The old general rushed over, his voice carrying an edge of concern as he looked up at the dissipating streaks of fire in the night sky. "Who in the hells were those, Viserion?" he asked, his breath still caught from witnessing the spectacle.

Viserion, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, regarded the general with a calm, almost amused expression. "That, General," he said in a low voice, tinged with a note of finality, "is clan business. Not something you need to concern yourself with at this moment."

The general furrowed his brow but knew better than to press. There was weight to Viserion's words, a gravity that made questions feel irrelevant. "Very well," the general replied, sighing in resignation. "Goodnight, then."

Viserion offered a brief nod, his eyes gleaming under the dim lights. "Goodnight, General."

With that, the matter was closed, and Viserion strode away, heading toward the quarters arranged for him. As the night deepened and the base around them began to quiet, Viserion's mind drifted briefly to the Ember heart Clan, soaring far into the horizon now. Thanor and his fiery kin would soon reach Astoria—their arrival heralded by the thunderous booms of their passage through the sky, each one a shockwave echoing over the land, their fiery forms cutting through the night like living comets.

Far below the earth, in the depths of an ancient chamber long forgotten by time, a figure cloaked in black stirred. The air was thick with the scent of decay, the weight of ages pressing down on the darkened stone. His eyes, glowing faintly under the hood, opened—just a slit, a pale gleam in the oppressive darkness.

"A powerful one…" The voice, though barely above a whisper, carried a weight of ancient authority. "One of those new creatures... heading towards the Demon King's Zathor domain."

The figure shifted slightly, pulling his cloak tighter around him as though warding off the cold. "The Demon King Zathor will not be enough…" His voice trailed off, thick with contemplation.

To his side, another figure knelt—silent, his presence barely perceptible in the blackened shadows. The being, robbed in darker hues, did not speak, but the tension in the air crackled as though awaiting command. The hooded figure turned his head slightly. "Balmung," he intoned, his voice like a knife scraping across stone.

The kneeling figure, Balmung, did not answer but merely bowed lower, his head almost touching the cold stone floor before swiftly departing, his steps silent as he vanished into the darkness. The cloaked figure spoke no more, his eyes drifting shut once again, as though the effort of awareness was more than he cared to maintain. Silence filled the chamber, the weight of something ancient and malevolent settled over the air once more.

Meanwhile High above, the Ember heart Clan soared through the skies like vengeful flames against the black canvas of night. Thanor led the charge, his red hair whipping wildly around him, glowing in the inferno of their passage. His two kin flanked him, their forms ablaze with the intensity of their inner fire, their eyes locked forward on the horizon where Astoria awaited.

Below them, the world lay in darkness—forests, rivers, and mountains rushing past as they flew ever faster. The distance closed with each heartbeat, the air roaring around them as their speed pushed the very limits of the atmosphere, sonic booms reverberating through the clouds.

Thanor's eyes narrowed as the city of Astoria came into view—a ruined silhouette bathed in the faint glow of the moonlight. The once-great port city, now a shadow of its former glory, lay quiet and broken. Even from this height, Thanor could see the devastation wrought by the Demon King's forces. Buildings stood like broken teeth, crumbling and abandoned, the streets littered with debris and scorched earth. The sea that had once been a lifeblood for trade and life now frothed darkly against the ruined docks.

"My Lord," one of Thanor's kin, Arnak, spoke, his voice crackling with the fiery energy coursing through him. "It still stands… barely."

Thanor's fiery gaze swept over the city, the embers in his eyes burning with both contempt and curiosity. "It is not enough for it to stand," he said, his voice a low rumble. "we must make it thrive."

His other kin, Lyssa, her fiery long hair trailing behind her like a comet's tail, growled softly in agreement. "The Demon King's forces are here, somewhere… hiding." She flexed her talons, flames licking at the air around her. "We could raze the entire city if it pleases you, my Lord."

Thanor smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling back into a fierce grin. "Patience, Lyssa. We are not here to destroy without purpose. Not yet."

He turned his gaze back to the ruined streets below, the oppressive silence of the city unsettling even to him. He could feel it—the lurking presence, the malevolence that permeated the very stones of the place. This was not merely a city overrun; it was a territory marked by something ancient, something dark.

"Zathor…" Thanor muttered, tasting the name on his tongue as he looks to those words spelt on a billboard just off to his left down below as if it were a curse.

"We will find him," Thanor continued, his voice filled with grim certainty. "And when we do, he will be met with fire and ash."

Arnak nodded, his molten eyes gleaming in the darkness. "He will not be able stand against us."

Thanor's grin widened. "No, he will not. But remember, this city must not be destroyed. Once Zathor is dealt with, we will see if this land is worthy. Viserion has marked it for us to claim, but it will only be ours if we deem it so."

Lyssa's fiery eyes burned brighter at the mention of conquest. "I will bring him Zathor's head myself," she declared, the flames around her intensifying with the sheer force of her will.

"Do not let your fire burn too quickly," Thanor warned, though there was a gleam of approval in his eyes. "There is much more to this world than we know. We must understand it before we can conquer it."

He unfurled a map, the one Viserion had given him before their departure. Glancing at the marked location, Thanor's eyes flickered with anticipation. "Astoria is only the beginning."

With a final, fierce nod, Thanor folded the map and tucked it away. "Prepare yourselves," he commanded. "We will call him out.

….

Thanor hovered high above the ruined city of Astoria, the night sky shimmering with the intensity of his presence. His eyes, glowing like embers, closed for a moment as he allowed his energy to surge outward. It was as though the very air around him had caught fire—waves of his spiritual energy, crackling with the raw force of his inner flame, spread out in all directions. The sky, once dark and still, was now alight with ribbons of molten red, dancing like fire across the heavens. The heat of it rippled outward, touching every corner of the broken city below.

The flames were not mere fire; they were alive with his will, searching, sensing, reaching into every shadowed alley and crumbled ruin for signs of life, for signs of resistance. The ground beneath his feet seemed to groan as his energy pressed down on the city, turning the silence of Astoria into an inferno of anticipation. His aura, filled with wrath and power, enveloped the city in a blanket of fire.

Somewhere in the heart of the city, deep beneath layers of stone and ruin, a throne of bones sat in a hollowed chamber. Zathor, the Demon King of Astoria, stirred upon it. His eyes, two molten orbs of hatred and cunning, opened slowly. The air in his chamber was thick with the stench of death and decay, the walls lined with the bones of those he had slain, their faces frozen in eternal agony. His throne, built from the remnants of human and elf alike, seemed to pulse with the lifeblood of those it had claimed.

Zathor's lips curled into a sneer as he felt Thanor's energy rippling across the city. He could feel it pressing against his own dark power, testing the boundaries of his dominion. "So... there are three of them," he muttered to himself, his voice a low, rasping growl. Around him, his minions—twisted, grotesque creatures of shadow and flesh—shifted uneasily, their hollow eyes reflecting their master's growing awareness.

"Two of them…" Zathor continued, rising slowly from his throne, his black armor clinking softly against his hardened flesh. "Two of them carry energy like mine—strong, filled with the promise of destruction. But the third…" His eyes narrowed, his gaze turning upward as though he could see through the layers of stone and earth to the sky above. "The third is... different."

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Zathor clenched his clawed hands into fists, the bones of his throne creaking under the pressure of his growing agitation. "I cannot gauge the strength of this one," he muttered, his voice thick with suspicion. "Whoever or whatever this being is, it is beyond my understanding."

For a moment, silence reigned in the chamber, broken only by the soft breathing of his cowering minions. Then, a tremor ran through Zathor's body jolt, like the flicker of a pulse in the heart of darkness itself. His senses, attuned to the presence of these intruders, felt a sudden shift. He froze, his eyes widening. Thanor, had found him.

Far above, Thanor's eyes snapped open. His fiery aura flared as he sensed Zathor's location, buried deep beneath the city like a festering wound. The Demon King's energy was unmistakable now dark, twisted, a heavy presence that oozed from the shadows like poison. Thanor smiled grimly. "Found you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble carried by the wind.

But as he prepared to descend toward the Demon King's lair, something else tugged at the edges of his senses, something far away, to the north. It was distant, but unmistakable. A presence, dark and overwhelming, was approaching the city. The energy it exuded was unlike anything he had encountered before. It was pure bloodlust—so thick, so potent, he could taste it in the back of his throat. It was like the iron tang of blood on the air, sharp and metallic, filling his mouth with the taste of violence yet to come.

Thanor's eyes narrowed, his fiery gaze turning to the distant horizon. The sensation of the approaching power sent a chill down his spine—a strange, almost alien feeling for one so used to the heat of battle. This energy was not like Zathor's; it was something older, more primal. And it was coming fast.

"We are not alone," Thanor whispered to himself.

Arnak and Lyssa, who had been silently observing the city below, turned toward him at his words. They, too, could feel the approaching presence now, its malevolent energy pulsing in the distance like a beating heart.

"What is it my lord?" Lyssa asked, her voice filled with both curiosity and concern. Her flames flared brighter, as though preparing for the worst.

Thanor didn't answer immediately, his eyes still fixed on the northern sky. He could feel the being's intent—its bloodlust focused on him, like a predator stalking its prey. There was no mistaking it: this creature, whatever it was, was coming for him. He clenched his fists, the flames around his body intensifying as he made his decision.

Without turning to look at his companions, he spoke, his voice firm and commanding, leaving no room for argument. "Zathor is yours," he said.

Arnak's eyes widened in surprise. "My Lord—"

Thanor cut him off with a single, sharp glance. "I will not say it again," he said, his tone final. "Zathor is yours."

Lyssa, sensing the weight of his decision, nodded silently, though her eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and anticipation. "And you?" she asked, her voice softer, more cautious.

Thanor's gaze turned back to the north. "I will deal with what's coming," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "This creature… its power alone would kill the two of you."

Arnak and Lyssa exchanged a glance but said nothing further. They knew better than to question Thanor's judgment. With a final nod of understanding, the two Ember heart warriors turned their attention back to the city below, preparing for the battle that awaited them.

Thanor, however, did not wait. In a single, explosive burst of energy, he shot off toward the north, the force of his departure shaking the very air around him. A sonic boom echoed across the city as he tore through the sky, the flames of his body leaving a burning trail in his wake.

As he flew, his senses locked onto the approaching presence. It was closer now, much closer than before, and the bloodlust emanating from it was overwhelming. Thanor could feel it coursing through the air like a palpable force, pressing against him, testing him. Whoever this being was, they were no ordinary foe.

A grim smile tugged at the corners of Thanor's mouth. He could feel the heat of battle rising in his blood, the familiar thrill of facing a worthy opponent. Whatever awaited him in the north, it would not catch him unprepared.

The night sky blazed with fire as Thanor streaked toward the horizon, his mind already sharpening for the coming fight.

….

At the same time Zathor stood in the vast, decaying chamber as he felt the fiery presence of Thanor vanish into the night sky. His eyes gleamed with a malicious grin. "So, the leader departs," he muttered, rising from the throne of bone with a languid stretch. His joints cracked, the sound echoing off the stone walls as he stood to his full height, the shadows seeming to coil around him as though they were alive.

Slowly, Zathor made his way to the massive doors at the entrance of his stronghold, each step reverberating like a drumbeat through the cold halls. The heavy doors creaked open before him, their weight groaning in protest as they revealed the ruined landscape beyond.

And there, just ten feet away, hovering just above the ground, were two figures. The sky above was lit with the distant glow of Ember heart fire, and beneath it stood Lyssa and Arnak, their eyes locked on Zathor.

The moment their gazes met, the air between them seemed to ripple with tension. The very atmosphere thickened as if saturated with bloodlust—an ancient, primal hunger for battle. Zathor felt it as a physical force, a weight pressing down on him, and his grin widened. "Wyverns?" he mused aloud, his voice low and taunting. His eyes narrowed as he took in their fiery forms, the telltale flames flickering beneath their skin, the power radiating off them like heat from a forge.

But Arnak was already moving. With a lazy roll of his shoulders, he stretched, his muscles rippling under his battle-scarred skin. "Do not compare us to some insignificant creature you've encountered in this wretched world," he growled, his voice deep, filled with the kind of contempt only a warrior of countless battles could muster.

Zathor's grin faltered slightly, and his eyes flickered with the faintest glimmer of caution. But it was too late—Arnak moved.

With no more words exchanged, Arnak exploded forward, the ground beneath him fracturing under the sheer force of his departure. The air cracked with the shockwave of his speed, and in an instant, he was upon Zathor, his fist burning with molten fire.

Zathor, though prepared, barely had time to react. He raised his arm to block, dark energy coiling around his limbs like a second skin. But when Arnak's punch connected, the sheer power of the blow sent shockwaves through the ground. The bone structure behind Zathor's throne cracked and splintered as the demon was driven back several feet, his boots carving furrows into the earth.

Zathor hissed, feeling the heat of the blow singe his skin despite his defenses. "So," he snarled, wiping a smear of black ichor from the corner of his mouth, "not just any ordinary Wyverns. Wyverns who wield mystical fire." He flexed his hand, the dark energy around it pulsing as if it had a life of its own. "Perhaps this won't be as boring as I thought."

Arnak's response was a wordless roar, his body igniting as flames engulfed him. His hair, already a fiery red, became a corona of flames that danced wildly in the air. The ground beneath him began to melt from the sheer heat of his power, turning the already scorched earth into molten slag.

Zathor's grin returned, but it was no longer filled with the same arrogance as before. Now, there was hunger in it—an eagerness for what was to come. "Come then, Wyverns!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the ground. "Let's see if your flame can match my shadow!"

Arnak lunged again, this time faster, his body a blur of flame and speed. Zathor met him head-on, their auras colliding with a deafening explosion of energy. Fire and shadow clashed, igniting the sky above the ruined city in a display of raw power. Arnak's fists moved in a flurry, each strike carrying the weight of a volcano, but Zathor countered, his dark energy shifting and flowing like liquid, absorbing blows and redirecting the force.

The ground beneath them shattered under the pressure of their battle, sending debris flying in every direction. Buildings that had stood for centuries crumbled in the wake of their movements, reduced to little more than dust and ash.

"You're strong," Zathor admitted, his voice carrying an edge of surprise as he blocked a particularly vicious punch. "Stronger than most who dare challenge me. But strength alone will not be enough."

As if to prove his point, Zathor's form suddenly flickered, disappearing in a cloud of shadow just as Arnak's next punch was about to land. The Ember heart warrior's fist crashed into the ground, leaving a crater in its wake.

Arnak snarled, spinning around, his flames blazing brighter as he searched for his enemy. "Coward!" he spat, his voice echoing in the stillness that followed.

But Zathor was already behind him. "No," he whispered, his voice like a cold breath on the back of Arnak's neck. "I simply prefer a different dance."

Before Arnak could react, Zathor's hand shot out, tendrils of dark energy wrapping around the dragonkin's throat like the grasp of death itself. Arnak roared in fury, his flames flaring hotter, but Zathor's grip tightened, pulling him closer.

"You think fire is enough to defeat me?" Zathor taunted, his face inches from Arnak's, his eyes glowing with dark malevolence. "Fire can be snuffed out. Shadows are eternal."

But Arnak only smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he forced himself closer to Zathor, even as the dark energy constricted around his throat. "You underestimate us, demon," he growled, his voice hoarse but defiant. "We are not just fire."

With a roar that shook the very heavens, Arnak unleashed his true power. His flames, once wild and uncontrollable, condensed into a single point within his chest. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as Zathor's eyes widened in sudden realization.

Then, with a deafening roar, Arnak detonated.

The explosion was not one of fire but of pure, concentrated energy—an eruption of molten fury that engulfed the entire battlefield. The very air screamed as the blast tore through the fabric of reality itself, vaporizing everything in its path. Zathor, caught in the center of the explosion, was hurled backward, his shadowy form flickering and dissipating in the overwhelming heat.

For a moment, the battlefield was silent, the flames of Arnak's explosion still burning in the air like dying stars. Then, from the heart of the inferno, Zathor's form reappeared, his body battered and burned, but still standing. His once confident grin was gone, replaced by a snarl of pure rage.

"You... insolent wretch!" he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. "You dare—"

But Arnak was already charging again, his body a living comet of flame and fury. And this time, there would be no hesitation.

The two titans clashed once more, fire and shadow locked in a battle of will and power.

All the while Lyssa watched the two battle with folded arms.