In the grand throne room of the dragon kingdom, King Arman sat upon his throne, his antlers glowing faintly as he watched his father, Balthazar. The elder dragon stood tall and unyielding, a living pillar of power. His massive stature dwarfed Arman, and his flowing beard moved with the currents in the crystalline chamber. Balthazar's gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, his golden eyes clouded with deep thought.
A frown tugged at Arman's lips as he observed his father's silence. The weight of their discussion hung heavily in the air, and yet Balthazar seemed lost in his own reflections. Meanwhile, Arman's thoughts wandered briefly to his newborn son. Daenarys was tending to the child, who had already become a handful since learning to walk. The young prince's growing strength was undeniable, and though his mischief caused headaches for them, Arman couldn't help but smirk with pride. His son was powerful, perhaps the strongest dragon child ever born—a harbinger of what was to come. The thought of naming him at the Dragon Gate Ceremony stirred something deep within him.
Yet that power drew attention. Azarios had sent report after report, detailing whispers from scouts and spies across the world. Confirmation from the Skybearers—specialists who monitored the World from above—left no doubt: the world was watching. Recently, Arman and his council had convened to strategize, weighing the ever-looming threat of the Shadowborne. The scroll Theros had recovered revealed unsettling truths about their enemy. The Shadowborne were awakening in greater numbers, driven by a nexus of power—perhaps the Obsidian Eye Lysander had spoken of, or something even more insidious. Theros's report after his recovery confirmed their fears: the Shadowborne had found what they sought. Now the question was what they would do with that knowledge.
Some council members suggested secretly sending the prince offworld, but Arman dismissed the idea. No son of his would be hidden away to grow up in obscurity. What was there to fear? Apart from the Shadowborne, few could challenge the dragons. Even immortal beings had fallen before their might. The mortals who now stirred with curiosity were mere ants compared to their ancient strength.
Arman's gaze shifted back to Balthazar, who remained motionless. The silence stretched on until Arman finally stood, his antlers glowing brighter as he approached. Pulses of energy rippled outward with each step.
"Father, why so silent? We've sat here for days, yet you've said nothing of what you think. Is it the mortals above, or the immortal races taking notice of him? Of all beings, I respect your wisdom the most—not just because you are my father, but because of the depths of your insight. What does the wisdom of old say we should do?"
Balthazar stirred at the energy pulses, his golden eyes sharpening as they focused on his son. He nodded slowly, placing a massive hand on Arman's shoulder.
"It has been a long time since you've done that," Balthazar said, his deep voice resonating like a distant quake. "How you and Tydarin have grown. I fear, my son. I am afraid of failing my creed. Before the hand that crushed our empire descended, I swore to restore us to our former glory. I have done all I can to protect our people, our way of life. Yet we are few now. Over the billions of years I have existed, I could only sire two children, even with the treasures I found. Our numbers are in the thousands, while our vassals and subspecies thrive in abundance."
He paused, his gaze distant once more. "My goal has always been to rebuild. Now that duty is yours. In time, it will pass to your children. But I fear failure. We stopped expanding because we saw beings of equal or greater power in the many worlds. Out of fear of losing everything, I ordered our retreat into seclusion. For millions of years, we've consolidated, yet we do not expand. Fear has held us back."
Balthazar's eyes glowed brighter as he looked at his palm, power rippling from it. The air around him seemed to crack and bend. "But now I see hope. Your son—his birth, his power—reminds me of what we are. Yet I still fear. I, a god among mortals, am afraid. Afraid of those who wield power above us. Afraid of mortals and immortals alike."
His voice rose, and the throne room trembled under the weight of his aura. Even the crystalline architecture, reinforced by the Weave itself, faltered momentarily. "But why should we cower? Why should we fear? If they want war, then I shall remind them why I am called Terror! I will remind the world of old traumas, of what it means to provoke us."
The intensity of his aura cast shadows over Arman, who felt his knees weaken under the pressure. Yet he did not falter. Instead, he grinned, his handsome face twisting with determination. This was the father he remembered from his youth—the conqueror, the terror of old. It had been too long since he'd seen this fire rekindled.
"Then let us remind them, Father," Arman said, his voice steady despite the immense power that pressed down upon him. "Let them see what the apex of creation truly is."