That same night, far from my borders in a forgotten wasteland south of the Demon Lands, an ancient seal cracked. A spire of molten stone burst from the ground, and a roar echoed across the continent—deep, guttural, and laced with hate.
The Demon Dragon, sealed for ten thousand years, had awoken.
Elvie came running into the strategy room the next morning, holding an ancient book, dust still fresh on the cover. "Dirk, I found it," she said breathlessly. "It's not just prophecy. This was recorded by one of the first alchemists—back when dragons shaped the world."
She placed the tome on the table and opened it to a page depicting two dragons: one wrapped in radiant light, the other in blackened smoke, their wings clashing over a shattered world.
Ella, eyes wide, traced the drawing. "It's them. Flare… and the other."
Kael muttered under his breath, "So the stories were true."
"What does it mean?" I asked, though my gut already knew.
Elvie turned the page. "It says the two will awaken in the same era—divine twins born of the original flame. One a bringer of renewal… the other of ruin. If they clash, the world itself may break."
Silence fell across the room. "I didn't ask for this," I said quietly. Flare let out a soft chirp and nuzzled my palm, as if to comfort me.
"You didn't have to," Elvie whispered. "Fate chose you. Again."
Ella looked up. "So what do we do now?"
I closed the tome slowly. "We prepare. If the Demon Dragon is rising… then war is coming. And we're standing in the eye of the storm."
*****
Far Beyond the Mortal Kingdoms — The Demon Lands
The Demon Lands were a realm untouched by light. It was said that even the sun avoided its sky, leaving the region in a state of permanent dusk. Jagged mountains clawed at the heavens, and rivers flowed black with cursed ichor. Storms brewed for decades and never broke. The land was dead to mortals but teeming with something darker—something that watched, waited, and remembered.
Deep within the Blightspire Mountains, where nothing had walked in centuries save for shadow beasts and cursed winds, something ancient stirred.
The seal—a towering obsidian obelisk chained in runes—had begun to pulse days ago. The ground shivered. Volcanoes grumbled awake. A low hum, inaudible to most, resonated across the Demon Lands.
Then came the final crack.
A booming sound tore through the earth, as if the world exhaled after millennia. The chains shattered into thousands of cursed fragments. The obelisk split in two.
And from within, the Demon Dragon—Xar'veth, the Abyss That Devours—emerged.
Its body was a tapestry of smoke and molten bone, wings made of living ash. It had three eyes, one blind, one glowing red, and one black as the void. As it crawled out, mountains crumbled in its wake, and the skies turned pitch black.
At the summit of the Blightspire, another figure stood, cloaked in tattered robes of scorched crimson—his horns spiralled like blades, his skin cracked like volcanic glass. His name was Malgrith the Dread, the demon lord once sealed alongside Xar'veth during the final war of the Primordial Flame.
He laughed.
"Ten thousand years… and the world has grown weak," he said, watching his dragon rise. "The divine has returned—and so have we."
A line of kneeling demon generals—hulking beasts with iron masks and glowing brands—bowed before him, their voices echoing:
"Long live the Dread King. Long live Xar'veth."
Malgrith raised his hand, and in it, the Thorned Crown of Desolation shimmered—crafted from cursed celestial bone, a crown that once allowed him to command death itself.
"I have returned," Malgrith hissed. "And I will take back what was once mine. The mortal lands. The divine flame. The world."
Xar'veth let out a soul-piercing roar that travelled across continents. The birds of the southern forests fell dead from the sky. Elven seers wept blood. Entire villages near the Blightspire dropped to their knees, writhing in nightmares that were not their own.
****
Back in my territory, I awoke with Flare shuddering against my chest. He had grown slightly, no longer a lizardling but the size of a small fox, wings hidden beneath his scaled back. His eyes glowed with frantic panic.
"Elvie!" I shouted as I burst into the library. She and Ella were already there, faces pale.
"You felt it too?" I asked.
"Everyone did," Ella replied. "Children woke up screaming. The sky turned black over the western border… for ten seconds."
Elvie pointed at a glowing crystal orb near the map. "Prophetic disruption. That's a rift signature—Demon Lands. Something ancient has come back."
I put my hand on the orb, and Flare trembled beside me. "He's awake," I murmured.
"Who?" Elvie asked.
I looked her in the eye. "The other dragon. Xar'veth."
Silence. Ella dropped her quill.
"Are we prepared?" Elvie finally whispered.
"No," I admitted. "But we will be."
I turned to the map. "Send word to the king. And to every border town between here and the west. If Malgrith is moving, he'll test our strength before he invades."
I lifted Flare into my arms. He curled close again.
"You were born to protect, weren't you?" I asked softly.
He chirped in answer, but I felt the pulse of divinity in his soul.
This was more than a magical pet. This was a war between gods reborn.
And I was no longer just a merchant, or a warrior, or a town lord. I was the divine's chosen—tasked with shaping the balance of the world.
*****
Demon Lands – Fortress of Boneglass
Malgrith the Dread sat upon his throne of ribcage and obsidian, the air around him constantly swirling with ash and faint embers. Xar'veth lay coiled behind him, its breath like a furnace. Though the demon lord appeared calm, his fingers twitched with dark anticipation.
Before him knelt a figure cloaked in writhing shadow—a spy, born of shadowmancy, shaped from cursed ether. No voice, no face. Only silence and obedience.
"You have walked the mortal lands unseen?" Malgrith's voice cut through the chamber like a blade through flesh.
The shadow creature bowed low.
"Yes," it whispered, a thousand voices speaking as one.
"Tell me. What do the mortal kings fear most?"
The shadow flickered. "They do not fear you, my lord. Not yet. Their king—Ernest—still believes the seal held. He prepares festivals, not armies. He is unaware of your return."
Malgrith scoffed, leaning back into his throne.
"Fools. They've grown soft."
"But there is one..." the shadow continued, its form warping to show an image—your face, standing tall amidst the backdrop of your bustling territory, flanked by warriors, your black coat wind-whipped and your hand resting on a glowing blade.
Malgrith's red eyes narrowed. "Who is he?"
"They call him Dirk," the shadow murmured. "A wanderer. Now a lord of a territory that did not exist a year ago. He commands strange magic and strange tools. He defeated Duke Veranos. Rescued hundreds of slaves. And... the divine has chosen him."
Malgrith sat up straight. "What divine?"
The image shifted to Flare—still small, curled in your arms, the unmistakable glow of celestial fire pulsing from his tiny core.
"The Dragon God," the shadow hissed. "Reborn. And bound to him."
Malgrith stood. The chamber rumbled. Xar'veth stirred behind him, a low growl rolling through the throne hall like distant thunder.
"Impossible," he growled. "The Divine Flame cannot return. It was shattered. Buried."
The shadow tilted its head. "Yet it breathes. And it walks beside this... mortal."
For a long moment, there was silence.
Then Malgrith turned to Xar'veth.
"We will not wait. The mortals think this world belongs to them. They think their petty kingdoms and glowing walls can withstand the dark. But this Dirk—this champion—he is the thread that unravels everything."
Xar'veth let out a slow exhale, the walls blackening under the heat.
Malgrith looked to his generals. Ten horned demons stepped forward, armoured in infernal iron and wielding weapons soaked in abyssal essence.
"Send a second shadow," he ordered. "To the capital. Learn who this Dirk truly is—his allies, his weapons, his weaknesses. And burn every document they keep on him."
He turned to the image of your territory. "Then... We send our first wave. Not an army. Not yet."
He smiled, teeth black and razor sharp.
"A warning."
*****
Kingdom of Aradan – The Royal Capital, Two Days Later
The castle shimmered beneath the moonlight, wards glowing faintly along the towers. The halls were alive with music, nobles laughing over warm wine and golden candles. All seemed well.
But in the deep corners of the royal library, a sudden chill swept through the chamber. The shadow had arrived. Silent. Invisible. It passed through enchanted doors, bypassed guardian glyphs, and even glided over the king's own private study. Scrolls, documents, records—all turned by unseen hands.
There, it found everything: my original petition to the crown. The agreement with the king to free mainland slaves. Reports from Kael and Athena. Supply manifests. Requests for magical alloys. Construction blueprints. Even private letters of gratitude from the palace itself.
And then... the prophecy.
The one shared only among a few—about the child of the Earth who would rise when both dragons awoke.
The shadow lingered. It did not destroy. It remembered.
And vanished.