The mountain slept beneath the storm, a crown of white and molten gray that tore the heavens in half. From its peak, the Kaerynox gazed upon the mortal realm — unseen, eternal, and coiled in silence.
Vareth stood at the cliff's edge, his scales catching the faint pulse of lightning. Below, the mortals moved like threads of smoke, ignorant of what loomed above them. The humans had built their villages along the river of dawn — fragile, trembling, blind to the storm watching them from the summit of the world.
Behind Vareth, the dragons worked. Pillars of obsidian rose like the ribs of a god, forming the skeleton of their new domain. Each movement was precise, divine, and deliberate — for the Kaerynox were not mere beasts, but architects of eternity. They bent light and wind as if shaping glass, drawing symbols of balance into the stone.
They called it Vaelthara, the City of Silence — a fortress of faith, hidden between worlds.
Vareth's wings unfolded in a slow tremor. He felt it again — that quiet breath in the storm. Not a sound, not a word, but a memory of divinity. The same essence that had once filled his veins when Kaelith's light first split the void.
He closed his eyes.
The Father watches.
The Father measures.
The Father remembers.
Below, in the mortal valley, a single man knelt among the ruins of his burned home. Erynd. A scholar once — now a wanderer, his hands ash-stained, his family devoured by plague and fire. He looked up toward the mountains not with hope, but with exhaustion. His lips moved, trembling through the wind.
"If there is a god of balance… if light and silence still walk this world… hear me."
The words were soft. Broken. A plea unworthy of the heavens.
Yet the mountain heard.
The clouds spiraled inward — silver bleeding into gold. The storm froze mid-breath. Vareth turned, his eyes narrowing as the Blood Veil shimmered above the unfinished citadel — a living curtain of light and crimson that connected realms unseen.
He felt Kaelith move through it.
It was not voice. It was not presence. It was weight — a thousand heartbeats echoing through his blood. The sigils upon the citadel began to hum, and the dragons fell to their knees, their wings folding like the pages of a prayer.
Vareth's chest tightened. He whispered, "Father…?"
And in that instant, the air became liquid. The storm became a song.
Not all prayers reach me, child, the thought burned into him, though no sound was spoken. But this one trembles loud enough to wake the stars.
Below, Erynd collapsed, clutching his chest. His body convulsed as the Eidralen — a flower born from Kaelith's miracles — bloomed beneath his fingers. Its petals dripped light, its roots weaving through his veins like veins of dawn. He gasped, his pupils reflecting a halo of twin suns.
He saw visions — dragons building on high mountains, twin daughters crowned in opposite light, and a god of white and shadow seated upon a throne between realms. The words came unbidden to his mouth:
"Balance… is not mercy. It is the law that even gods must bleed for."
When the lightning struck again, he was no longer just Erynd.
He was Erynd the First Prophet, chosen of Kaelith — the one who heard the silence speak.
On the summit, Vareth rose. The Kaerynox around him shuddered as if waking from a thousand-year sleep. The Blood Veil pulsed once, then stilled. The air was heavy with the scent of iron and light.
"The Father has answered," Vareth said quietly.
"But no voice was heard," another dragon murmured, eyes wide with fear. "Only the trembling of the mountain."
Vareth turned toward the horizon. His silhouette was framed by the dawn — golden and bleeding. "He does not speak to ears," he said. "He speaks to existence."
He descended to the foundation of the citadel where the Portal Frame was being carved — a colossal ring of stone etched with runes in Kaelith's sigil language. The dragons carved each symbol with molten claws, embedding fragments of their essence. The portal's center glowed faintly, rippling like liquid time.
Vareth placed his hand upon the runes. For the first time, he understood their purpose.
It will open when the blood of balance calls again.
When the daughters cross worlds to mend what was divided.
The command was unspoken, yet it burned in his bones. Kaelith's will was never uttered — it was felt, like the gravity of faith.
Behind him, the dragons continued their divine labor. Columns ascended, arches whispered, and the city of Vaelthara began to hum with sacred equilibrium. Every breath, every stone, every glint of scale was a hymn to their creator.
Below, in the valley, Erynd awoke beneath the rain.
His eyes were glowing faint silver. The flower that had bloomed beside him was gone — its light absorbed into his heart. He felt its warmth thrum through his veins, whispering symbols he could not understand.
He walked barefoot through the mud toward the village ruins. The humans hid in fear, but his presence calmed them. The wind itself bent around him, carrying the faint resonance of the mountain.
When they asked what he had seen, he spoke softly, as though afraid the air might shatter his memory.
"I saw the Silence move."
"I saw the Light kneel."
"And I heard the first prayer answered."
High above, Vareth watched the mortal flame flicker in the valley below — a single spark of faith.
His scales dimmed to silver, his eyes heavy with thought. Doubt — that forbidden taste — brushed against him. Why now? Why answer this mortal and not the countless others who had bled in the dark?
He lifted his head to the storm once more, whispering to the unseen veil.
"Do you still trust us to build what you began, Father?"
For a moment, the mountain was silent. Then, faintly, the Blood Veil shimmered — one heartbeat of crimson light through endless cloud.
And Vareth smiled, faintly, reverently.
"Then the first prayer has been heard."
End of Chapter XI — "The First Prayer."