The chamber deep within the mountain was hewn from night and memory. Voryx stood beside a pool of black water that showed not reflections, but thread of fate, shifting, breaking, and weaving anew. Aeloria watched with him.
Her elven eyes sharp even in the gloom. Stood like a silver shadow in the dim light of the sanctum, a vision of ethereal beauty, sharpened by loss and resolve. She was tall and slender, with the poised stillness of ancient trees and starlight. Her hair was the colour of moonlit snow, flowing long and straight down her back, woven with subtle threads of silver that glimmered like trapped starlight when she moved.
Her face was elegantly angular, high cheekbones, a graceful jaw, and eyes the shade of winter twilight, pale grey, almost luminous, and deep with the weight of centuries. Yet now, those eyes held a new sorrow, a weariness that hadn't been there before her bargain.
She wore a gown of dusky blue-grey, simple in cut but exquisite in detail, embroidered with patterns of frost on glass or celestial constellations. A thin silver circlet rested upon her brow, set with a single pearl that glowed softly, the last symbol of her rule.
Though her form seemed delicate, there was a strength in her posture, a queen who had borne the weight of crowns and choices far beyond the understanding of mortal kings. Even here, in the realm of a primordial, she did not cower. She had surrendered her years, but not her dignity.
Around her neck, barely visible above the collar of her robe, hung a pendant, a smooth, dark stone inscribed with elven runes. A final token of her people… and a reminder of all she had given up to protect them.
"You asked for protection." Voryx said, his voice like stone smoothing under an ancient river. "Not for yourself… but for your kingdom. Your people." Aeloria's gaze didn't waver. "A queen does not hide behind walls. She builds better ones."
"Even," he replied, "If the wall is made of her own years?"
She said nothing. She didn't need to. Voryx admired that. In all his eternity, he'd seen kings burn worlds for pride… and queens surrender everything for love. "Your lifespan is mine," he said, not with cruelty, but with strange reverence. "But your legacy… remains yours." he gestured toward the dark water. Images flickered, Cassian and his riders galloping toward the valley, armed with arrogance and steel. "They come still. Blind to your sacrifice. Deaf to my warning."
Aeloria's jaw tightened. "You promised my people would be safe."
"And they are," Voryx said calmly. "No blade will touch your border. No fire will scorch your forests. But men who choose their own doom…" He tilted his head. "...are beyond even my mercy." she understood then. She had not bought peace through weakness. She enforced it eternally. And as caelum returned on silent wings, her heart did not lift with hope…
It settled like a stone, steady, resolute, forever changed.
The air in Voryx's sanctum was not merely still, it was outside of time. Here, in this chamber carved from primordial shadow, Aeloria felt both ageless and ephemeral. Her mortal years were a currency spent, a thread willingly woven into the tapestry of something far greater than crown or conquests.
Voryx stood beside the black pool, its surface still shimmering with the ghost-images of Cassian's riders thundering toward the valley, he turned his obsidian gaze upon her. "You gave what you could not get back," he said, not as accusation, but as acknowledgment. "Not for power. Not for glory. For them."
Aeloria did not look away. Her voice was soft but unbroken. "You speak as if you understand love, Primordial." a faint, almost sorrowful smile touched his lips, a crack in the ancient stone of his presence. "I understand loyalty. And sacrifice. They are the oldest magics. Older than me. Older than dragons."
He stepped closer. The Darkness around him seemed to still, to listen. "You think you sold your years to me… but in truth, you bought eternity for your people. There is courage in that. A king would have sent armies. A queen offered herself." For the first time, Aeloria's eyes glistened, not ith regret, but with fierce resolve. "Do not romanticize my choice, Voryx. It was not poetry. It was a necessity."
"All great choices are."
He extended a hand not to touch her but to gesture towards the pool where images shifted, children laughing in elven groves, untouched by the shadow of war. "Because of you , they remain innocent. Because of you, they will never kneel.". It was then a presence descended upon the sanctum, not an intrusion, but a return. The shadows at the entrance deepened, cooled, and coalesced. Caelum entered without sound, her opalescent form flowing like moonlight into the dark. She did not bow. She did not kneel. She simply was.
Voryx turned.
"You delivered my message."
Caelum's voice resonated not in the air, but in the soul.
"I did. He heard… but did not listen." Her silver eyes shifted to Aeloria. "Another company comes. Led by a man called Casian. They carry fire and pride… and little else."
Aeloria closed her eyes. A slow breath escaped her. Voryx's expression did not change, but the darkness around him seemed to deepen, not in anger but in disappointment.
"So be it."
He looked once more at Aeloria, and for a heartbeat, something almost like pity flickered in his timeless gaze. "Some storms," he said quietly, "must be met with thunder.". And high above, Ignis sensed the approach of new prey… and smiled.
High atop the darkened keep, Ignis felt them long before he saw them, a tremor of pride and foolishness carried on the wind, the clatter of armor, the drumming hooves beating a rhythm of arrogance and doom. His great head lifted, eyes like molten gold narrowing as he peered through the veil of mist towards the approaching force. A low rumble stirred in his chest, a sound not of anger, but of contempt. More of them. More little ants marching toward the boot.
He uncoiled from his perch, scales scraping against ancient stone like swords being drawn. Smoke curled from his nostrils, and embers glowed deep within his throat. Voryx had warned them. Caelum had given them a chance to turn back. But still they came. A cruel intelligence flickered behind his eyes. This would not be a battle. It would be a statement.
He did not roar. He did take flight. He simply waited, a patient predator in a kingdom of shadows, ready to teach one final lesson in blood and fire.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the bleak valley, Cassian raised a gloved hand, bringing the column of riders to an unsteady halt. Before them stood the fortress, dark, silent and larger than any stories had conveyed. The air here was cold. Still. Heavy with a presence that made the horses stamp and shudder. One of his lieutenants edged closer, voice a tense whisper. "Captain… there are no guards. No banners. It's… empty." Cassian's face remained set in grim determination. "Empty or not, the king's orders stand. We enter. We burn whatever remains. We do not return without the head of the one called Voryx."
He drew his sword, its steel gleaming under the muted sky. "Forward! For Corampus and glory!". They urged their horses into a cautious trot, moving under the shadow of the gatehouse, through the same iron-wrought gates that had swallowed Dorian and his men. The courtyard beyond was vast, littered with debris and stained dark in patches no rain could wash clean. Still nothing moved. No bird cried. No wind sighed. Only the sound of their own breathing and the nervous clatter of hooves on stone. Then, a shift in the air. A scent of sulfur. A deep, resonant click like stone grinding against stone.
From the highest tower, a shadow dropped, landing in the center of the courtyard with a force that shook the ground. Ignis stood before them, wings spread, engulfing them in shadow. His eyes burned like forge-fire. Smoke poured from between teeth as long as spears. Cassian's horse reared in terror. He barely kept his seat, face pale but voice fierce as he shouted, "Lances! Archers! For–". But Ignis was already moving. This would not be war. This would not be war. This would be punishment.
Ignis did not give them time to form ranks. He did not allow a single arrow to be nocked. His movement was a blur of scale, shadow, and savage intent. His tale was the first weapon, a whip of spiked bone and muscle that swept through the front line of riders. Horses and men screamed as one, bones snapping, armor crumpling like parchment. They were thrown against the courtyard walls with wet, final thuds.
Cassian shouted orders that were lost in the roar that followed, a sound that was less noise and more force, a wave of pure heat and fury that slammed into the second rank. Men burst into flame, their forms dissolving into ash before they could even cry out. The stench of burned meat and molten steel filled the air. Ignis lunged. His jaw closed around a rider and his mount together. There was a horrific crunch, then silence. When he lifted his head, blood streamed from his maw like a grotesque waterfall. He was not merely killing them. He was unmaking them.
Cassian charged forward, sword raised, face a mask of battle-fury and dawning horror. He swung, a blow that would have felled an ox. It struck the dragon's foreleg and sparked harmlessly off the dense scales. Ignis looked down. For a moment, those molten eyes held Cassian's. There was no anger in them. Only contempt.
A clawed foot swept out, casually, almost gracefully. It did not impale Cassian. It crushed him. Plate armor buckled. Bone gave way. The captain of the guard was reduced to a broken, silent thing in the blood-soaked mud. The few remaining men tried to flee. Ignis exhaled, a core of liquid fire that turned the gate into a pyre. There was no escape. Only fire. Only blood. Only the relentless, efficient violence of an ancient predator cleansing his domain. Within minutes, the courtyard was still once more. Silence returned, deeper and more absolute than before.
Ignis lifted his head, scanned the carnage, and then turned toward the inner keep, as if awaiting further instructions. The lesson had been delivered. The message was clear.
The silence that fell was not peaceful, it was haunted. The courtyard of the dark fortress was now a charnel house, a gallery of the dead. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of burned flesh and hair. Here and there, a patch of armor still glowed faintly orange, cooling with a soft hiss in the damp air.
Ignis stood amidst the ruin, his massive chest rising and falling slowly. Smoke wreathed his horned head, and his scales, now slick with gore, gleamed dully under the oppressive sky. His golden eyes scanned the scene, not with triumph, but with a cold, territorial satisfaction. The threat had been eliminated. The sanctum was secure.
His gaze then lifted, turning inward toward the heart of the fortress, the keep where Voryx and Aeloria waited. It was a look of acknowledgment., of duty fulfilled. He was the teeth of this domain, and he had bitten down hard. A low rumble vibrated in his throat, a sound that was felt more than heard. It was a question. A report.
It is done.
From the shadows of a high archway, a figure emerged. It was Voryx. He did not look at the carnage, his obsidian eyes went directly to the dragon. He gave a single, slow nod. "Their pride was their pyre," he said, his voice cutting through the silence without effort. "You have cleared the path of another foolish echo."
He stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the stained stones. He stopped beside the remains of Cassian, or what was left of him. Voryx looked down, not with pity, but with a kind of weary recognition. "So many Kings," he murmured, almost to himself. "So many captains. They send their men to die for a cause they do not understand, from halls of safety they will never leave.". He finally turned his head, looking back toward the inner sanctum where Aeloria remained. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him grew heavier, laden with the weight of centuries and the countless lives spent against his walls.
"She offered her life for her people's peace. They offer their soldiers' lives for their pride." He looked back at Ignis. "There is no symmetry in that. Only sorrow". A beat of silence passed between primordial and dragon. Then, Voryx's voice dropped, meant only for Ignis and the ancient stones. "Let this be the last lesson they ignore.".
High above, the sky remained a sheet of leaden grey, as if the heavens themselves had turned away from the sight below. The only movement came from the slow, shifting coils of Ignis as he settled once more upon the highest parapet. He began to clean the gore from his claws with a terrifying, meticulous grace, his great tongue rough as stone. Each motion was efficient, devoid of malice or relish. This was not anger. This was maintenance.
Deep within the keep, in the chamber of shadows and black water, Aeloria had not witnessed the violence, but she had felt it, a tremor in the world, a sudden dimming of lives. She stood perfectly still, her elven senses stretched thin. She did not speak. She did not need to. Voryx returned to her side, his presence a calm wave in the stillness. He did not look at the pool that showed the aftermath. He already knew.
"It is finished," he said, his voice low and even. Aeloria closed her eyes. She had sold her lifespan to protect her people from exactly this, from being the ones broken and burned in a foreign courtyard for a proud king's revenge. The irony was a cold stone in her stomach. She had ensured her people's safety, but she had not stopped the dying. She had only moved it elsewhere.
"Do you mourn them?" Voryx asked, not unkindly, he watched her closely, his ancient eyes seeing more than her composed expression revealed. "I mourn the choice that brought them here," she replied, her voice soft but clear. "The king's pride. My desperation. Your… inevitability." She opened her eyes and finally met his gaze. "There are no heroes in this story. Only survivors and fools."
Voryx was silent for a long moment. Then, he gestured toward the dark water. The image shifted, no longer showing the gruesome courtyard, but instead the peaceful, sun-dappled forests of Aelorian's kingdom, her people were safe. They were laughing. "You asked for their safety. You did not ask for a world without cost, " he said. "This was the cost. Their safety… for their ignorance."
The truth of it settled between them. She had traded her years not just for their protection, but for their innocence. They would never know how close the shadow had come. They would never know the price she had paid. Outside, a slow, cold rain began to fall, washing the blood from the stones of the courtyard. It would not wash away the memory. It would not wash away the lesson. But somewhere, in a sunlit elven grove, a child was singing. And because of Aeloria's choice, that song would continue, untouched and unafraid. The cost was terrible. The peace was real. And in the silence of the sanctum, Caelum watched them both, her star-filled eyes holding a sorrow as deep and ancient as the night
The air in Vory's sanctum grew cold. The shadows clinging to the walls deepened, and the black waters of the crying pool churned, not with images, but with intent. Voryx's stillness was not peace, it was the calm before the absolute storm. "He believes he has played a game of kings," Voryx said, his voice low, each word sharp as a shard of ice. "He believes he has traded pawns. But he does not realize… the board is mine." He turned toward the entrance, where the vast, darkened archway led to the world above. "I will reduce his city to dust. I will scatter his line to the winds. He will learn the weight of the anger he so carelessly provoked."
Aeloria stepped forward, her face pale but determined. "Voryx, wait, this is what he wants! More violence, more rage! Do not become the storm he names you to be." Voryx paused, though, the energy around him did not lessen. "You speak of restraint while your people–" he stopped. His head tilted slightly. A flicker of disturbance passed through his ancient consciousness, a ripple not from the courtyard outside his keep, but from far away. From the direction of Aeloria's kingdom.
The scrying pool shimmered violently. For a moment, an image flashed, smoke rising from silver trees, the glint of Corampus steel amid elven homes, fire consuming woven bridges and sacred groves. Aeloria gasped, her hand flying to her heart as if struck. "No… no, he wouldn't…" But Voryx knew. His eyes narrowed, not in anger now, but in cold, terrifying clarity. "The attack here was a distraction.". He turned fully toward her, and for the first time, his voice was not just filled with power, it was layered with something darker. Something promised. "He did not just defy me. He deceived me. And he harmed what is under MY protection." Aeloria stared in horror, tears welling but not falling.
"My people… I gave everything…"
"And he," Voryx said softly, "will give everything in return.". He lifted his hand. The shadows in the room converged upon him like a cloak of night. "Caelum" the sky dragon appeared, sensing the shift not just in command but in purpose. "The game has changed," Voryx said, his voice resonating with finality. "We do not deliver warnings. We deliver endings.". Aeloria did not try to stop him this time. She stood silent, her heart breaking not in sorrow now, but in fury. And somewhere, in a place far away, King Valerian smiled, unaware that his victory had just signed his doom.
The sky above the capital of Corampus did not darken, it shattered. Reality seemed to tear as Voryx arrived not in secret, not in shadow, but in full primordial majesty. He stood at the center of a storm of swirling darkness, his form radiating ancient, terrible power. To his right descended Ignis, scales blazing with inner fire, still stained with the blood of Valerian's soldiers. To his left, Caelum hovered, her opalescent wings casting prismatic light that felt like judgment. But they were not alone.
From rifts in the sky came more figures, allies of scale, shadow, and spirit that had long slumbered or dwelt beyond mortal sight. Umbron, a dragon of living night, whose breath brought not fire, but a silence that killed sound and hope, Terrak, an earth-wurm of immense size, who rose from the ground itself, cracking the foundations of the city and the Storm Sirens, winged spirits of lightning and thunder, circling above like vengeful hymns. This was not an invasion. It was an extinction event.
Yet even as his might was assembled to erase Corampus from the earth, Voryx had not forgotten Lythandor. With a gesture, he sent Caelom and a host of healing spirits, Light-Weavers, to the elven kingdom. They descended upon the scorched groves not as warriors, but as restorers. Where there was fire, they brought soothing rain; where there was grief, they brought calm; where there was death, they offered peace. The wounded were tended, the survivors gathered. Voryx would avenge, but he would also protect.
Now before the trembling gates of the royal palace, Voryx's voice rolled over the city like the end of the world. It was not a shout. It was inescapable. "Valerian. Come forth." The usurper king emerged, clad in ornate armor, face pale but defiant, surrounded by his last loyal guards. Voryx looked upon him now with rage, but with pitying contempt.
"You thought your deception clever. You thought your cruelty strategic."
He took one step forward, and the ground shook.
"You attacked Lythandor, a realm under my protection. A queen who gave her life for her people. You broke a covenant older than your bloodline."
Valerian tried to stand tall, sword in hand.
"I am a king! I do what I must to secure my legacy!"
"Legacy?" Voryx's voice softened, which was more terrifying than any roar. "You have no legacy. Only ash."
He leaned closer, and the shadows around him stilled.
"But before your end… I would know why. Why choose doom? Why betray the peace that was offered?"
Valerian's eyes burned with bitter pride.
"Because no king bows to a beast. Because I would rather see the world burn than kneel."
Voryx nodded slowly, as if finally understanding a flawed, tragic equation.
"Then burn it shall."
He raised his hand. And behind him, the dragons and spirits of the abyss aligned, ready to deliver not conquest, but consequence.
Just as the shadows of Voryx's legion descended upon Corampus, a wave of primordial night meant to scour the city to dust, a light erupted from the highest spire of the royal palace. Not the warm light of the sun or the soft glow of the moon, but a searing, silver-white radiance, pure and unyielding. It met Voryx's darkness not with collision, but with cancellation. Shadows dissolved. Spells unraveled. The storm sirens' cries were cut short as if smothered by a divine hush.
From the heart of that light stepped a figure, tall, armored in seamless platinum, a helm covering its face, though seven silver eyes glowed across its brow. In its hand, it held not a weapon but a Scale of Balance. "Enough, Voryx."