The fire crackled low in the center of the forest tent, casting shadows that danced like restless spirits across the faces of those within. Outside, the Black Forest whispered its eternal song—branches creaking like bones, winds howling like wolves remembering forgotten wars.
Arthur stood tall, arms crossed behind his back, cloaked in black. Rainwater still clung to his armor, trailing rivulets down polished steel as he looked down upon the chained Otto Hightower. The once-grand Hand of the King was a shadow of his former self, bruised and worn from days of captivity—but his mind remained razor-sharp, defiant even in defeat.
Otto met Arthur's burning eyes. "Why do you need the pathway to the Secret Vault?" he asked quietly.
Arthur stepped closer, his voice as calm as a quiet storm. "I saved your life, Otto. I could have left you to rot in that dungeon. I didn't. So you owe me that much, don't you think?"
Otto hesitated, then nodded slowly. "You're right… You did save me. Perhaps I do owe you more than I care to admit."
He exhaled and straightened up as much as his chains allowed.
"I can give you what I know," he said grimly, "but I must remind you—the vault isn't like anything built by kings or stone masons. It was carved from beneath the world itself. There are five levels of security, Arthur. Each one... forged by magic, blood, and sacrifice."
Arthur listened in silence.
Otto continued, his voice now low and haunted. "The first level is the Gate of Chains—sealed by the blood of the last royal family. Only one of their line can unbind it. The second is the Mirror Labyrinth. A place where your mind is fractured into reflections—lies, truths, memories. Many go mad before reaching the third."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
"The third is the Breathless Hall," Otto whispered. "A tunnel without air, without light. You must cross it while holding no breath, guided only by memory. If you speak… or forget who you are… it consumes you."
Arthur said nothing, but his jaw flexed.
"The fourth," Otto said, "is the Binding Circle—a test of loyalty. You will face a shade of someone you loved most. It will beg you not to go further. If your resolve breaks… you'll never leave."
Arthur's eyes flicked for a brief second—just a flicker—toward the fire. A memory stirred there. A woman's laughter, a hand reaching through falling ash. Then it was gone.
"And the fifth?" Arthur asked quietly.
Otto hesitated again, then looked up. "The fifth is not spoken of in most scrolls. It is not even considered a test. It's a warden. A Death Knight. Forged in the time of the First Flame. Not born of flesh, but of shadow and steel. He guards the final seal—the Vault of the Crown Flame. No one has ever passed him."
Daemon sat back into his ironwood chair, the hinges groaning beneath the weight of both man and memory. The faint scent of old parchment and wax lingered in the air as he opened the thick leather-bound tome once more, its aged pages crackling like firewood. His crimson eyes glinted under the flickering candlelight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the ink on the page pulsed—alive with echoes of blood and legacy.
"Let's see what you were after, Arthur," Daemon muttered under his breath, fingers tracing the faded script.
He resumed reading, the inked memories unraveling like a long-forgotten curse:
The classroom was quiet—eerily so.
Sunlight filtered in through tall arched windows, gilding the ancient wooden floorboards with a pale golden hue. Dust motes floated in the air, suspended like tiny spirits in a cathedral. The students of Class 1A sat stiffly at their desks, dressed in the black and crimson uniforms of the Imperial Academy. Quills scratched on parchment, ink pots clinked gently, and the smell of parchment, wax, and old wood mingled with the faint perfume of incense drifting from a burner by the podium.
Arthur sat in the second row, back straight, hands folded, posture perfect. But his head was turned — not toward the front, not toward the blackboard, not even toward the elderly instructor who had just stepped into the room. His crimson-gold eyes were staring out the high window, toward something no one else could see.
Arthur sat still in the wooden chair, his back straight yet effortless, like a man accustomed to command yet feigning simplicity. The morning sun filtered lazily through the stained glass windows of Class 1A, coloring the marble floor with hues of red and gold. Around him, students whispered, some still unable to believe that a commoner had ranked among the top in the Academy's Black Forest Trials. Most only knew him by his false name: Ash.
But Arthur didn't hear them. His eyes, golden-amber and laced with red streaks when the light caught just right, were focused elsewhere. Though his body was in that room, seated beside a confused and worried Aisha, his mind was chasing something far older and far more dangerous.
"Where are you, dragon…" he thought, his jaw tightening slightly. "You're here. Somewhere in this land. I will find you. I will end you."
The classroom door creaked open. A tall, thin instructor walked in, cloaked in navy robes embroidered with runes. "Settle down," he said without looking up. "We begin today's lecture with the tactical formations of the Silverhorn Campaign…"
But Arthur still didn't move.
"Arthur…?" Aisha whispered beside him, trying not to draw attention. "Is everything alright?"
He didn't respond at first. His hand slowly clenched the side of his desk. A distant memory—the flash of a dragon's eye, the screams of men burning alive, the scent of charred metal—flared in his mind.
Aisha leaned in closer. "Sire, you said you'd tell me if something was wrong. I'm your guard. If you keep vanishing, if something happens and I don't even know who to protect—"
He turned to her suddenly. His expression was calm, but his voice was cold. "Don't ask again."
Aisha fell silent. The instructor had started drawing diagrams on the board, but the sound of chalk scratching was drowned out by the pounding of Arthur's thoughts.
Meanwhile — The Northern Front
The 34th Legion had arrived at the northern walls of Velora. And they found not a battlefield… but a graveyard.
Bodies lay strewn across the snow-caked plains, their blood staining the frost a deep black-red. Horses were torn apart, their rib cages cracked open like wood. And towering above the ruined battlements were the giants.
Six meters tall, skin like cracked stone and moss, their breath steaming in the frigid air, the giants roared as they tore through the remnants of the garrison.
"Form shield walls! Push them back!" Commander Vex roared, standing atop his obsidian steed.
Arrows flew. Swords clanged. Mages chanted. The earth itself shook.
But it wasn't just giants they were fighting.
The dead had risen.
Clad in rusted armor, dragging their broken limbs across the battlefield, they surged behind the giants—an endless tide of soulless warriors once buried beneath the permafrost. Every time a soldier fell, the ice cracked and another corpse clawed its way out.
Then, above the chaos, above the clash of steel and the cries of men, came a sound that silenced the world.
A deep, ancient voice, speaking not in human tongue—but in the language of dragons, twisted and resonant, like thunder echoing in caverns older than time itself:
"𝕲𝖗𝖎𝖒 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖍... 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖕 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖞 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜...?"
A bolt of violet flame split the sky.
An entire row of war mages was turned to ash.
One of the giants stopped, sniffed the air like a bloodhound—and then its chest exploded in a burst of infernal fire. From the blackened clouds descended a shadow—a creature with vast wings and talons forged of ancient steel, its scales blacker than night, its eyes glowing like molten sapphire.
The dragon was here.
And it had spoken.
"𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓, 𝕴 𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖓𝖈𝖊. 𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓."
It wasn't just an attack.
It was a challenge.
The cold northern wind howled like a dying beast across the ruined walls. Snow and ash fell together from the grey sky, turning the earth into a slushy mire of blood and soot. Commander Aldric of the 34th Legion stood atop a crumbled tower, his fur cloak torn, his eyes bloodshot and sleepless. His gauntleted fist tightened around the hilt of his longsword as he stared in disbelief at the scene below.
The men of the Night Watch — once proud guardians of the North Gate — were getting back up.
Not in triumph.
Not in valor.
But in death.
Their faces were torn, pale like frozen meat. Some had eyes missing, others had gaping holes in their chests where hearts once beat. One had his intestines dragging like serpents behind him, stepping over them as if nothing had happened. Another's jaw hung by sinew, tongue swaying like a wet flag.
And they marched forward.
As if some invisible hand had beckoned them. As if pain, fear, and mortality no longer held them. Their armor clanked loosely. Their breath was gone. Yet their feet moved, their hands gripped weapons once lost in the mud.
"By the gods…" a young soldier whispered near Aldric, his spear tip trembling.
Aldric spat. "No gods here."
He unsheathed his blade, its edge catching the pale light of the dying sun. Then he roared with the full wrath of a war-seasoned commander, his voice cutting through the growing panic like thunder.
"FORM LINE! FORM LINE! SPEARS AHEAD!"
But panic was already crawling like fire through the ranks. Younger conscripts backed away. Some stumbled over corpses. Some dropped their weapons. The veterans, though, knew the cost of fear. They planted their boots, slammed the butts of their spears into the muddy ground, and stood shoulder to shoulder.
"Shields! On me!" bellowed Sergeant Maerick, slamming his bronze shield against his greave.
Drums beat. Horns blared. The legion formed into its iron phalanx, spears bristling like the teeth of a wolf.
The dead kept coming.
"Hold!" Aldric shouted, descending from the tower and marching through the mud toward the line. "They were your brothers in arms once, but now they're meat puppets in some damned necromancer's game! You see them twitch — YOU STAB!"
The ground trembled. A low groan rolled over the battlefield.
The first wave of corpses reached the front line, and chaos erupted.
The spears jabbed forward, impaling rotted chests and splitting skulls, but the dead did not scream. They didn't bleed. They clawed at the shields, biting at the gaps in the armor. One corpse dug its fingers into a legionnaire's helmet and twisted until bone cracked and blood sprayed.
Another soldier screamed as a dead man — his former bunkmate — sank yellow teeth into his throat.
"Push! Push them back!" Maerick shouted.
They pushed. The line heaved forward, shoving the weight of the undead into the mire, trampling limbs and splitting faces. But for every fallen corpse, two more emerged from the woods behind — a silent tide of broken warriors, their eyes glowing faint blue.
Aldric lifted his sword high.
"FIRE!" he shouted.
From the ridge behind, three catapults launched flaming barrels into the horde. The barrels exploded with burning oil, igniting the corpses in an inferno of black smoke and shrieks. The fire crackled, bones popped, and a few of the undead finally dropped, writhing in flames.
But it wasn't enough.
The flames lit up something behind the horde. Something massive.
A giant.
At first, they thought it was the smoke playing tricks, but as the inferno grew, they saw it clearly — a colossal creature of twisted flesh and stone. Horns jutted from its back, and its eyes were pits of molten iron. It trudged forward, dragging a rusted hammer the size of a siege tower behind it.
"GIANT! LEFT FLANK!" someone screamed.
The 34th turned. Too late.
The giant lifted the hammer — one swing, and half a dozen men were flattened into the dirt like bloodied parchment. Screams erupted. The formation broke. Fear won.
Aldric gritted his teeth. "No… no, hold the line—!"
But the line was already shattering.
The dead pressed in.
The giant raised its hammer again.
Then—
A scream echoed across the sky. But not a human one.
A scream that shook the clouds.
A scream in Draconic.
The air shimmered as the voice echoed again, this time deeper, filled with a fury so ancient it made even the dead hesitate.
<"Vortharn ek dal zharuul.">
—You will die here.
The soft murmur of the academy classroom faded into the distance as Arthur's bootsteps echoed faintly down the marble corridor. The halls were quiet now, with students and teachers occupied in their afternoon lectures. He had said nothing more to Alice beyond a simple command—"Cover for me." She had blinked in confusion, caught off guard, her quill still halfway to the inkwell.
"What do you mean? Arthur, where—"
But he was already gone, his coat fluttering behind him like the wings of a silent bird of prey.
Outside, beneath the pale sun and cooling breeze, a black carriage awaited just beyond the courtyard gates. The driver, a lean man in a dark cap with a scar over his brow, gave a single nod without question when Arthur climbed aboard.
"To the forest," Arthur said curtly, his tone leaving no room for delay.
With a sharp crack of the reins, the horses neighed and began to move, wheels crunching over cobblestone as they left the sanctity of the academy walls behind. Trees soon thickened around the road. Mist coiled low to the earth like the breath of sleeping beasts. The forest—ancient and cold—loomed ahead, not simply a thicket of trees, but a boundary between two worlds: the world of man and the forgotten world of monsters and gods.
Back in the academy, the instructor glanced at the rows of students and raised an eyebrow.
"Where is Mr. Ash?" he asked, scanning the attendance scroll with practiced eyes.
Aisha shifted in her seat, heart pounding. "He… he wasn't feeling well, sir. He went to the infirmary."
The teacher stared for a moment, suspicious, then nodded slowly. "Very well."
But beneath the desk, Aisha gripped her skirt tightly. You'd better return, Arthur. Or I'll drag your royal ass out of wherever you are myself.
Arthur trudged through the dense swamp, each step sinking into the wet, sucking earth as mosquitoes buzzed and shadows loomed. The forest ahead was darker—older. As he entered the Forest of Mist, a thick white fog clung to the trees, veiling every path. Roots coiled like serpents beneath his boots, and the deeper he ventured, the more the world changed. The birds stopped chirping. The trees stood like petrified watchers, ancient and silent. Then came the whispers.
"Go away… You are not welcome…"
The voices echoed from every direction, neither male nor female, old nor young. They were the forest itself, speaking through the rustling leaves and the creaking branches. Arthur's breath grew shallow. The air grew cold. Then, in a sudden shimmer of light, the fog parted before him—and standing in the mist was a woman in a silver gown, her face pale, her hair long and auburn, exactly as he remembered from childhood. His mother.
"Arthur… my son," she whispered.
His heart clenched. For a moment, he froze—his hands trembled, his throat tight. She reached for him, but her fingers were translucent.
"Come with me… Don't go further. The path ahead is cursed…"
Arthur stepped back. Pain filled his eyes—but then his gaze hardened.
"No," he growled. "You're not her. She died in my arms."
The illusion cracked like glass, shattering into a thousand glowing embers that vanished into the mist. The forest recoiled, hissing in anger. But Arthur did not flinch. He stepped forward, planted his foot into the moss-covered earth, and raised his hand to the trees.
In the ancient tongue of the Children of the Forest, his voice rang out:
"Shael'varin dor'mael... eth thun vi'shallanar.Nel drav'kai toruun al'shai.Byrenn syl varuun, shael tra'dar un shai."
"Zaruun drelkai, vi'shaal dravon vel'sei.Naer lun thael toruun. I'kai drach ul'fir."
I call you by forest law. I am your kin—child of the lost line. Lead me. Guide me to the dragon who sleeps beneath your roots. I seek the fire in exile. I seek him by right of blood!"
For a moment, all was still.
Then, the fog curled upward, forming two glowing green eyes in the mist. The trees groaned. Roots shifted. And the earth beneath him trembled. A low, guttural voice—ancient as time—answered him in the same tongue:
"If your blood is true… then follow. But beware, child of fire. The dragon sleeps not in peace… but in wrath."
The mist parted, revealing a path of glowing mushrooms spiraling downward into the ground—into the heart of the forest, into the roots of the world.
Arthur clenched his jaw, drew his coat tighter, and stepped forward—into the unknown.
Ask ChatGPT. You said: n,o all in the children of the forest tongue when he says guide me towards the dragon by forests allIi demand as you kin.
ChatGPT said:
Certainly. Here's Arthur's dialogue written entirely in the ancient tongue of the Children of the Forest, based on your request. This is a constructed language, drawing on sylvanic and draconic phonetics with an ethereal, natural cadence:
Arthur raised his hand toward the trees and spoke in the ancient tongue, his voice steady, echoing through the fog:
"Shael'varin dor'mael... eth thun vi'shallanar.Nel drav'kai toruun al'shai.Byrenn syl varuun, shael tra'dar un shai."
"Zaruun drelkai, vi'shaal dravon vel'sei.Naer lun thael toruun. I'kai drach ul'fir."
English Translation (for your reference):
"Spirits of the Old Forest... hear me now."
"By the law of root and branch, I call to you."
"I am your kin, born of the wild blood."
"Guide me, by forest law, to the sleeping dragon."
"By blood and oath, I demand your aid."
Let me know if you'd like a chant-like version with repeated syllables or used in a ceremonial invocation scene!
The wind grew still as Arthur stepped deeper into the Forest of Mist, where time itself seemed reluctant to move. The light above dimmed until only thin rays pierced the veil of fog, dancing like ghosts through the skeletal trees. Yet ahead, a soft shimmer began to glow — not from the sun, but from something else… something older.
It was a nick of light, a flickering trail barely visible to mortal eyes, weaving between twisted roots and thorn-covered underbrush. Arthur followed it with unwavering steps. The deeper he went, the stranger the world became. The trees began to shift and groan, whispering not in the wind, but with sorrow and memories. The forest moaned like it remembered every death, every betrayal, every forgotten name.
The glowing path led him to a stone graveyard, hidden in a sunken grove, where massive carved stones stood in uneven rows like mourning sentinels. Some were cracked, others were covered in strange runes, and a few looked as if they'd screamed once — their surfaces twisted with open-mouthed faces frozen in fear or agony. Others simply stood, as if watching, hollow-eyed and silent, their stony gazes following Arthur as he passed.
His breath left faint clouds in the chill air. With every step, something inside him stirred — not fear, but memory. Something ancient. Something buried.
At the edge of the graveyard, beneath the roots of a blackened weeping tree, he found it — the cave, yawning open like the maw of a slumbering god.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He entered.
The stone walls of the cavern were cold and wet, pulsing faintly with veins of greenish crystal that gave off a dim glow. With each step forward, the light grew fainter until even that was gone. Then came the bones. Hundreds of them. Not just human — but elven, dwarven, beastly. Skulls with too many eyes. Ribs like spears. He stepped over ancient helmets, shattered blades, and shattered shields.
Farther in, he found them. Dragon bones, huge and still warm to the touch, even though no life stirred within them.
And then... silence.
Until his steps brought him into the heart of the cave — a massive chamber, circular and lined with stalactites like the teeth of a beast. In the center, wrapped in its oolossal wings, was the creature.
The Sleeping Dragon.
Its scales shimmered faintly in the dark — black and silver with streaks of violet. Its breaths were deep, like the rumbling of mountains. Arthur stepped closer, eyes wide, chest heaving. The sight was terrible and magnificent.
He whispered, "Finally..."
But the moment the word left his mouth, the dragon's eyes snapped open — massive, slitted, glowing gold with primal fury. With a thunderous roar, the beast rose, shaking the chamber, sending dust and bones tumbling from every ledge.
Arthur stood firm.
He raised his hand, fingers curled like a claw, and spoke in the ancient Dragon Tongue, the words hissing and booming at once:
"Varok xharnak dur'shael! Tormek'tai!""Calm yourself, child of fire! Be still!"
The dragon paused, its body tensed. Its eyes narrowed, and in a deep, ancient voice — like boulders grinding together — it spoke back in Dragon Tongue:
"Shor'tar vek tal'nah. Krath e'nor?""Who dares speak the First Tongue? Who are you, and why do you disturb my sleep?"
Arthur stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, his voice unwavering:
"By right of blood… and for what my mother once did for you in the Time Before… I demand to claim you."
"I demand to become your rider."
There was silence.
Then the cave trembled again — not from rage, but from laughter. A deep, echoing, bone-chilling sound. The dragon reared back slightly and let out a low growl of amusement, his teeth flashing like swords.
"Xhal dar'karn... shael dravon. So'karak.""So you carry her fire in your veins... You are worthy."
The dragon lowered its head until it was level with Arthur's.
"Then rise, my new rider."
Arthur's smirk widened.
Without hesitation, he climbed the great beast's neck, his hands brushing over ancient scales that had weathered centuries. The dragon growled in satisfaction, muscles coiling as it prepared to leap.
Arthur gripped the base of its horned crown and whispered in Dragon Tongue once more:
"Fly… fly high. To the North. The world will know fear again."
With an earth-shattering roar, the dragon leapt from the cave, bursting through stone and root alike. The forest above exploded in a cyclone of debris and roaring wind. Trees bent and snapped as the mighty wings beat once — twice — then lifted them high into the grey skies.
Higher.
Above the clouds.
Above the old world.
The boy and the beast — the forgotten prince and the ancient weapon — flew toward the North, where old empires slept, and cold winds whispered the return of vengeance.
The sky above the academy turned gray as the bells rang softly in the distance. Students of every rank were still in their classes, parchments and spellbooks spread across polished wooden desks, the morning sun filtering through tall gothic windows. The scholars of combat were out in the courtyard, blades in hand, striking through drills under the watchful eye of the Instructors. Mages in training had their palms raised toward crystals, channeling minor arcane pulses. The tranquil monotony of learning was suddenly ripped apart.
A shadow passed across the sun—long, wide, and shifting.
"What was that?" a boy shouted, shielding his eyes. Another student gasped, frozen mid-step.
From the sky came a scream—not human, not beast, but ancient. Thunderous. Reverberating. A roar from the abyss of time.
"D-Dragon!" a girl shrieked, dropping her wand.
High above the clouds, scales that shimmered like molten silver broke through the mist. The enormous wings cleaved the air in a majestic spread, each flap echoing like a drumbeat across the world. Students rushed out of their classrooms, climbing to balconies and towers, mouths agape, pointing with trembling fingers.
"That—no—it can't be—"
"It's a dragon!"
"The last one died in the Second Age—!"
Cheers and gasps collided in a storm of confusion and awe.
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles north of the capital, across jagged hills and half-frozen rivers, a far bloodier story unfolded. The 34th Legion, stationed near the northern cliffs, was caught in the jaws of a nightmare. The ground split open. From it rose the dead soldiers who had perished in skirmishes long past, now puppets of some twisted magic, black veins throbbing through decayed flesh.
"Hold the line!" Captain Aldric bellowed, sword drawn, his armor cracked and stained with blood. "We are the Shield of the Empire!"
But the dead surged like a tide. Screams filled the wind. Arrows ran dry. Men were dragged screaming into the soil.
Then—just when despair had rooted itself—
FWOOOOOSH!
Fire.
Fire like the wrath of gods. A roaring wall of flame descended from the heavens, engulfing the dead. Bone turned to ash. Shadow to smoke.
Above them soared the dragon, his wings flapping in colossal arcs, casting shadows like passing clouds.
On his back, Arthur stood.
Eyes wild.
A laugh booming from his chest.
He raised a hand and, in Draconic tongue, shouted:
"Vrahl'kash Nornahul! Taar esyn'dan vur'tel!"(Fly! Burn them all! The world is mine now!)
The flames obeyed.
Captain Aldric fell to his knees, staring up in disbelief. "We're saved… Archduke Arthur… He rides the storm…"
The soldiers who had moments ago faced death now stood beneath a sky of firelight and glory, their enemies reduced to cinders. Their broken morale was reforged in awe.
Meanwhile—
Far, far to the north.
Beyond the Shrouded Mountains.
Beyond the Black Rivers and the icy teeth of the Frostmarch Wall.
In the ancient forest of Vur'mallah, where the trees whispered only to the oldest spirits, a figure stirred.
Pale blue eyes gleamed from beneath a veil of black snow.
He had been watching. Waiting. The dragon had awakened… and now, the final game would begin.
A voice, dry and older than the empire itself, whispered in the language of the Old Tongue, known only to the dead gods and forgotten kings:
"Zath'mon veyth… valtur en morahn. Arthul… zey turan. I am coming for you."
He smiled.
His cloak fluttered in the wind as he walked deeper into the forgotten frost, the ground cracking beneath each step.
ALL PLEASE COMMENT YOUR SUGGESTIONS I'LL TRY MY BEST TO WRITE THEM DOWN. ALSO, WRITE HOW YOU LIKE IT.