did it speak of what comes next?"
Alter grew quiet.
The wind around them whistled, sharp and high as they passed through a sky gate formed from natural cliffs.
"No. Just echoes. Warnings. And remembrance. Whatever's coming… it'll be something this land hasn't faced in a long, long time."
Ignivar didn't respond.
He only soared higher—so they could see the stars peeking through the clouds. A sovereign and his dragon, returning from memory to the living world.
And ahead—Skyharbor waited.
🏙️ Scene – The Return to Skyharbor: Guildmaster's Dive
The wind howled as Ignivar dove from the clouds, slicing through the late-afternoon air with burning grace. His wings tucked close as the streets of Skyharbor came into view, roofs and towers glinting beneath the waning sun. Civilians on the outskirts screamed in awe—half in terror, half in reverence—as the massive fire dragon descended toward the same hilltop glade he had used upon his first arrival.
With a deep FWUUM, Ignivar flared his wings, coming to a rolling stop just outside the city's outer walls. The sheer force of his landing sent ripples through the trees. He growled once, nostrils flaring smoke, before lowering his neck. Alter, standing atop his saddle, leapt down with a graceful thud, landing on scorched grass.
The moment his boots hit the earth, the dragon mark on his forehead glowed. In response, Ignivar's massive form shimmered—turning into a swirl of flame and particles that streamed into Alter's forehead like a returning soul. The sigil pulsed red once, then faded.
A few farmers at the nearby orchard fainted.
Alter didn't notice.
🚪 Approaching the Gates – Familiar Faces
He walked back toward the gates of Skyharbor with his usual calm stride—plated boots clinking softly against the stone path, his Sovereignborn Draconic Plate catching every glint of sunlight in radiant arcs. As he neared the gates, two familiar guards—the same ones who had first met him upon his arrival—stiffened immediately.
Their postures snapped straight. Spears clanked together in salute. One even dropped his helmet, scrambled to pick it up, and held it like an offering.
"L-Lord Sovereign! Welcome back! W-We… we saw the light, and the sky tearing, and then the flames, and—"
Alter waved a hand casually.
"I was just checking out some rocks. Everything's fine."
The other guard, trying not to sweat through his helm, saluted frantically.
"Understood, sir! Proceed as you wish! Open the gates!"
The heavy gates were already swinging open before he finished his sentence.
🛣️ The Walk Through Skyharbor
Skyharbor was alive with its usual coastal bustle—merchants shouting about skyfruit deals, kids chasing wind-kites enchanted to hover, and dignified nobles parading with floating lanterns behind them.
But all that… stopped.
The moment Alter's armored form stepped through the gates, silence rippled across the main boulevard like a wave.
Eyes widened.
People dropped baskets.
A baker paused mid-baguette throw.
A little girl dropped her magical lollipop and whispered, "Mama, is that a god?"
Alter kept walking, giving a nod or two.
Then the whispering began.
"It's him! The one from the shrine!"
"They said he spoke to the statues!"
"He rode a fire dragon!"
"He's so shiny…"
A small following formed. At first, it was just a handful. Then a dozen. Then nearly fifty civilians trailing behind him, as if drawn by divine magnetism. Children skipped in rhythm with his footsteps. One bold street cat followed loyally like a herald of flame.
🏛️ Arrival at the Guild – And a Flying Guildmaster
When he reached the steps of the Skyharbor Guildhall, Alter paused.
He looked up at the white marble columns, the silver-etched emblem glowing faintly above the massive oak doors.
He was just about to step inside when—
THUMP THUMP THUMP—footsteps thundered from the upper floors.
"I'd like to speak with the Guildmast—"
CRASH.
A silver blur launched off the second-floor balcony like a meteor.
"ALTERRRRRRR!"
The Guildmaster himself—robed in silver, slightly unkempt, and clutching a stack of papers mid-air—swan-dived with professional urgency, completely ignoring the staircase. The crowd gasped. A pigeon screamed. A scroll exploded in mid-air for no reason.
Alter calmly side-stepped.
WHUMP.
Kaedros Vallin hit the ground in a roll, popped to his feet with his coat somehow still pristine, and skidded to a stop inches from Alter.
"You… you vanished for two hours and half the continent started glowing!"
"Did I?" Alter asked, innocently.
"YES! Do you even know the number of divine pulse reports I just filed?! I thought a new god was descending!"
Alter rubbed his chin.
"Technically, one was ascending."
Kaedros pointed dramatically, panting.
"I knew it."
"Didn't I say—'if he walks into dragon ruins, something is going to explode'?"
"You said that while sipping from a mug that said 'I Hate My Job.'"
Kaedros threw the mug in question at the receptionist behind him.
"I need whiskey. Or a thunder blessing. Or both."
The receptionist caught it with practiced trauma.
The crowd outside cheered quietly. Some people started chanting: "Sovereign! Sovereign!"
📜 End Scene – The Hall Reclaims the Flame
Kaedros, shaking the dust off his robe, motioned Alter toward the inner hall with a sigh.
"Come on. Let's talk somewhere away from ears. You owe me at least seven explanations and maybe a new liver."
Alter smirked and followed.
The receptionist waved nervously.
The city still buzzed behind them, the whispers of a divine sovereign walking among mortals now cemented in the walls of Skyharbor forever.
🐉 Scene Shift – The Captain Arrives
At the eastern gates of Skyharbor, a procession approached—five riders clad in black-drake scale laminar armor, banners trimmed in navy and silver, each bearing the insignia of the 6th Division.
At the front rode Captain Draven Stryvalis.
He cut an imposing figure—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing ceremonial storm-forged plate darkened with ancestral flame. A wyrmfire-forged spear was strapped across his back. His cloak fluttered behind him like a storm warning.
The guards at the gate saluted instantly.
"C-Captain Stryvalis! W-Welcome to Skyharbor!"
Draven gave only a curt nod.
"We'll proceed to the guild. Remain alert."
But as the Captain and his escort advanced along the streets… they noticed something odd.
Silence.
Skyharbor was quiet.
No children playing.
No vendors yelling about pickled skyfruit.
The cobblestone roads were empty, echoing only hoofbeats and the occasional confused snort of a mount.
One of the escort guards leaned toward Draven.
"Sir… where is everyone?"
Draven narrowed his eyes.
"Too quiet. Something's drawn them in."
They turned a corner toward the central boulevard—and then froze.
Ahead of them…
Was nearly the entire population of Skyharbor.
Men, women, children, elders—even a group of nobles clutching enchanted fans—all crowded around the Skyharbor Guildhall like it had become the epicenter of divine revelation.
The escort riders blinked in disbelief.
"What… in the seven flaming peaks is happening here?" one muttered.
Draven remained composed.
He raised a hand.
"Clear a path. Announce us."
One of the riders took a deep breath and shouted with authority:
"Make way! By order of the Crown—Captain Draven Stryvalis of the 6th Division, Royal Dragon Army of Drakareth! Make way!"
The crowd rippled. Like a wave struck by thunder, they parted with murmurs and awe. People backed away, whispering.
Draven's name carried weight.
But halfway through the sea of onlookers, Draven paused. A cloaked merchant nearby, who had remained near the front of the crowd, caught his attention.
"You there," Draven asked. "What is this gathering?"
The man pointed to the guild.
"There's a man inside… wearing armor of silver flame and dragon-scale. He walked through the shrine. The statues spoke to him. They called him—The Prime Dragonic Sovereign."
Draven's expression didn't change—but a slow breath escaped through his nose.
"...So it's true."
He looked to his men. A nod. They pressed forward, dismounted at the front steps, and entered the hall.
🛡️ Back Inside – Converging Threads
Kaedros had just begun to draw a map.
"This right here is where the Ley pulse shot out—and here's where the reports of shrine activation started flooding—"
Clack.
The front desk attendant's hurried footsteps echoed as she burst into the meeting room and practically skidded to a halt.
"S-Sorry to interrupt, Guildmaster! But… there's a visitor. A royal envoy. Captain Draven Stryvalis of the 6th Division. He requests an urgent audience."
Kaedros looked up.
Alter's brow lifted.
"Draven Stryvalis," Alter said, more to himself than anyone. "Stormfang lineage. Served in the last Drakareth border conflicts. Disciplined. Skeptical. Loyal."
Kaedros blinked.
"Do you memorize military rosters for fun?"
"Sometimes," Alter replied with a grin. "Depends how bored I am before breakfast."
Meanwhile, downstairs—
Draven stood at the counter, arms folded, his badge glowing faintly with draconic sigil-light.
"This is a royal dispatch from King Vael'Zarion himself. Please inform the Guildmaster and his current guest. Immediately."
The receptionist nodded, half-panicked, and ran back upstairs again, calling over her shoulder.
"He says it's royal. I think that means we can't make him wait!"
Kaedros groaned again and stood.
"Oh good. The Crown's involved now."
Alter stood as well, his helm folding back into the dragon-head resting behind his shoulder blades.
"Let's meet him. I'd hate to keep a storm-born captain waiting."