The wind howled fiercely through the vast desert of Turbin, sweeping up waves of sand and throwing them mercilessly against the towering statues of the two great Dragon Emperors. These monuments, carved from jade, soared three thousand meters high, their solemn faces gazing out into the desolate landscape. Time and the elements had worn them down, yet they still stood proud, their cold, stone expressions almost lifelike, as though they were mourning the fate of this barren world. The statues seemed to weep, streaks of rainwater running down their smooth faces like tears.
Above, where the wind screamed and the air was thin, a lone figure stood at the peak of one of the statues. His silhouette barely visible against the swirling gray clouds. He stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes closed as though he were listening to the whispers carried by the wind. This was Viserion, the first son of the ancient White Dragons Clan, and one of the most prodigious talents in his family's long and storied history.
The wind battered against him, a relentless assault, yet he remained unmoving. Each raindrop that touched his skin seemed to calm him further. His silver eyes opened, cold and piercing, as he gazed out over the wasteland before him. Nothing but sand and stone stretched for miles in every direction, broken only by the distant outline of ancient ruins long forgotten.
He raised his left hand slowly, feeling the wind whip between his fingers. His body was almost translucent, as though the light passing through him would dissolve him into the air at any moment. He looked out across the desert, his gaze distant, lost in the vastness of time.
"Viserion!" a voice called from far below.
The wind swallowed the words, and Viserion did not move. He barely heard it, the world around him so distant from the peak where he stood.
"Hey! Can you hear me from up there?" The voice, now a little more desperate, struggled to reach him, but still, he made no sign of acknowledgment.
Far below, a young man stood at the base of the monument, craning his neck back, one hand shading his eyes as he squinted up at Viserion's distant form. His name was Tomo, and unlike his friend, he hated heights. The sight of Viserion perched so effortlessly at the top of the towering statue made his stomach churn.
Tomo grumbled to himself, kicking at the sand. "Why does he always do this? I swear he's trying to make me throw up." He called up again, frustration clear in his voice, "HEY, VISERION! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!"
The wind carried the shout upward, and this time Viserion heard it. His sharp eyes glanced down, locking onto Tomo's small, frantic figure.
"Oh, Tomo," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the roar of the wind. He had forgotten his friend was waiting below. Viserion sighed softly, then without warning, leaped from the monument's peak.
The world blurred around him as he fell through the sky, the air rushing past his ears. In just a few heartbeats, he landed gracefully on the ground, the impact barely raising a puff of sand.
Tomo jumped back, startled. "Gods, really? You always have to do that, don't you?" He placed a hand on his chest, catching his breath. "I don't know how you and your clan do it—leaping off cliffs, scaling mountains, acting like gravity doesn't exist. You're all a bunch of freaks, I swear."
Viserion smiled faintly, brushing the sand off his clothes. "Perhaps you just need to practice," he said, his tone light.
Tomo snorted. "Practice? You think I want to end up like a smear on the ground?"
Viserion chuckled softly, his cold eyes warming briefly. "So, what is it? Why were you calling me?"
Tomo straightened, his expression turning serious. "Your mother sent me. She says… she says your father doesn't have much time left. You need to return to him, now."
The words hit Viserion like a punch to the gut. His smile vanished, and his eyes widened. "Father..." he whispered, the weight of the news sinking in.
Without hesitation, Viserion grabbed Tomo's shoulder, and in a flash of light, they were gone, the desert and the monuments disappearing behind them.
In the blink of an eye, they reappeared within the halls of Viserion's ancestral home, deep within the White Dragon Clan's fortress. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the walls lined with intricate tapestries depicting the clan's long history. Viserion barely registered any of it, his focus entirely on the door at the end of the hall.
He moved quickly, his steps silent, his heart pounding in his chest. Tomo followed behind, his face pale.
As they approached the door, it opened quietly, and Viserion's mother, Lady Yelena, stood there, her face worn with grief. Her once-vibrant features had dulled with the weight of years and sorrow. She looked at Viserion, her eyes soft yet filled with the deep pain of a mother who knew she was about to lose her husband.
"Viserion…" she whispered; her voice barely audible. "He's waiting for you."
Viserion stepped past her, entering the dimly lit room. His father, the great Dragon Lord Tiberian, lay on a massive bed carved from stone, his once-mighty frame now frail and thin. His scales, once brilliant white like snow, were now dulled with age. His breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a laborious effort.
Tiberian's eyes opened as Viserion approached, and for a moment, they gleamed with recognition. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Viserion… my son…" His voice was weak, but there was still a warmth to it.
Viserion knelt beside his father, his hands trembling slightly. "Father…"
Tiberian's hand reached out, gripping Viserion's wrist with surprising strength. "I'm proud… of what you've become," he whispered. "You… will lead the clan… better than I ever could."
Viserion swallowed hard, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him. "No, Father, you still have time…"
But Tiberian shook his head slowly, his breath rattling in his chest. "No… my time is over… But yours… yours is just beginning. You must protect the clan… protect our legacy."
Tears welled in Viserion's eyes, but he held them back, nodding. "I will, Father. I swear it."
Tiberian's grip loosened, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Good… boy…" His voice trailed off, and with a final exhale, a great Dragon Lord passed from the world.
Viserion sat there in silence, his hand still holding his father's. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Outside, the wind continued to howl through the desert, telling its story to whoever would listen. But here, in this room, the world had grown still.
And in that stillness, Viserion knew that everything had changed.
….
Three days had passed since the death of Viserion's father, Lord Tiberian. The once bustling halls of the White Dragon Clan's citadel were now filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the hushed murmurs of the few remaining servants. The air was thick with the weight of grief, yet also a growing sense of dread.
In his father's office, Viserion sat at the massive stone desk that had once been the nerve center of the White Dragon Clan's operations. The desk was covered in scrolls and ancient tomes, but Viserion's attention was fixed on a single report in front of him. His sharp silver eyes scanned the words carefully, his expression growing darker with each passing moment.
The report outlined the grim reality: the last reserves of water on Eos were expected to dry up in five to ten years. The planet, already a barren wasteland, was dying. No vegetation, no fresh water, and worse, the birth rate among all clans—the Fae, the Elves, the Dwarves, and the Dragons themselves—had plummeted to near zero. The great civilizations of Eos were on the verge of extinction.
He leaned back in the chair, his mind swirling with the enormity of it all. There was no future here. Not for him, not for the clan, not for anyone.
"It's time to leave Eos," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his white hair.
A knock sounded at the door. Viserion glanced up, his expression hardening. "Enter."
The heavy stone door creaked open, and in stepped Tomo, followed closely by an elder of the White Dragon Clan. The elder, a wizened man with a long white beard, wore ceremonial robes adorned with intricate patterns symbolizing the ancient powers of their lineage.
"Viserion," Tomo began, his face troubled, "there's something you need to hear."
The elder bowed slightly before speaking, his voice low and gravelly. "My lord, there may be a way off this dying world."
Viserion's gaze narrowed. "Go on."
The elder hesitated, then stepped forward. "Ten thousand years ago, the great dragon Nira—one of the last of the true ancients—created a portal. It lies beneath this city, deep in the forgotten caverns. It was said she used forbidden dragon magic, sacrificing her own body as a trigger to forge it."
Tomo nodded. "Nira's magic was feared even among the dragons. They say she bent space and time itself, creating a gateway to… somewhere else. A place far from Eos, perhaps even a different realm."
Viserion's fingers tapped against the desk thoughtfully. "And you believe this portal still exists?"
The elder's eyes gleamed with a strange intensity. "It must. The records speak of it, though many dismissed it as myth. But I've seen the signs, the carvings beneath the city. Nira's magic lingers there. If we can activate the portal, it may be our only way off this world before it dies completely."
Viserion leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "What kind of magic would it take to reactivate such a portal?"
The elder hesitated again, his wrinkled hands clutching his robes. "Forbidden magic. Blood magic. Nira's portal was created with her own essence, her own life force. To activate it, another sacrifice may be required."
Viserion's lips pressed into a thin line. The implications were clear. Someone would have to die to open the portal. A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the corner.
Tomo shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Viserion. "We don't have many options, do we?"
Before Viserion could respond, the door opened again, and Lady Yelena entered, her presence commanding the room despite her delicate appearance. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from days of mourning, but she carried herself with the dignity befitting the widow of the Dragon Lord.
"It's time, Viserion," she said softly, her voice laced with sorrow. "The funeral is about to begin."
Viserion rose slowly from the desk, nodding. "I understand." He glanced at the elder and Tomo. "We'll discuss this further after the ceremony."
The elder bowed and left the room, Tomo following close behind. Viserion turned to his mother, seeing the weight of grief etched into her face. She reached out, touching his arm gently. "You must be strong today, my son. For the clan. For your father."
"I will," Viserion replied quietly, though inside, the storm of emotions was barely contained.
The funeral took place in the central courtyard of the White Dragon Clan's citadel, beneath the open sky. The courtyard was vast, large enough to hold thousands, though now only a few hundred remained—family, elders, and warriors. The great pyre, built in honor of Lord Tiberian, stood in the center, its flames reaching toward the heavens. His body, draped in ceremonial dragon armor, lay upon it, the fire reflecting off his once-mighty scales.
The air was thick with incense and the soft chants of the elders. The mourners stood in silence, their faces veiled in the traditional white cloth of mourning.
Viserion stood before the pyre, his mother at his side. He looked out over the gathered crowd, their faces solemn, their eyes filled with expectation. They looked to him now, the new Dragon Lord, to speak.
Taking a deep breath, Viserion stepped forward. His voice, though soft at first, rang clear over the courtyard.
"My father, Lord Tiberian, was more than a leader. He was the heart of our clan, the strength that bound us together. He ruled not with fear, but with wisdom and honor. In every decision he made, he thought of our future, our survival, even in these dire times."
He paused, looking down at his father's body, the flames flickering at its edges.
"He taught me that strength alone is not what defines a Dragon Lord. It is the will to sacrifice, to endure, to lead when others falter. Today, we stand on the precipice of a dark future. This world, our home, is dying. But as my father once said, 'A dragon does not give in to despair. A dragon finds a way.'"
The wind picked up, swirling the ashes from the pyre into the air. Viserion's voice grew stronger, his resolve hardening with each word.
"I will find that way. For the clan, for my father's legacy, and for all who still call Eos home. We will not fade into oblivion. We will rise. And we will survive."
The crowd remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, slowly, a murmur of agreement spread through them. Heads nodded, fists clenched in determination.
Viserion stepped back as the elders began their final chants. The flames on the pyre grew higher, consuming Lord Tiberian's body in a brilliant blaze. Viserion stood tall, his silver eyes reflecting the fire, the weight of his new role pressing down on him.
As the pyre burned, he knew there was no turning back. The time had come to lead, and he would have to make impossible decisions to ensure the survival of his people. The portal beneath the city—the legacy of Nira—was now their only hope.
And Viserion would stop at nothing to see his clan survive.
…..
The next day, the White Dragon Clan's citadel hummed with a quiet tension. The White Dragon Throne, carved from shimmering ivory and embedded with crystals that seemed to pulse with ancient magic, was now occupied by Viserion. His silver eyes, cold and calculating, surveyed the fifty or so White Dragon elders standing in a wide circle around him. Their robes were adorned with symbols of their power and age, marking their seniority within the clan.
The air was thick with the weight of decisions yet to be made. Murmurs drifted through the chamber, the elders speaking in low tones, discussing the planet's dying state, the dwindling water supply, and the fate of their once-mighty civilization. Viserion, though young, sat with a regal stillness, his expression unreadable. He was the leader now, and all eyes were on him.
Suddenly, the chamber doors swung open, and a guard stepped in, bowing low. "My lord," the guard announced, his voice carrying through the vast hall, "the four leaders of the other great dragon clans have arrived, along with important members of their families."
A hush fell over the room as the leaders entered one by one. First came Lord Kaiden, head of the Ironclaw Clan, known for their strength in battle and mastery of earth magic. His broad shoulders and piercing golden eyes radiated authority. Beside him walked his eldest daughter, Lysandra, her sharp features and raven-black hair marking her as one of the fiercest warriors in their clan.
Next was Lady Valera of the Stormfang Clan, her silver-blue scales glinting in the light. She was a master of wind and lightning, her clan long revered for their agility in the skies. Accompanying her was her younger brother, Ryn, a skilled strategist whose keen mind had saved his clan from countless disasters.
Lord Aldric of the Emberheart Clan followed, his crimson scales and fiery presence filling the room with heat. His clan was renowned for their control over fire, and his very footsteps seemed to leave smoldering marks on the stone floor. His second son, Marek, stood beside him, his eyes burning with the same intensity as his father's.
Last to enter was Lady Thalira of the Shadewing Clan, her dark, shadowy form almost blending into the shadows of the room. Her clan's mastery over darkness and stealth had made them both feared and respected. With her came Elya, her niece, a powerful sorceress who could manipulate the shadows at will.
As the four leaders and their families gathered before Viserion, they each bowed their heads in respect, acknowledging him as the new Lord of the White Dragon Clan.
"Lord Viserion," Kaiden was the first to speak, his deep voice carrying the gravity of their situation. "We have come, as agreed, to discuss the future of our world."
Viserion inclined his head slightly. "I am honored by your presence. We all know the situation is dire. The planet's resources are nearly depleted. The water will be gone in five years, perhaps ten if we're fortunate. The births in all clans have all but ceased. We are facing extinction. The question now is simple: do we stay on Eos and die, or do we join together and find a way to survive?"
A heavy silence fell over the room as his words settled in. Lady Valera, always quick to action, stepped forward. "What option do we have? There is no water left, no land that can sustain life. Our people are on the brink of despair. If there is a way to escape this world, we must take it."
Lord Aldric, ever cautious, crossed his arms, his fiery eyes locked on Viserion. "And what is this plan you speak of, White Dragon? We know of no way off this forsaken planet."
Viserion straightened in his seat, his voice calm but firm. "There is a portal. An ancient gateway left behind by the great dragon Nira, ten thousand years ago. It lies beneath this very city."
"Impossible," Marek muttered, his fiery temper flaring. "Nira was a myth. No portal has ever been found."
"It is no myth," Viserion responded sharply, his silver eyes narrowing. "We have found signs of it—deep beneath the city. It is real, and it may be our only way off this world."
The room buzzed with murmurs of disbelief and cautious hope. The leaders exchanged glances, weighing the truth of Viserion's claim. Lady Thalira's voice, soft and almost ethereal, cut through the whispers. "If such a portal exists, how do we know it will lead us to salvation? We could step through and find nothing but more death."
Viserion's jaw tightened. "It is a risk, yes. But staying here guarantees death. The portal is our only chance."
Before any of the leaders could respond, the door to the chamber burst open once more. Tomo entered, his face flushed with excitement, followed by several scouts and researchers from the White Dragon Clan. He hurried forward, bowing quickly to Viserion before speaking.
"My lord," Tomo began, his voice breathless, "we've found it."
A ripple of shock spread through the room.
"Found what?" Lord Kaiden demanded, stepping closer.
"The portal," Tomo replied. "We sent a team to scout beneath the city, and we've located it. The markings, the energy—it matches the descriptions from the ancient texts. It's real."
Viserion rose from his seat, his heart pounding. "Tell me everything."
Tomo stepped forward, unrolling a map on the stone table. "The portal is hidden in a cavern deep beneath the city, far below the old catacombs. The entrance was sealed by layers of ancient magic, but we were able to break through. The portal itself is massive, a towering archway inscribed with symbols we've never seen before. And the energy… it's still active, though weak."
One of the scouts stepped forward. "It's unlike anything we've ever felt, my lord. The magic there is powerful, but… it's old, almost decayed. We believe the portal can be reactivated, but it will require a significant amount of power. Perhaps a sacrifice."
"Another life," Lady Valera muttered, her face grim. "Just as Nira sacrificed herself to create the portal."
Viserion stared at the map, his mind racing. "What kind of power would be enough to reopen the portal?"
Tomo hesitated. "We don't know for sure, but it will likely require something more than ordinary magic. Blood magic… or the life force of a dragon."
A heavy silence fell over the room as the implications became clear. The portal could save them, but at a terrible cost.
"We are running out of time," Viserion said, his voice cutting through the tension. "We either open that portal, or we all die here. I am willing to do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of our people."
The leaders exchanged grim looks, the weight of the decision pressing down on them. Finally, Lord Aldric spoke. "We have no choice. We must combine our strength, our resources, and see if this portal can be opened."
Lady Thalira nodded. "But we must proceed with caution. If we fail…"
"We won't fail," Viserion interrupted, his voice filled with steely determination. "We cannot afford to."
The room fell silent again, the gravity of their situation settling over them like a dark cloud. The fate of their world—and their survival—now hinged on one ancient portal, buried in the depths of a dying planet.
…..
The tension in the room had reached a fever pitch. The leaders of the four great dragon clans, along with Viserion and his elders, were locked in intense debate about the newly discovered portal. Voices rose and fell as the conversation veered from hope to skepticism. Some argued that they should proceed with opening the portal immediately, while others voiced concerns about the risks involved.
Suddenly, from a shadowed corner of the great hall, the sound of light footsteps echoed against the stone floor. All eyes turned to a woman who entered quietly from a side door. Elyra, one of the most respected scholars of the White Dragon Clan, was known not for her battle prowess but for her vast knowledge of ancient texts and history. Her long silver hair was pulled back into a simple braid, and her violet eyes gleamed with the depth of her intellect. In her hands, she held a weathered scroll, its edges frayed and worn with time.
She approached Viserion, her posture calm and measured, despite the tension in the air. Bowing slightly, she held out the scroll. "My lord, I believe this may be of importance to our discussion."
Viserion, his silver eyes narrowing with curiosity, gestured for her to approach the throne. "Elyra, what is this?"
"It is an ancient text," she began, unrolling the scroll with delicate care. "One that dates back to Lady Nira's time, over ten thousand years ago. It is written in the old dragon tongue, a language few still understand."
Viserion's eyes flickered over the unfamiliar script, his expression shifting from curiosity to frustration. "And what does it say? Speak plainly."
Elyra nodded, her fingers tracing the faded lines of the text as she translated. "It speaks of a warning, my lord. A message left behind by Lady Nira herself. It says—" she paused, her voice dropping to a whisper, "—'From the stars they came, and all life ended. Trust not the Celestials of Light.'"
A murmur of confusion rippled through the room. The leaders of the other clans exchanged uneasy glances, while the elders of the White Dragon Clan shifted uncomfortably.
Viserion leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing. "The Celestials of Light? Who are they?"
Elyra hesitated, glancing down at the scroll once more before shaking her head. "I... I do not know, my lord. The text is ancient, and much of the history from that time has been lost to us. Whatever knowledge we once had of these 'Celestials' has been erased from our records."
Lord Kaiden, his deep voice filled with skepticism, stepped forward. "Are you saying we should fear beings we've never heard of, based on a cryptic message left behind thousands of years ago?"
"The Celestials of Light..." Lady Valera mused, her brows furrowing. "It sounds like a warning, but of what? Invaders from the stars?"
"Perhaps they are the ones responsible for the devastation of our world," Marek suggested, his fiery gaze fixed on Elyra. "But why would Lady Nira leave such a message? What was her connection to these Celestials?"
"I wish I had more answers," Elyra replied softly, her eyes downcast. "But the knowledge of that time has been lost, scattered to the winds with the fall of the great civilizations. All we have are these fragments, warnings left behind in ancient tongues."
Viserion clenched his jaw, his mind racing. "This message is a warning, and we cannot afford to ignore it. But without more information, we are left in the dark. Trust not the Celestials of Light... What does that mean for the portal?"
Elyra shook her head. "I do not know, my lord. But I fear that opening the portal may not bring us the salvation we seek. If the Celestials of Light are involved, we may be walking into a trap."
The hall fell into a heavy silence, the weight of her words pressing down on everyone present. The leaders of the clans exchanged uncertain glances, while the elders of the White Dragon Clan stood still, their faces grim.
Then, from the back of the hall, three elders—one from each of the Ironclaw, Stormfang, and Emberheart clans—stepped forward. They were ancient, their scales dulled with age, but their eyes burned with the fierce light of resolve.
"We will sacrifice," said the elder from the Ironclaw Clan, his voice raspy but filled with determination. "If it is the only way to activate the portal and ensure the survival of our people, we offer our lives."
The hall erupted into stunned gasps. Even the normally composed Viserion felt his chest tighten with shock. These were not mere warriors or scholars—they were elders, the backbone of their respective clans. Their loss would be deeply felt.
"Are you certain?" Viserion asked, his voice low and grave. "You understand the gravity of what you're offering?"
The elder from the Stormfang Clan, her frail body still carrying the grace of her prime, nodded. "We are old, Viserion. Our time is nearing its end, but the future of our people still stretches ahead. If our deaths can buy that future, then so be it."
The Emberheart elder, his crimson scales dulled with age but his fiery spirit undimmed, stepped forward. "This is our duty. We have lived long and seen much, but it is now the time for the younger generations to lead. If a blood sacrifice is needed, let it be ours."
The room was silent, the weight of their sacrifice hanging heavy in the air. Even the most hardened of warriors stood in quiet reverence. The gravity of what they were offering was immense—their very life force to power the ancient portal, a gateway that could either save or doom them.
Viserion's silver eyes darkened with conflict. He felt the heavy burden of leadership on his shoulders like never before. "Your sacrifice would be honored, but it should not be taken lightly. If we fail, it will all be for nothing."
The Ironclaw elder gave a sad smile. "Then let us make sure we do not fail, Lord Viserion. We are ready when you are."
Viserion closed his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts before speaking once more. "Very well. We will prepare the ritual. But before we do anything, we must confirm the portal's purpose—and whether the Celestials of Light pose the threat Nira warned us about."