The Black Dragon Council
Deep within a mountain sealed by time and scorched silence, the throne hall stretched like a wound carved from meteor ash and coal-dark flame.
Its walls, smooth yet alive with subtle pulsations, were girded by columns forged from charred bone—arched overhead like a ribcage meant to restrain the sky.
No warmth came from the pale grey firelight that flickered along the chamber. Only warning.
At its far end, a throne rose atop a colossal, fossilized wing—remnant of a beast that once defied death, now held aloft as a symbol:
A bloodline that does not kneel.
Upon it sat Kazpheryn, the Grand Dragon.
Her upper form bore the shape of a woman, but nothing about her presence was human.
Three coiled horns spiraled from her skull, and between them hovered a crystal crown—one that reflected nothing but the gaze of the beholder.
Her hair, a cascade of ancient black, draped over the throne like mourning made flesh.
But nothing could deflect from her eyes—
Golden, like a sun in its final breath.
Steady. Unblinking. Not angry.
Judging.
To her sides stood the elders—silent pillars of age and dread, their weathered faces carved as if by stone, their curved horns inked in ceremonial dye, each bearing the weight of unwavering loyalty.
And before them… stood Zirvanth, heir to the throne.
Silent as an unsheathed spear—unthrown, yet ready.
She measured every breath in the hall.
That was when malzafir entered.
His steps were firm, unhurried. But there was weight in them—a gravity unseen.
He knelt on one knee and spoke in a voice soft as a blade's edge:
"I greet the Exalted Flame… the Hanging Throne of Shadows."
Kazpheryn did not reply.
Her gaze alone was a verdict.
Then she spoke—her voice did not rise, yet it struck the spirit:
"To enter my domain without summons…
Such arrogance belongs only to those who believe fire has forgotten them.
Were it not for the old bond between us… you would already be ash."
Behind her, an elder whispered:
"He once fought beside us—when no one else dared."
Kazpheryn's gaze flicked to the speaker, then returned to Malzver.
"Even those who stood with us… can return as threats.
Oaths do not excuse trespass.
And friendship does not shield against flame."
Malzver did not speak.
He simply raised his head—slowly, as though truth itself was clawing its way out from within.
Then, with a single thumb, he drew a circle in the air—an ancient sign, once used to invoke the living archives.
The air trembled.
A thread of aether spun forward… forming an image, distorted at first, then clearer by the heartbeat.
A battlefield soaked in ash and blood.
The sky torn open—sunless.
At the center knelt a four-horned dragon, mangled and bleeding, its chest carved like a tree gutted to its core.
Before it stood a man.
Or something man-shaped.
There was no aura.
No presence.
Only absence—a void that devoured the very concept of power.
The earth cracked beneath him without movement.
The air itself retreated… not in fear, but in recognition.
He stepped forward with calm steps.
Then raised his foot—
and pressed it against the dragon's head.
The dragon roared—a cry torn between agony and wrath:
"You… cursed half-breed…
Why?
Why did you slaughter my young?
What justice twists life like this?"
The man offered no answer.
Only a smile—hollow as silence.
Then, almost tenderly, he whispered:
**"Tell me…
Who's the monster here?
Is it me?
Is it you?
Or is it the fate that keeps recycling this script?"
I just… stopped applauding."**
The vision faded.
Its glow dissolved into the air like memory too ashamed to linger.
But the silence that followed was not peace.
It was a wound—fresh, and refusing to clot.
The elders gripped their hand tight enough to tremble.
Zirvanth took one step forward, her eyes boiling.
Even the grey flames flickered low, as if the fire itself could not endure what it had seen.
The words had barely faded when the throne itself trembled.
Kazpheryn rose.
Not stood—rose—as if the mountain beneath her yielded.
Her aura erupted, a torrent of black flame that devoured air, cracked stone, and bent light.
The chamber groaned under the weight of her rage, and the ceiling above gave a low, grinding sigh.
"You dare—"
Her voice did not scream.
It burned.
"You come here to display what time could not erase—
You carry shame like it's tribute,
And parade sorrow before me… as if I should kneel to pain?"
Every word lashed like molten chains.
Even the heat around Zirvanth warped, as though her very blood boiled in defiance of silence.
And yet,malzafir… did not flinch.
He raised both hands—slowly, openly.
Not in surrender.
But in grief.
"Exalted One…
That dragon… was my friend."
He swallowed hard.
"And I…
I had nothing then.
No strength to stop his fall."
A long breath.
"I came not with army, nor arrogance, nor agenda.
Only with memory.
Because what you saw… is not history."
He looked up.
His voice dropped into steel:
"It was never a past to be buried.
It was… a beginning."
Silence.
Then he whispered, as though confessing to the gods themselves:
"The Abyss of Light… is breathing again."
Far from the blaze of courts and the weight of ancient halls… the cold waited.
Not with urgency—
but with patience.
The forest here was too dense for sunlight to slip through.
The trees, towering and twisted, felt like they were holding their breath.
On the back of Lupira, a silver-coated beast of elegance and raw power, the King crossed the land in strides that defied time.
She did not gallop.
She glided—her paws making no sound, as though moving across memory, not earth.
Behind him sat Kray, clutching the blind snow-pelted cub in her arms like the last remnant of warmth.
The cub smiled faintly—at wind, at silence, at something no one else could see.
Then, breaking the stillness, Lupira glanced back with a half-smile and asked:
"So… you do know how to smile?"
Kray looked at the King's back, waiting.
But, as always…
Silence answered for him.
They reached a frozen lake—flawless as glass, still as a secret.
Its surface mirrored the sky in such detail that it seemed to question which was real.
Lupira halted.
Her voice came low, tight:
"I don't think entering this place… is a good idea."
The King dismounted without a word.
He stepped forward, knelt at the edge of the ice, and placed his palm against its surface.
His fingers traced it not like a warrior, but like a reader…
searching for meaning.
Then… a thread of mana escaped his hand.
It did not blaze. It whispered.
It slid into the ice like an apology—until, with no sound…
the lake opened.
The King murmured:
"A door…
Let's open it."
He rose slowly.
No fear.
No heat.
Only purpose stripped of all emotion.
He turned to Kray, voice firm:
"Return to the palace.
I'll be gone for some time."
Then, to Lupira:
"Shift to your human form.
Go with her."
He turned his back before they could argue,
as if refusing the very idea of question.
Lupira snarled—then slammed her tail into the lake.
The ice cracked open, revealing a descending tunnel of blackness, too still to be natural.
Her voice echoed:
"Human…
Don't die.
There's still a deal to be made."
Kray added, her voice a quiet vow:
"I'll wait…
no matter how long."
And then—
He jumped.
It was not a fall.
It was a surrender.
The moment the King plunged into the lake, the surface sealed behind him—
like a mouth that had finished its last word.
Sound vanished.
Light followed.
Then came the cold.
But this… was no ordinary cold.
It was ancient—alive—cunning.
It slid beneath his skin like knives made of memory, burrowed through muscle like guilt, and wrapped around bone like shame.
His mana, meant to shield him, cracked like brittle glass.
His limbs stiffened.
His lungs screamed for air that didn't exist.
His heart began to slow—then stutter—then fall silent.
And yet…
He did not stop.
Each breath was agony.
Each heartbeat was violence.
Still, he forced his body forward.
Then…
A voice.
From nowhere.
From inside.
"Foolish."
Not an echo.
Not a hallucination.
A presence.
The Blue Sovereign.
Part of him.
Shadow of a memory,
"Even I… never dared come this far."
The voice was smooth.
Cold.
But not mocking.
There was something behind it—something like… reluctant awe.
"You've trained your heart to burn in ice?
Taught your lungs to break… just so they can breathe again?"
the fire in his chest answered.
The Blue Sovereign chuckled—a sound like frost cracking stone:
"You're not human.
And you've stopped pretending to be."
A glow began to form.
Blue mana.
Not his.
The lake began to acknowledge him.
"So be it," said the Sovereign.
"Keep going…
King of Nothing.
King of Will."
On the far side of the lake, beyond the shattered edge and into the shadows of the forest,
a man stood on a slanted stone—half-eaten by moss and frost.
His armor was elaborate but aged, noble yet battered.
A cracked wooden hat veiled his eyes.
In his hand, a piece of dried meat.
He bit into it lazily, then smirked.
"Huh…
Didn't plan to stop here.
But I guess I'll be watching something interesting today."
He didn't speak to anyone.
Not really.
His gaze lingered on the place where the King had vanished, then he muttered:
"Always in the wrong place…
at the most catastrophic times.
Story of my life."
He didn't move.
He simply sat.
Chewing, thinking, waiting.
A hundred miles away…
The Golden Legion was on the march.
Wings like folded storms.
Eyes like coals ready to ignite.
At the front: Zirvanth.
Behind her:malzafir.
To her left: Nezira—silent, unreadable, a shadow with authority.
malzafir broke the silence:
"We must hurry.
Something's wrong. I feel it."
Nezira didn't turn her head.
Her voice was low, but edged like a blade:
"You fear a ghost,.malzafir
A thousand years of slumber weakens any beast.
Even this… 'Abyss of Light'."
Malzver didn't answer.
Not immediately.
His eyes scanned the icy mountains, then glanced at Zirvanth, at the legion trailing her.
He exhaled.
"You don't understand what we're facing.
You've never seen him."
He turned fully now, facing Zirvanth:
"Girl—no. Commander…
You've grown believing your kind are destined to rule.
But this world doesn't care for bloodlines.
What you're about to face…
isn't a man.
Not even a monster.
It's what we, the powerful, fear in silence."
"A nightmare."
Zirvanth's lips tightened.
But she didn't look away.
She raised her chin, then spoke with fire:
"Don't treat me like a child.
I am the Commander of the Golden Legion.
Of the Black Dragon Clan."
She lifted her hand, then shouted:
"Golden Legion!
Commence Operation: Eradicate the Abyss of Light!
March under my command!"
Wings flared.
Screams rose.
The earth trembled.
And somewhere between the frost and the flames…
Malzver whispered to himself:
"This dream is annoyingly long"