Vermithor soared low over the expanse of Green Hill, his vast bronze wings casting a shadow across miles of forested ridges.
His dragonfire, molten and bright like liquid bronze, poured freely over the terrain, transforming the hills into a hellish landscape.
The mountain clans had nowhere to run.
"Fssssgaaa!"
Cowering in the shadow of the mighty bronze dragon, Grey Ghost's sapphire eyes were filled with fear. The smaller dragon curled up in a mining pit, making himself as small as possible.
Too terrifying!
This old dragon, reeking of rust and molten metal, was at least ten times more fearsome than the ugly Muddy Dragon.
Even the terrifying scent of decay left by the Muddy Dragon's master paled in comparison.
Grey Ghost trembled, covering his head with his wings, shrinking into himself in fright.
If a dragon was terrified, what hope did humans have?
The knights of the Vale sat frozen in their saddles, slack-jawed. They gripped their reins tightly, holding onto their terrified mounts, forgetting even to aid in the chase.
As soldiers in a time of peace, none of them had ever witnessed true war.
The tales of dragons' destructive power were passed down by the old generation, stories they heard growing up.
Everyone in Runestone knew about Prince Aemon taming the "Bronze Fury." It had been a symbol of House Royce's rising strength.
But seeing Vermithor in action, laying waste to the landscape with ease, was a revelation.
For the first time, the knights understood: this was true power.
It towered above even the lofty Eyrie, perched upon the Giant's Lance.
"Fssssgaaa!"
Vermithor let out another thunderous roar as he climbed higher into the sky. His massive wings whipped up fierce winds, uprooting shrubs and scattering debris.
With a flick of his heavy tail, he shattered rocks and boulders as though they were made of clay.
From atop the dragon's back, Aemon tightened his grip on the saddle, scanning the burning landscape below with a cold gaze.
Flames raged across the ground.
By dusk, Vermithor had settled atop Green Hill, his eyes half-closed as he dozed.
In the distance, wary eyes peeked out from behind cover, swallowing nervously as they observed the dragon.
The area beneath the bronze giant was scorched black, reduced to ashes by his flames.
A testament to unparalleled strength.
"Have they confessed?"
Aemon sat by a dying stream, feeding the campfire.
Sir Steve approached, reporting, "They're from the Firebrand Clan, a mid-sized mountain tribe with around two thousand three hundred members. Four hundred sixty-seven of them had set out to hunt and raid."
The Firebrand Clan.
Though not well-known, they held considerable influence among the mountain clans.
Like many descendants of the First Men, the Firebrand Clan revered bronze above all else.
They also worshipped fire.
They specialized in using fire to forge weapons, and many members bore burn scars with pride. It was from this practice that they earned their name.
Aemon's violet eyes flicked to the prisoners. "How many are left?"
Steve gestured toward the defeated warriors—dozens of them knelt in submission.
"Seventy-four remain," he answered.
The dragonfire had taken a brutal toll.
Aemon frowned deeply.
Such a waste of good labor.
"Prince, they've sworn to serve you and repay their crimes," William announced, rushing over, his face flushed and sweaty from exertion.
Aemon nodded. "Bring them here."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Soon, seventy-four surviving members of the Firebrand Clan were brought before Aemon, trembling as they knelt before him.
"How many of you are left in the tribe?"
Aemon's voice rang out, firm and commanding.
"About… about one thousand nine hundred," an elderly clansman replied, voice trembling with fear. "There are more than four hundred men—the rest are women, children, and elders."
Aemon nodded thoughtfully. He had no patience for lengthy discourse.
"You have two choices: swear loyalty to me or face dragonfire."
A thousand-strong clan was valuable.
The mountain clans were descendants of the First Men, those who had refused to bend the knee during the Andal invasion.
Even House Royce traced its lineage back to the First Men. Aemon himself carried half their blood.
Building towns and fortresses required manpower. And these people were perfect for the task.
The question was simple.
Would they serve—or burn?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
One by one, the remaining clansmen prostrated themselves, eyes filled with reverence.
"Fire God! We pledge ourselves to you!"
Their faith in fire and bronze, their reverence for strength, made them view the dragon as a divine entity.
Aemon raised a brow, surprised by their devotion, then chuckled softly.
William, ever the opportunist, stepped forward and corrected them loudly: "Not the Fire God—the Dragon King!"
His booming voice drowned out the murmurs of the clansmen.
The Firebrand warriors exchanged glances before bowing deeply once more.
"Glorious Dragon King!"
Aemon stood, his eyes gleaming as he surveyed the kneeling crowd.
The first labor camp—secured.
"Keep them in line. Send two men to their village. Tell the rest of the Firebrand Clan to descend the mountains and submit."
After issuing the order, Aemon turned toward the hill.
"Where are you going, Prince?" Steve called after him.
"To the other side of the mountain."
Still brimming with energy, Aemon was eager to survey his new domain from the skies.
"Fssssgaaa!"
Vermithor opened one eye, his pupils narrowing in irritation. His jaw worked slightly as he chewed.
Aemon climbed the rope ladder, his gaze falling upon the blackened remains in the dragon's maw.
Charred bones, reduced to ash.
"You really aren't picky about your meals, huh?" Aemon chuckled softly.
There was no revulsion in his tone.
A dragon was a dragon, and dragons had to eat.
The larger the dragon, the more it consumed.
Vermithor needed at least a dozen sheep per meal to feel full.
Left unchecked, he could devour twice that amount without issue.
Fortunately, larger dragons digested their meals more slowly.
If fed properly, Vermithor could go weeks without hunger.
"Fssssgaaa!"
The bronze dragon snorted disdainfully as Aemon climbed into the saddle.
With a powerful leap, Vermithor launched himself from Green Hill's summit, soaring into the sky.
Though their bond was strong, Aemon could feel a lingering irritation from his dragon.
Clearly, Vermithor had yet to forget whatever had caused his mysterious rage days earlier.
Aemon wiped the sweat from his brow, smiling awkwardly.
Good thing the old dragon was well-fed. Otherwise, pacifying him would've been much harder.
"Fssssgaaa!"
Grey Ghost, who had been hiding nearby, scrambled out from the rocks, flapping his wings frantically to keep up.
That silver-haired boy was his meal ticket—he couldn't afford to lose him.
Grey Ghost poured all his strength into catching up, determined to follow in Vermithor's wake.
"Fssssgaaa!"
Vermithor growled low, glancing back at the tiny dragon tailing him. His throat began to glow with the telltale heat of dragonfire.
"No! No fire!"
Aemon quickly called out, soothing his mount.
Vermithor rumbled in dissatisfaction but relented, folding his wings slightly as he pierced through the clouds.
Behind them, Grey Ghost flapped furiously, a small, determined moth chasing a blazing star.
Aemon, riding the wind, glanced back at the pitiful sight and burst into laughter.
The size difference was absurd.
Vermithor measured roughly eighty-five meters from snout to tail, having grown since Aemon first tamed him.
Grey Ghost, on the other hand, barely reached six meters.
The difference in size was nearly sixteenfold.
Yet still, the little dragon persisted.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in fiery hues, Aemon soared over his new domain.
The mighty peaks of the Mountains of the Moon stretched endlessly below, their jagged peaks cloaked in mist.
At the base of the tallest mountain lay a vast, tranquil lake.
Its surface shimmered with green and gold hues beneath the dying light.
Black swans drifted across the water, their graceful forms creating ripples as they fished.
"Fssssgaaa!"
Vermithor roared again, circling the mountain, his cry scattering the swans into the air.
"Quiet, Vermithor!"
Aemon scolded his dragon, shaking his head with exasperation.
With a dismissive snort, Vermithor folded his wings and descended to the mountain's peak.
Grey Ghost finally caught up, collapsing halfway up the slope, exhausted.
Aemon laughed again, standing atop the summit, gazing out over the vast landscape.
He felt invincible.
"Look there—beyond the mountain. That's the Vale."
Aemon patted Vermithor's bronze scales, pointing toward the lush valley beyond.
It was a fertile land, far larger than the entire Eastern Point.
"Once we open a trade route between the valley and the coast, the Vale's grain will flow to Gulltown."
"And if I build a trading hub… the taxes alone will be enough to fund an army."
Aemon's eyes gleamed with ambition.
There was no need for war.
Wealth could buy power.