The wind howled fiercely through the vast desert of Turbin, sweeping up waves of sand and throwing them mercilessly against the towering statues of the two great Dragon Emperors. These monuments, carved from jade, soared 3,000 meters high, their solemn faces gazing out into the desolate landscape. Time and the elements had worn them down, yet they still stood proud, their cold, stone expressions almost lifelike, as though they were mourning the fate of this barren world. The statues seemed to weep, streaks of rainwater running down their smooth faces like tears.
Above, where the wind screamed and the air was thin, a lone figure stood at the peak of one of the statues. His silhouette barely visible against the swirling gray clouds. He stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes closed as though he were listening to the whispers carried by the wind. This was Viserion, the first son of the ancient White Dragons Clan, and one of the most prodigious talents in his family’s long and storied history.
The wind battered against him, a relentless assault, yet he remained unmoving. Each raindrop that touched his skin seemed to calm him further. His silver eyes opened, cold and piercing, as he gazed out over the wasteland before him. Nothing but sand and stone stretched for miles in every direction, broken only by the distant outline of ancient ruins long forgotten.
He raised his left hand slowly, feeling the wind whip between his fingers. His body was almost translucent, as though the light passing through him would dissolve him into the air at any moment. He looked out across the desert, his gaze distant, lost in the vastness of time.
“Viserion!” a voice called from far below.
The wind swallowed the words, and Viserion did not move. He barely heard it, the world around him so distant from the peak where he stood.
"Hey! Can you hear me from up there?" The voice, now a little more desperate, struggled to reach him, but still, he made no sign of acknowledgment.
Far below, a young man stood at the base of the monument, craning his neck back, one hand shading his eyes as he squinted up at Viserion’s distant form. His name was Tomo, and unlike his friend, he hated heights. The sight of Viserion perched so effortlessly at the top of the towering statue made his stomach churn.
Tomo grumbled to himself, kicking at the sand. "Why does he always do this? I swear he’s trying to make me throw up." He called up again, frustration clear in his voice, “HEY, VISERION! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!”
The wind carried the shout upward, and this time Viserion heard it. His sharp eyes glanced down, locking onto Tomo’s small, frantic figure.
"Oh, Tomo," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the roar of the wind. He had forgotten his friend was waiting below. Viserion sighed softly, then without warning, leaped from the monument’s peak.
The world blurred around him as he fell through the sky, the air rushing past his ears. In just a few heartbeats, he landed gracefully on the ground, the impact barely raising a puff of sand.
Tomo jumped back, startled. "Gods, really? You always have to do that, don’t you?" He placed a hand on his chest, catching his breath. "I don’t know how you and your clan do it—leaping off cliffs, scaling mountains, acting like gravity doesn’t exist. You’re all a bunch of freaks, I swear."
Viserion smiled faintly, brushing the sand off his clothes. "Perhaps you just need to practice," he said, his tone light.
Tomo snorted. "Practice? You think I want to end up like a smear on the ground?"
Viserion chuckled softly, his cold eyes warming briefly. "So, what is it? Why were you calling me?"
Tomo straightened, his expression turning serious. "Your mother sent me. She says… she says your father doesn’t have much time left. You need to return to him, now."
The words hit Viserion like a punch to the gut. His smile vanished, and his eyes widened. "Father..." he whispered, the weight of the news sinking in.
Without hesitation, Viserion grabbed Tomo’s shoulder, and in a flash of light, they were gone, the desert and the monuments disappearing behind them.
In the blink of an eye, they reappeared within the halls of Viserion’s ancestral home, deep within the White Dragon Clan’s fortress. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the walls lined with intricate tapestries depicting the clan’s long history. Viserion barely registered any of it, his focus entirely on the door at the end of the hall.
He moved quickly, his steps silent, his heart pounding in his chest. Tomo followed behind, his face pale.
As they approached the door, it opened quietly, and Viserion’s mother, Lady Yelena, stood there, her face worn with grief. Her once-vibrant features had dulled with the weight of years and sorrow. She looked at Viserion, her eyes soft yet filled with the deep pain of a mother who knew she was about to lose her husband.
“Viserion…” she whispered; her voice barely audible. "He’s waiting for you."
Viserion stepped past her, entering the dimly lit room. His father, the great Dragon Lord Tiberian, lay on a massive bed carved from stone, his once-mighty frame now frail and thin. His scales, once brilliant white like snow, were now dulled with age. His breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a laborious effort.
Tiberian’s eyes opened as Viserion approached, and for a moment, they gleamed with recognition. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Viserion… my son…" His voice was weak, but there was still a warmth to it.
Viserion knelt beside his father, his hands trembling slightly. "Father…"
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Tiberian’s hand reached out, gripping Viserion’s wrist with surprising strength. "I’m proud… of what you’ve become," he whispered. "You… will lead the clan… better than I ever could."
Viserion swallowed hard, the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him. "No, Father, you still have time…"
But Tiberian shook his head slowly, his breath rattling in his chest. "No… my time is over… But yours… yours is just beginning. You must protect the clan… protect our legacy."
Tears welled in Viserion’s eyes, but he held them back, nodding. "I will, Father. I swear it."
Tiberian’s grip loosened, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Good… boy…" His voice trailed off, and with a final exhale, a great Dragon Lord passed from the world.
Viserion sat there in silence, his hand still holding his father’s. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Outside, the wind continued to howl through the desert, telling its story to whoever would listen. But here, in this room, the world had grown still.
And in that stillness, Viserion knew that everything had changed.
….
Three days had passed since the death of Viserion’s father, Lord Tiberian. The once bustling halls of the White Dragon Clan’s citadel were now filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the hushed murmurs of the few remaining servants. The air was thick with the weight of grief, yet also a growing sense of dread.
In his father’s office, Viserion sat at the massive stone desk that had once been the nerve center of the White Dragon Clan’s operations. The desk was covered in scrolls and ancient tomes, but Viserion’s attention was fixed on a single report in front of him. His sharp silver eyes scanned the words carefully, his expression growing darker with each passing moment.
The report outlined the grim reality: the last reserves of water on Eos were expected to dry up in five to ten years. The planet, already a barren wasteland, was dying. No vegetation, no fresh water, and worse, the birth rate among all clans—the Fae, the Elves, the Dwarves, and the Dragons themselves—had plummeted to near zero. The great civilizations of Eos were on the verge of extinction.
He leaned back in the chair, his mind swirling with the enormity of it all. There was no future here. Not for him, not for the clan, not for anyone.
"It’s time to leave Eos," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his white hair.
A knock sounded at the door. Viserion glanced up, his expression hardening. "Enter."
The heavy stone door creaked open, and in stepped Tomo, followed closely by an elder of the White Dragon Clan. The elder, a wizened man with a long white beard, wore ceremonial robes adorned with intricate patterns symbolizing the ancient powers of their lineage.
"Viserion," Tomo began, his face troubled, "there’s something you need to hear."
The elder bowed slightly before speaking, his voice low and gravelly. "My lord, there may be a way off this dying world."
Viserion’s gaze narrowed. "Go on."
The elder hesitated, then stepped forward. "Ten thousand years ago, the great dragon Nira—one of the last of the true ancients—created a portal. It lies beneath this city, deep in the forgotten caverns. It was said she used forbidden dragon magic, sacrificing her own body as a trigger to forge it."
Tomo nodded. "Nira’s magic was feared even among the dragons. They say she bent space and time itself, creating a gateway to… somewhere else. A place far from Eos, perhaps even a different realm."
Viserion’s fingers tapped against the desk thoughtfully. "And you believe this portal still exists?"
The elder’s eyes gleamed with a strange intensity. "It must. The records speak of it, though many dismissed it as myth. But I’ve seen the signs, the carvings beneath the city. Nira’s magic lingers there. If we can activate the portal, it may be our only way off this world before it dies completely."
Viserion leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "What kind of magic would it take to reactivate such a portal?"
The elder hesitated again, his wrinkled hands clutching his robes. "Forbidden magic. Blood magic. Nira’s portal was created with her own essence, her own life force. To activate it, another sacrifice may be required."
Viserion’s lips pressed into a thin line. The implications were clear. Someone would have to die to open the portal. A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the corner.
Tomo shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Viserion. "We don’t have many options, do we?"
Before Viserion could respond, the door opened again, and Lady Yelena entered, her presence commanding the room despite her delicate appearance. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from days of mourning, but she carried herself with the dignity befitting the widow of the Dragon Lord.
"It’s time, Viserion," she said softly, her voice laced with sorrow. "The funeral is about to begin."
Viserion rose slowly from the desk, nodding. "I understand." He glanced at the elder and Tomo. "We’ll discuss this further after the ceremony."
The elder bowed and left the room, Tomo following close behind. Viserion turned to his mother, seeing the weight of grief etched into her face. She reached out, touching his arm gently. "You must be strong today, my son. For the clan. For your father."
"I will," Viserion replied quietly, though inside, the storm of emotions was barely contained.
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The funeral took place in the central courtyard of the White Dragon Clan’s citadel, beneath the open sky. The courtyard was vast, large enough to hold thousands, though now only a few hundred remained—family, elders, and warriors. The great pyre, built in honor of Lord Tiberian, stood in the center, its flames reaching toward the heavens. His body, draped in ceremonial dragon armor, lay upon it, the fire reflecting off his once-mighty scales.
The air was thick with incense and the soft chants of the elders. The mourners stood in silence, their faces veiled in the traditional white cloth of mourning.
Viserion stood before the pyre, his mother at his side. He looked out over the gathered crowd, their faces solemn, their eyes filled with expectation. They looked to him now, the new Dragon Lord, to speak.
Taking a deep breath, Viserion stepped forward. His voice, though soft at first, rang clear over the courtyard.
“My father, Lord Tiberian, was more than a leader. He was the heart of our clan, the strength that bound us together. He ruled not with fear, but with wisdom and honor. In every decision he made, he thought of our future, our survival, even in these dire times.”
He paused, looking down at his father’s body, the flames flickering at its edges.
“He taught me that strength alone is not what defines a Dragon Lord. It is the will to sacrifice, to endure, to lead when others falter. Today, we stand on the precipice of a dark future. This world, our home, is dying. But as my father once said, ‘A dragon does not give in to despair. A dragon finds a way.’”
The wind picked up, swirling the ashes from the pyre into the air. Viserion’s voice grew stronger, his resolve hardening with each word.
“I will find that way. For the clan, for my father’s legacy, and for all who still call Eos home. We will not fade into oblivion. We will rise. And we will survive.”
The crowd remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, slowly, a murmur of agreement spread through them. Heads nodded; fists clenched in determination.
Viserion stepped back as the elders began their final chants. The flames on the pyre grew higher, consuming Lord Tiberian’s body in a brilliant blaze. Viserion stood tall, his silver eyes reflecting the fire, the weight of his new role pressing down on him.
As the pyre burned, he knew there was no turning back. The time had come to lead, and he would have to make impossible decisions to ensure the survival of his people. The portal beneath the city—the legacy of Nira—was now their only hope.
And Viserion would stop at nothing to see his clan survive.