In the capital, King Alaric watched the horizon glow a sickly, permanent orange. "It isn't hunger," the court mage whispered, hands trembling over a scrying orb. "It is retribution. We have stolen his marrow, and now he comes to reclaim the debt in ash."
As the Wyrm landed, the impact shattered every window in the city. His eyes were like twin furnaces, glowing with a sentient, ancient hatred. He opened his maw, the air around his teeth beginning to ripple with white-hot intensity. Rage of the Dragon
Elara didn't flinch. She drove the Shard into the stone at her feet, triggering a wave of absolute cold. For a heartbeat, the dragon’s fire sputtered. In that moment of frozen silence, man and beast locked eyes. Elara saw not just a monster, but a grieving king of a dead era, looking at the thieves who had desecrated his rest. In the capital, King Alaric watched the horizon
For three centuries, the Great Wyrm, Ignis-Kahl, had been a myth etched into crumbling mountain shrines. But when the Deep-Mining Guild of Oakhaven struck a vein of "Heart-Fire" ore—shimmering crystals formed from ancient draconic blood—they didn't just find wealth. They woke a god. We have stolen his marrow, and now he