In the vast throne room, silence reigned, heavy and oppressive like the calm after a storm. The crystalline walls shimmered faintly, reflecting the ethereal glow of the protective wards embedded within. The low hum of their power pulsed through the chamber, a rhythmic reminder of the kingdom's heartbeat.
Balthazar had departed, his commanding presence lingering like the ghost of thunder. The air still carried a faint trace of his energy, sharp and electric, as though the room itself struggled to settle after his departure.
Arman sat motionless upon the obsidian throne, its jagged edges towering around him like the peaks of a great mountain. His hand rested lightly on the armrest, but his posture betrayed no ease. His sharp, golden eyes were fixed on the map etched into the throne room's floor—a masterpiece of glowing lines and shifting symbols. They pulsed faintly, the borders of their dominion alive with movement, like veins coursing with blood.
The weight of Balthazar's words bore down on him like an iron chain, dragging his thoughts into deeper waters. His father's resurgence had rippled through the Weave, infusing every creature in the kingdom with vitality and strength. The miraculous birth blessing of his son had been a harbinger of change—a sign that the time for stillness had passed. Yet, the question gnawed at Arman: Should they reignite the flames of conquest or cling to the fragile peace they had carved?
The doors to the throne room groaned open, the sound reverberating through the chamber like the bellow of a leviathan. Tydarin entered, his footfalls heavy and deliberate, their echo underscoring his presence.
"Brother, what are you thinking about?" Tydarin's voice broke the silence, a low rumble laced with curiosity.
Arman didn't answer immediately, his gaze unmoving. Tydarin strode forward, his golden eyes gleaming with joy as he stretched his broad frame, the faint crack of joints echoing in the vastness. His silhouette, illuminated by the glowing map, seemed to rival Arman's in its commanding presence.
"Finally," Tydarin said, his voice carrying a mix of contentment and pride, "no more constrictions." He rolled his shoulders, the faint creak of his armor filling the space. "It is good to be back—such a wonderful feeling."
Arman remained silent, his stoic demeanor unbroken. Tydarin frowned, stepping closer, his curiosity deepening into concern.
"Brother?" he asked, his tone quieter now, as though trying to breach the barrier of Arman's thoughts. "Why are you so silent?"
With a measured breath, Arman turned his attention from the map. His voice, when it came, was calm yet laden with weight. "Tydarin, how many years has it been since we last went to war?"
The question hung in the air, charged and foreboding. Tydarin stroked his beard, the rasp of his claws against his scales filling the void. "An odd question," he mused. "Let me think... apart from the minor skirmishes you orchestrated to keep the worlds in line eight million years ago, I'd say none. None that truly qualify as war." He paused, his voice softening with wistfulness. "Why do you ask this all of a sudden? The invasion threat is hardly a war. At most, we'll send the Seekers to extinguish their flames. They're a flicker in the wind."
He chuckled, the sound warm yet tinged with regret. "Still, I can't believe I missed my nephew's blessing. What a miracle that must have been. If only I hadn't followed those cursed titans to drink... perhaps I, too, would have felt the Weave's surge."
"Enough."
Arman's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, reverberating off the chamber walls. He rose from the throne, the movement as deliberate as the shifting of tectonic plates. His towering figure cast a long shadow over the map, the golden glow of his eyes meeting Tydarin's with unflinching resolve.
"We are returning to the old ways."
Tydarin's eyes widened, the words igniting a fire within him. His chest tightened, the thrill of chaos stirring deep in his core. He stepped forward, his excitement barely masked by a cautious tone.
"The old ways?" he echoed, the question almost a whisper, reverent and electric.
Arman placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, the weight of his grip both reassuring and commanding. His voice lowered, its timbre steady and resolute. "This is Father's will. We've been silent for too long, lost in this era of peace. Perhaps too much peace has dulled our edge. We've forgotten who we are. It's time we remembered."
Tydarin turned his gaze to the glowing map, the flickering borders reflecting in his eyes. The weight of their shared legacy pressed upon him, stirring memories of fire and conquest. His heart raced with anticipation, though his voice remained measured.
"Are you certain of this, brother?" he asked, his words carrying a faint tremor of exhilaration. "We have indeed been silent, but why does Father wish to abandon this paradise? Is it because of the threat to your son?"
Arman's expression hardened, his jaw tightening as he faced the map once more. The glowing lines shifted under his gaze, their movements mirroring the storm brewing within him.
"Perhaps," he said, his tone clipped. "Or perhaps Father sees what we've all ignored: the complacency that has crept into our hearts. We were once the scourge of the realms, feared and unmatched. That legacy has been forgotten. It is time we reclaimed it."
Tydarin smirked, the thrill of chaos overtaking his caution. "If this is Father's will, who am I to argue? You know I've always preferred the chaos of the old ways. I still regret disobeying his orders of retreat during the Titan Wars. It seems I'll have the chance to make amends."
Arman's gaze remained fixed on the map as he declared, his voice ringing with finality, "Then prepare yourself, brother. The era of silence is over."
In the throne room, the low hum of the wards grew louder, as if echoing the unspoken promise of what was to come. The brothers stood side by side, their towering forms illuminated by the flickering light of the Weave. The kingdom would soon awaken to its past, and the silence would be shattered by the roar of dragons once more.