The roar of battle shook the cavern. Flames clashed with steel, claws raked against scales. The warriors of the Wolf tribe bared their fangs, while the Dragon heirs unleashed fire that painted the walls crimson.
Prava and Allara stood between them, powerless to stop the storm.
"Enough!" Rafael shouted, but his voice was drowned in the chaos.
Then, the air trembled.
A wave of ancient power rolled across the battlefield, silencing cries of rage. From the shadows, an old dragon stepped forward—his scales dulled by time, yet his presence brighter than fire itself.
His voice cut through the silence.
"Children… must blood forever answer blood? Have you forgotten the bond once sworn between your ancestors?"
The Wolf warriors froze. The Dragon heirs lowered their flames. In that moment, the clash faltered, uncertainty replacing fury.
Prava felt her chest tighten as she saw the tears shining in the elder dragon's eyes.
"These flames… these tears… they are not strength. They are the ruins of pride."
The cavern grew still. Fire flickered and died. Water from the river dripped onto the stone, each drop echoing like a heartbeat returning to life.
Allara whispered, voice trembling.
"If even he… grieves for us, then what are we doing?"
The elder raised his gaze skyward, his words heavy with sorrow yet edged with hope.
"Choose wisely. For the path ahead will not be won by claw or fire, but by the unity of hearts."
And with that, silence embraced the cavern. The war was halted—not by victory, but by the wisdom of tears.