Elandor Silverleaf trekked through the rugged terrain of the ancient mountains, where legends said the final stand of the Bronze Elves against the dragons took place. The air was thick with the weight of history, and the very earth beneath his feet seemed to hum with memories of a battle fought long before the reckoning of men. To most, the Dragon Wars were a tale from a thousand years ago, but Elandor knew better. The truth, buried beneath layers of myth, spoke of a conflict twenty thousand years old, when Wispein, the dreaded dragon, was defeated and woven into the web of magic that held the very moons in place. This web, a tapestry of arcane energy, was the source of the world’s connection to the moons—a bond that allowed for powerful imbuements and the rarest of rituals that drew upon lunar magic.
But Elandor was not here for history’s sake. He sought a cave, not just any cave, but the hidden lair of Adair, the ancient guardian. Adair was no ordinary dragon; he was the third dragon ever created, a green wyrm, younger and far weaker than his ancestors, yet immeasurably significant. Unlike the mighty dragons of myth, Adair’s power was intertwined with the world itself, making him the sole creature imbued with its primal magic. He was the originator and teacher of druidic magic, though the High Druid would fervently deny this truth, insisting that such magic was born of the world itself, taught by the forests and animals. Yet the truth remained that Adair had nurtured this magic, though he held no connection to the revered Grove.
After days of searching, Elandor finally found the entrance to the cave, an ominous maw on the side of the mountain. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, the air growing cooler and more oppressive with each step. The darkness was absolute, but he pressed on, feeling the weight of the earth and time itself.
Finally, he stopped in the cavern's heart, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. “Oh great Adair, Guardian of the world. Tiaghaneth needs your aid. The Moon of Undeath has fallen, and we fear the web has weakened.”
The silence that followed was deafening, but then the ground began to tremble, and the walls of the cave shook. A colossal shadow loomed on the wall, growing larger as it approached. Elandor stood his ground as the shadow resolved into a towering figure—a human-like form covered in green and brown scales, his presence filling the cavern. Adair, the dragon in his humanoid form, stretched and smiled at the mage, his eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom.
He spoke, but the words were an alien tongue, one not spoken in this world for eons. Elandor frowned, unable to understand. “The common lanGauge, your guardianship,” he requested, his voice steady but respectful.
Adair raised an eyebrow at the interruption, then nodded slightly before speaking again, this time in the common tongue. “What year is it?”
Elandor replied, “1648 AT.”
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Adair’s eyes widened in surprise. “I went back in time? Again? Damn, I was in the future.” He turned as if to leave, but Elandor, sensing the urgency of his mission, stepped forward, blocking his path.
“Adair, please. We are in dire need of the Gathering of Heroic Souls. The same ritual used during the Dragon Wars.”
Adair paused, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the elf. “A ritual was crafted so that such a gathering would never be necessary again. Why not use that?”
Elandor nodded, understanding the implications. “We could, but only the descendants of the dragons can perform it. None of the living descendants are ritual casters. We are in desperate need.”
Adair scoffed, his expression skeptical. “Ah, so it’s that time again. Has the queen perished yet?”
Elandor hesitated before replying, “Lost.”
Adair’s gaze softened, and he sighed. “No, not yet. Very well, I will cast the spell to make the Gathering permanent. But understand this—it will be the kingdom's eventual downfall. Without it, however, the future queen does not gain a heroic soul, and the future king succumbs to corruption of necromancy.”
Elandor nodded solemnly. “We can’t afford a corrupted king or a queen who can’t resurrect.”
With a resigned shrug, Adair turned back to the cave wall. His hands moved through the air, weaving symbols from the ambient magic, each one glowing with an eerie light before burning into the rock. The cave seemed to pulse with power as the ritual progressed, the symbols embedding themselves deep into the stone, forming an intricate pattern. Suddenly, thousands of blue, transparent cords of magic shot out from the symbols, snaking through the air and attaching themselves to those with heroic souls across the realm.
Elandor watched in awe, his heart sinking as he saw one of the cords latch onto him. “Ah, I was hoping I wouldn’t be part of the Gathering. Those days are long behind me.”
Adair finished the ritual, the symbols on the wall fading into the stone, now a permanent mark on the cave. He turned to Elandor, his expression serious. “I don’t choose who participates in the Gathering. These gatherings are always hard on those with heroic souls. I do not envy them. This will cause turmoil at first, as people struggle to accept each other for who they are. But heed my advice, Elandor: do not let the people burden the kingdom’s officials with petty squabbles. Let them handle their issues on their own. The less the queen has on her plate, the faster the kingdom will rebuild. Perhaps it won’t take a hundred years this time.”
Elandor nodded, the weight of what had just transpired settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but with Adair’s aid, they had a chance—a slim one—to restore the kingdom and prevent the catastrophic future the dragon foresaw. With a final glance at the ancient guardian, Elandor turned and left the cave, the weight of the future pressing down on him as he made his way back to the troubled kingdom of Tiaghaneth.
The moment the blue cord of magic connected to those with heroic souls, a ripple of awareness spread throughout the realm. The connection wasn’t painful, but it was unmistakable, like a gentle tug on the very essence of their being. For Zavet and Runner, who had been napping in the late afternoon sun, the sensation was jarring enough to snap them both out of their slumber.