News travels through the kingdom of Elbak as swiftly as the wind. In the taverns of towns and the gilded halls of castles, one topic dominates conversations: the rain of fire. In the South, everyone felt it—the shockwave—but even in the North, closing shutters or watching as the luminous bands gave way to auroras, it was hard to miss the cataclysm, no matter how fleetingly bright it was. Yet, it’s not the fiery spectacle that ignites the imagination of the powerful and the ambitious. No, it’s the rumor of a weakened dragon.
Whatever occurred, the dragon is undeniably tied to it. Tales from hunters venturing into the forest have already begun to reach the capital. In just one day, the nobles are abuzz with excitement, soldiers grow eager, and peasants dream of ambition.
Rumors spread, fueling imaginations, ambitions, and fears.
Hunters brave enough to venture into the Fissure Forest return to Ferdesang, the capital, with fabulous accounts. They speak of burning fragments crashing to the earth, forcing the dragon to its knees. They whisper that the once-invincible creature was pierced, its flesh exposed, its scales shattered. That it exhausted itself combating this invasion and now lies weakened.
These stories quickly reach the ears of nobles and warlords. A wounded dragon. The very words carry a promise of opportunity. A weakened dragon is far more than a mere trophy; it’s a living treasure, a source of unparalleled power.
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The Council of King Aldrik
Atop one of the three Black Mountains of Ferdesang, in the imposing hall of the royal castle, King Aldrik of Fersang, ruler of Elbak, convenes his council. The nobles flock to the chamber, armed with rumors and schemes, each eager to exploit the situation. A man, Dornal, has been brought before the king. He spoke with fear but conviction.
His eyes were sincere, and his fear of the king far exceeded what he’d witnessed. He recounted everything to Aldrik—the cataclysm, the wounded dragon, and even the creature’s location, a secret long guarded by hunters.
The king, a massive figure known for his iron will and thirst for conquest, listens intently. Now, back in the council chamber, his dark eyes scrutinize every advisor who dares speak, weighing the merit of their proposals.
“Your Majesty, we cannot let this opportunity pass!” declares Count Soccro, a battle-hardened veteran. “A weakened dragon is a vulnerable dragon. Imagine what we could accomplish with such power! Its scales, its bones, its breath… Alchemists and smiths could transform its remains into weapons capable of crushing our enemies for generations.”
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The council murmurs in approval. But a calmer, more calculated voice rises—that of Magistrice Yvanna, a renowned mage celebrated for her mastery of the arcane.
“Soccro, you are blinded by your thirst for war. A dragon, even wounded, remains a force beyond our comprehension. If we capture it alive, its secrets could surpass all expectations. Imagine the knowledge it holds, the magic coursing through its veins. That is the true treasure.”
The king chuckles inwardly. This woman is mad—capture a living dragon, an ancient being? How would one control it, feed it—even clean the mountains of waste and shit it must produce? It’s ludicrous.
But he says nothing publicly. He has an image to maintain, and Yvanna’s connections to the Inquisition make her a dangerous ally to alienate.
The kingdom’s elite see opportunity in this event, but each through their own lens. For Aldrik, this is his chance to be the king who slew the dragon, creating powerful relics to sustain his dynasty for centuries. Others, like Count Soccro, envision expansion—slaying the dragon would secure the forest and its riches, extending the kingdom’s reach and establishing a frontier near the dwarves’ lands.
In the end, each noble has their agenda. For Aldrik, everyone is both a potential ally and a rival. After hours of deliberation, the king rises, imposing silence. His voice resonates through the hall.
“We have all heard the rumors. A wounded dragon, a rain of fire… It is clear something extraordinary has occurred in the Fissure Forest. We cannot remain idle.”
He pauses, his gaze piercing through the chamber.
“We will send an expedition. Not an army, but a chosen force: warriors, hunters, and our best mages. Their mission will be to assess the situation and secure what can be secured. But mark my words: we do not act rashly. If this dragon can still fight, we must be prepared.”
The next day, the plan takes shape. The king’s emissaries notify military leaders and post announcements across the capital and forest towns. Adventurers above a certain rank are conscripted.
Drums echo through the Black Mountain valleys as soldiers, mages, and hunters assemble. The king dispatches an elite force led by Captain Eldan Rochefer, a veteran renowned for his cunning and composure—a loyal man to Aldrik. Magistrice Yvanna accompanies the expedition, much to the king’s dismay, her scrolls and relics in hand, ready to analyze whatever they find.
Guiding the group are hunters familiar with the forest. Among them is Dornal the Tracker, the old man who saw the dragon extinguish flames with lake water. He murmurs to his companions, ever talkative despite his forced audience with the king:
“You’ve never seen a beast like this. Trust me, if it’s still alive, wounded or not, it could kill us all in an instant. If you ask me, we’d be better off leaving that guardian in peace.”
But his warning falls on ears too greedy or too ambitious to heed it. And he follows, for he has no choice, though a part of him believes that if this venture succeeds, he will have played a part in it.