"I still fail to understand the need for delay. The binding curse is weakening, and here you sit, calmly sipping tea at such news?" Gafar's voice thundered through the chamber as he shot to his feet. His fist slammed against the large oak table, sending a ripple of blue magic crackling across its surface.
"Control yourself, Gafar," Elfari cautioned, her voice as smooth as silk but carrying an undercurrent of sharp authority. Her piercing emerald eyes glinted, daring him to push further.
Gafar clenched his jaw, his temper simmering beneath the surface. "I will not," he retorted, his words biting. "Not until this issue is given the attention it demands." He knew he was toeing a dangerous line—raising his voice in the presence of Oziri was a risk few dared to take. But Michael's indifference was maddening. The vampire lord lounged in his chair, radiating calmness, his crimson eyes half-lidded as though the entire matter were beneath him.
Michael tilted his head, his lips curling into a smirk that revealed his gleaming fangs. "I'm not dismissing the matter, Gafar," he drawled, his voice rich and smooth. "But neither will I throw precious resources into chasing shadows. This 'feeling' of yours is hardly concrete evidence."
The mage's hands twitched, sparks dancing along his fingertips. The smug grin on Michael's face, the way he lazily licked his lips, was testing every ounce of Gafar's restraint. Another word, another gesture, and Gafar knew he might lose control entirely.
Oziri's deep, resonant voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Enough." The dragon elder's mere utterance silenced the chamber. Even the sounds from outside—the chirping of birds and the distant roars of dragons—seemed to bow to his command. "Umashi, what do you suggest?"
All eyes turned to the orc seated at the end of the table. Umashi, the war chief of the northern clans, lifted his massive battle axe from the floor and slammed it onto the table with a deafening thud. The polished steel gleamed under the dim light, its runes humming faintly with stored power.
"I think Black Mamba here," Umashi began, his gravelly voice dripping with disdain as he gestured toward Gafar, "needs to stop throwing sparks around every time he's losing an argument. We all understand the stakes. If what he says is true, ignoring it could be our gravest mistake."
Gafar blinked, momentarily taken aback. It was rare—unheard of, even—for Umashi to support him. Their disdain for one another was no secret. The orc had always been vocal about his contempt for magic, preferring brute strength over spells. Yet here he was, acknowledging Gafar's concerns.
Umashi's one good eye remained fixed on him, unwavering. His other socket, covered by a crude eyepatch made of wolfskin, gave him an even more menacing air. "We thought we'd ended Devorah's reign. But let's not fool ourselves—there's no way we wiped out her entire followers. Her generals, her acolytes... they could still be out there. To underestimate her now would be as foolish as you," he growled, glancing at Michael, who had been smirking in amusement.
Michael leaned back in his chair, his gelled dark hair, reflecting the light as he quipped, "Careful, Umashi. You might hurt yourself trying to string together so many words."
The orc grunted in response but didn't rise to her bait. "We need to take this seriously," he finished, his tone firm.
Oziri's commanding voice broke the ensuing silence. "Umashi, your point is noted. Return to your clan and begin preparations for war. Elfari, the elves must ready themselves as well. I want both factions prepared to move at a moment's notice."
The dragon elder's golden eyes shifted to Gafar. "As for you, Gafar, I will entrust this investigation to you, Michael, and... Where is Balto?"
Elfari answered smoothly, "His wife has been in labor since yesterday. He's with her at the moment."
"Understood." Oziri nodded thoughtfully. "Once his wife delivers, he'll join you both. Gafar, you hold the key to the Blood Swamp. You will lead this team to investigate and confirm whether your fears are justified. Take a small escort, but be discreet. If Devorah's forces are stirring, we cannot alert them to our movements."
The gathered leaders offered curt nods and murmurs of agreement before moving out of the chamber. The heavy doors creaked shut, leaving Oziri alone in the dimly lit room. He exhaled a long, weary sigh, the weight of leadership pressing heavily on his broad shoulders.
Something was amiss—he felt it in his very bones. The dragons whispered uneasily among themselves, their primal instincts attuned to the unnatural. Wild dragons had reported strange sightings: creatures cloaked in shadow and emitting bursts of dark magic. The very air carried a charge that hadn't been felt since Devorah's defeat.
Oziri moved to the arched window overlooking the sprawling valley below. In the distance, the peaks of the Blood Swamp loomed like jagged teeth, shrouded in perpetual mist. He closed his eyes, focusing on the faint hum of dragon magic that lingered in the ether. It was volatile, chaotic—a stark contrast to the balanced harmony he had worked so hard to maintain.
"If she has truly returned..." He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Devorah was no ordinary adversary. Her command over dragon magic had made her nearly unstoppable in the past. Even with the combined strength of the alliance, they had barely managed to seal her away. If the binding curse was indeed breaking, it would take far more than their current strength to stop her return.
The door creaked open, and a young help entered, bowing low. "Elder Oziri, the professors are prepared for your next meeting."
Oziri turned, his golden eyes hardening with resolve. "Good. Summon the scribes. We will begin drafting war decrees immediately."
The help hesitated, sensing the gravity in the elder's tone. "As you wish, Elder."
As the door shut behind the aide, Oziri muttered to himself, "Almighty, guide us." His hand rested on the hilt of the ceremonial blade at his side, a relic from the last great war.
He glanced out the window one last time, his gaze fixed on the Blood Swamp. Whatever lay ahead, one thing was certain—time was running out. And this time, the stakes were higher than ever.