A hush fell over the chamber. Everyone's eyes widened in silent horror. Nadra, still half-buried in the sea of gold, blinked in confusion. "What? Why are you all—"
Then she heard it. A deep, resonant shift. Like the sound of a landslide waiting to happen. The gold beneath her began to rise. Not just shift—rise. The hoard trembled, spilling down in glittering cascades as something immense unfurled beneath it.
Nadra turned. And saw death staring back at her. The golden sea parted like water, and from beneath its shining waves, an ancient terror emerged. Varkhaz'gor, the Elder Dragon of the Grey Mountains.
A shadow eclipsed the cavern's light as a monstrous head, easily the size of a warship, rose above them. Its serpentine neck, thicker than the greatest castle towers, coiled upward, sending an avalanche of gold crashing down in waves. The sheer size of it—was beyond comprehension.
Its scaled hide was a dark, tarnished gold, the color of ancient treasure left to rot. But between the cracks of its massive, overlapping plates, a deep, molten glow pulsed, as if fire itself ran through its veins. Its eyes.
Two great, burning orbs of molten amber, filled with an ancient, bottomless hatred. They locked onto Nadra first—a mere insect before a god.
Its nostrils flared, releasing a gust of scorching steam that made the very air shimmer. And then, it opened its mouth.
Rows upon rows of jagged teeth, each as long as a greatsword, glistened with the remains of creatures long since devoured. Its breath reeked of charred bone and molten rock.
And when it finally spoke—The world trembled. "WHO... DARES... WAKE ME?"
The voice was not a sound, but a force—a tremor in the ground, a quake in their bones. It shook the very stone around them, dust raining down from the cavern ceiling.
Sayf, normally quick with a joke, made no sound. Khaltar, who had stood against a hundred foes, gripped his sword like a man facing his doom.
Gorim, the dwarf who had dreamed of reclaiming his homeland, stared up in silent despair. Varkhaz'gor rose further, unfurling his full, terrifying form.
The sea of gold spilled away in waves, cascading down the vast chamber like a flood. His wings, tattered yet immense, spread wide, their sheer size enough to blot out the cavern's ceiling. Unlike lesser dragons, he bore the terrifying physique of a true elder dragon—his forelimbs fused into his massive wings, leaving only his rear legs and powerful tail to support his bulk.
Each step he took shook the very mountain, the cavern trembling under his weight. His serpentine neck arched, his great, horned skull towering over them. Though the molten glow of his scarred, ancient scales pulsed with barely-contained fire, he did not attack.
Not yet. Instead, he spoke. "I KNOW WHY YOU HAVE COME."
His voice rolled through the chamber like a thunderstorm trapped within stone walls. Yet it was not mere bestial rage—there was intelligence in those burning eyes, a cunning that had outlived empires.
His gaze flickered across the group before settling on Jhon and Khaltar. "HUMANS. ALWAYS HUMANS." He let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, like lava cracking beneath rock. "YOU CRAWL INTO MY DOMAIN, THINKING YOUR MAGIC CAN BEST ME? NO... YOU KNOW BETTER."
Khaltar clenched his fists, but even he, a veteran of countless wars, knew this was beyond any battle he had ever fought.
Varkhaz'gor's head lowered, and his breath—hot as a furnace—washed over them. "GOLD. TREASURE. THIS IS WHY YOU HAVE COME, IS IT NOT?" His lips curled into a mockery of a grin. "SO PREDICTABLE. SO... HUMAN."
Then his gaze shifted. Gorim and Varnic. The molten glow in his eyes flared. "AH... BUT THESE TWO." His voice was almost... amused. "DWARVES. SONS OF A FALLEN KINGDOM. I CAN SMELL IT IN YOUR BLOOD, IN YOUR BONES—YOU COME SEEKING MORE THAN GOLD."
He leaned closer, his enormous skull mere meters from Gorim and Varnic. "YOU THINK YOUR KIND DESERVES TO WALK THESE HALLS ONCE MORE?" His tone turned mocking, dripping with venom. "YOU THINK YOUR FORGOTTEN GODS WILL GRANT YOU YOUR HOME BACK?"
His laugh this time was thunderous, cruel—a sound that rang through the ruins like an omen of doom. "THRAL'ZADUM BELONGS TO ME NOW."
The words crushed the air between them like an avalanche. Gorim's hands trembled, not from fear, but from rage. Varnic's eyes burned with the same fire as the forges of his ancestors.
But even then, neither of them dared to move. Varkhaz'gor's talons flexed, gouging deep scars into the stone beneath him. "NOW... ANSWER ME."
His head tilted, a predator toying with its prey. "WHY... SHOULDN'T I BURN YOU ALL WHERE YOU STAND?"
Sayf's assassin instincts flared. His body tensed, his hands already reaching for his blades, but he knew steel meant nothing against a creature of this magnitude. "RUN!" he barked.
And in that split second, he was right. Varkhaz'gor's growl became a thunderous roar, his chest expanding—then, with a deep, guttural exhalation, the cavern exploded in fire.
A torrent of flames, hotter than any forge, rushed toward them, consuming gold, stone, and air itself. The sheer force sent molten gold splashing like waves crashing against a shore, the heat so intense that ancient dwarven pillars—massive and unbreakable—crumbled into slag.
They ran. Jumped. Tumbled. Jhon pulled Nadra back just in time as a cascade of flaming treasure collapsed where she stood. Gorim and Varnic, their dwarven resilience proving its worth, rolled behind a fallen archway as the inferno rushed past. Arianne and Khaltar sprinted in perfect rhythm, barely dodging a column that came crashing down, flames licking at their heels.
Sayf disappeared into the shadows, moving faster than any of them, darting between debris like a specter of the night. And then, silence.
The firestorm died out as quickly as it had erupted. The cavern was unrecognizable—entire walls blackened, treasures reduced to molten rivers, dwarven engravings erased by the sheer force of the heat.
Varkhaz'gor huffed, embers spilling from his maw. He did not chase them. No. He wanted to mock them.
A deep, rumbling chuckle echoed through the ruined chamber. His massive golden eyes, glowing like twin suns, narrowed.
And then, he locked onto Nadra. "YOU."
Nadra, still catching her breath, froze. The dragon's lips curled into a sinister grin, revealing jagged teeth the size of greatswords. His massive head lowered, his forked tongue flicking out, tasting the air. "I CAN SMELL IT." His voice was silk wrapped in fire.
Nadra's hands clenched into fists. "Smell what?"
Varkhaz'gor's chuckle sent vibrations through the ground. "FEAR."
His breath—a suffocating wave of heat—washed over her. "OH, LITTLE ONE... YOU TRY TO HIDE IT. YOU TRY TO BE STRONG." His head tilted slightly, as if toying with a fragile insect. "BUT YOUR HEART... IT RACES. YOUR BLOOD BURNS. I CAN HEAR IT. FEEL IT."
Jhon and Khaltar refused to stand idle. They lunged. Jhon's aura ignited, golden energy swirling like a storm. His fists burned with raw power as he summoned the might of his mana—two massive lion-headed blasts forming in each hand. Their golden maws roared, crackling with magic, before he hurled them forward with a thunderous BOOM!
At the same moment, Khaltar's sword gleamed with the fury of the wind. He slashed through the air, conjuring razor-sharp gales that howled like a hurricane, their edges honed to cut through even the thickest dragon hide. The twin assaults collided with Varkhaz'gor's immense form.
A blinding explosion erupted upon impact, shaking the very foundations of the cavern. Dust and embers filled the air, obscuring their vision. Silence.
Then—a deep, guttural laugh. As the smoke cleared, Varkhaz'gor stood unscathed. Not even a scratch. Not even a flinch.
His enormous, molten eyes gleamed with amusement. His wings shifted, sending a powerful gust that nearly knocked them off their feet. "IS THAT ALL?"
His voice was mocking, drenched in condescension. The cavern trembled under his mere presence. "YOU THROW YOUR LITTLE TRICKS AT ME... AND EXPECT ME TO FALL? YOU EXPECT ME TO BOW, LIKE SOME COMMON WYVERNS?"
Varkhaz'gor drew in a deep breath, his chest expanding, the runes along his scales glowing like molten rock. Then, a sudden, eerie silence. Something was wrong. Jhon's instincts screamed at him. Khaltar gritted his teeth. And then—BOOOOOOM!
Varkhaz'gor unleashed his full might. A colossal explosion of fire and concussive force erupted from his maw, more than a simple breath attack—it was a cataclysm. The sheer energy shattered the hall, obliterating stone, melting the very floor beneath them.
The ancient pillars that held the chamber aloft cracked and crumbled, crashing down like falling mountains. The shockwave alone flung them backward, hurling them like ragdolls.
Nadra barely had time to scream as the ground beneath her collapsed into a fiery abyss. The entire hall was breaking apart.
As the Hall of the Dwarven Hoards trembled, its ancient stone ceiling cracked and crumbled, revealing the stormy sky above.
Varkhaz'gor spread his massive wings—wings so vast they blotted out the heavens. With a single, mighty beat, he ascended, sending a violent gust that hurled debris and golden coins into the air like falling stars.
His form became a living comet, a blazing titan soaring through the sky. His scales, burning with molten veins, reflected like fire upon the clouds, turning the night into a storm of ember and fury.
And as he ascended, his thunderous voice echoed across the mountains, a declaration that would be etched into legend:
"REMEMBER THIS DAY, MORTALS. YOU HAVE AWAKENED RUIN ITSELF.
YOU HAVE NO SANCTUARY. NO HOPE. NO FUTURE.
FOR I AM THE SCOURGE OF KINGDOMS. THE DOOM OF DYNASTIES. THE NIGHTMARE OF GODS.
I AM FIRE INCARNATE!"
Then, with a final roar that split the heavens, he vanished beyond the peaks—a burning omen of destruction on the horizon.
The echoes of Varkhaz'gor's vow still rumbled in their bones as the last embers of his firestorm faded into the night. The wind howled through the ruined halls, carrying the scent of burnt stone and molten gold. One by one, they collapsed to their knees.
Jhon clenched his fists, his knuckles white, staring blankly at the scorched ruins before him. His breath was ragged, his shoulders trembling—not from fear, but from crushing defeat.
Khaltar gritted his teeth, gripping his sword so tightly it cut into his palm, but he felt no pain. His strength, his pride, his resolve—all of it had shattered in the face of something they could never hope to match.
Sayf, the ever-cunning assassin, had no words. He had always believed there was a way out, a strategy, an escape—but against a force like this? His mind spun in empty circles.
Nadra sat where she fell, hands pressed to her face, her body trembling. The gold beneath her shimmered mockingly, as if reminding her of her mistake. Her breath hitched, and then—she sobbed. Not from pain, but from despair.
Even Arianne, usually so composed, had fallen silent, her hands trembling over her heart.
Varnic and Gorim knelt before the ruins of their ancestors' home, their heads bowed. The weight of centuries of dwarven loss had just become heavier than ever. "All this..." Gorim whispered, his voice hollow. "For nothing."