It rose like a shadow from the depths of the Hollowgrave—slow and immense. The earth, cracked beneath the weight of the black leviathan whose bone-clawed limbs grasped the edge, held its form but groaned in protest. And then, it was free. For the first time in eons, sunlight dared touch its rotting flesh.
It looked as if Morteus himself—the God of Death—had returned, dragging with him the abhorrent creature he had once cast into the abyss: a traitor to its own kind, a devourer of kin. Its name was lost to time; or perhaps, no age dared remember it.
Its name—if it had one—must have sounded just as twisted, just as monstrous, as the beast itself. A grotesque mockery of the divine serpents that once soared across the skies of Azaranth in great flocks. But now, because of this one, they were all but gone.
Its blackened hide was stretched taut over withered bones, and where meat still clung, it festered—infested by unknown worms that writhed through pus-dripping sores. The rot oozed to the soil, which hissed and shriveled beneath the foul black ichor. And the dragon reveled in it—the spectacle, the light, the scent of life. It drew in one great breath with its decaying lungs—lungs patched by sorcery, crude black magic desperately holding together a divine relic of a forgotten era.
It lifted higher, pulling back its head, and though decay gnawed through bone and sinew, the sight of it was still transcendent—terrifying. So great was its form, so foul its presence, that weapons slipped from the hands of those who saw it. And then the awe gave way—to madness, to despair.
Mothers abandoned their children in blind panic. Brothers trampled brothers. The city—so certain it had already met death—now tasted it truly, drawn from a bottomless, festering well.
Then came the scream.
It was not a roar but an annihilation. It pierced hearts, crushed courage, tore minds asunder. Even the sun seemed to dim under its weight. Castle walls quaked. Plaster rained from houses like heavy snowflakes. Horses reared and bled from ears and foamed from mouth. Rats fled over bodies, trampling and trampled alike, knowing death was near. And indeed it was.
Birds fell from the sky like bloody rain. And from above, the city looked no better—it was a sea of bodies pouring through its streets.
Then silence.
The dragon ceased its cry—abrupt, deliberate. It shook its skull, as if casting off the dust of millennia, and turned. Each movement was fluid and slow, like swimming through heavy water. Yet the beast's power was undeniable, every sinew of its vast body still bearing weight.
One eye remained. That lone, decaying orb swept across the world.
Then it turned to face the sun. Its steps were mountains shifting. Earth rolled away beneath its tread. Its skeletal tail sliced the air, releasing a stench so vile it was as if death itself had passed judgment.
A wave of putrescence washed toward the city. Those too slow to flee collapsed, writhing in vomit and agony, unconscious or dying in heaps.
But there was more.
From the tail's swing, rotting flesh gave birth to life. Or something that resembled it. Gargantuan leeches—sinewy beasts with gaping, glistening maws—thudded to the ground. They shrieked, not in pain, but hunger. Though much smaller than the dragon, they were horrors of their own.
Zeke too fell. Blood streamed from his ears. Acidic vomit poured from nose and mouth. The mere presence of the dragon seemed to rot his mind from the inside.
Then… warmth.
Gone was the cold numbness. In its place came courage—fierce, unrelenting. A fire that moved the legs, emboldened the heart. He looked up, spitting the last of the sick, and saw Dina.
She was chanting—eyes bleeding, voice hoarse. But her words held power, drawn from faith deep and unwavering. A faith that refused to let the lantern of the Divine Mother go out—not even in the face of this ancient blight that now set foot on Azaranthian soil.
She would not yield.
She was a vessel of light. Her every syllable, spoken through chapped and bloodied lips, fed strength to those still standing.
And the leeches smelled it. Even amid the dragon's rot and sorcery, they sensed the girl's power. They began to writhe toward her, serpentine, frenzied, desperate for her flesh.
Eberon stood amidst the ruin, his massive frame slowly rising.
The fear was gone. That divine hopelessness he had felt… snuffed out. A golden glow shimmered faintly around his heart.
"Zeke!" he called, slamming his hammer into the ground. "Run!"
He didn't look back.
"Take Dina and flee, you scrawny bastard!" he barked with a grin.
"No, Eberon! We're not leaving you!" Zeke grabbed at his cloak, voice trembling. "The dragon—it's not after us—we can still escape!"
"Look around, boy!" Eberon turned, voice low. "Look at what's coming… Not even you can outrun this. I was born in the Old City. Lived here… and now I'll die here."
He towered over Zeke—a mountain of a man, dwarfed only by the beast that loomed behind him.
"I'm already dead, Zeke. The curse of Oldtown marks me. Old and foolish… but if I can give you one more moment, just one…"
"Take her and run!"
He shoved Zeke toward Dina. The boy stumbled, tears flowing—not from pain, but from the ripping of bonds, the severing of something sacred.
"Eberon… no. I can't—"
"My people aren't cowards!" Eberon roared. "Be strong. Run. Not for yourself, but for the girl. For the one you'd give your life to protect!"
Zeke stood still, eyes downcast, fists clenched. His voice was a whisper through grit teeth.
"Then we go forward."
"I'll follow soon…" Eberon said with a smile—small, sad—and turned.
Zeke lifted Dina onto his back. She burned with fever, blood pooling in the corners of her mouth. Still, she chanted. Soft, trembling words. A light in the dark.
He looked back once—just once—at the man he called friend. Then turned and ran, toward the shattered wall, the last hope of escape.
Eberon walked toward the beast.
Hammer in hand, each step slow and resolute.
The dragon was immense—its scale made even motion difficult to track. Before him, the leeches surged. Countless. Screeching. Writhing. Death incarnate.
But Eberon did not waver.
He listened to his breath. He was not Zeke, armed with magic. Not a Nordener, to crush stone. He was a hunter. Seasoned. Hardened.
And this was his hour.
His death would not be in vain.
The dragon prepared to scream again—but this time, no sound came. Instead, a black smog burst from its jaws, rushing toward the sun. A legion of curses climbing the sky.
The blackness lingered. Swirled. The wind caught it, spread it. The sun began to vanish behind it, choked out.
Eberon looked up.
The world grew darker.
He clenched his hammer.
"Come, then! For Oldtown!" he cried, raising his voice against the tide. He knew he would fall. Knew he could not stop them. But still—he would fight.
And here, beneath a shadow too vast to name, ends the tale of Eberon—Hammer of the Old City. Devoured, erased beneath the crawling dusk.
Yet he smiled, bitter and proud.
"At least… they escaped."