The Grand Assembly Hall had not seen such a gathering in centuries.
Beneath its soaring glass ceilings and towering pillars of white stone, war banners from every nation, tribe, and kingdom now hung side by side. The air was thick with tension and the crackle of raw magic, the murmur of dozens of powerful beings unused to compromise.
At the center of it all stood Kael Stormborn.
The Champion of Aramoor.
Bearer of the Dragon King's blood.
Beside him, Rynn, fierce and unswerving, her hands resting lightly on the hilts of her twin daggers. Her presence steadied him like nothing else could.
Around them, the emissaries gathered:
Lord Thandrel of the Stoneborn Clans, clad in rune-etched armor of mountain steel.
Lady Seris of the Sylvan Courts, her hair woven with living vines, her voice whispering to unseen spirits.
Chieftain Varra of the Nomadic Brotherhood, scars crisscrossing her arms like a map of wars fought and won.
High Magister Khyros, a man who once taught at the Academy and whose robes shimmered with spells layered one atop another.
And countless others—each bringing armies, magic, and grudges centuries old.
Kael stepped forward.
"We are not here for politics," he began, his voice steady and carrying. "We are here to survive."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. No one liked being reminded of their fragility.
Kael continued. "The enemy we face cannot be reasoned with. It cannot be bribed. It cannot be frightened. It can only be fought—and defeated."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"I carry within me the blood of the last Dragon Kings," he said. "Their memories. Their warnings. I have seen what is coming. Cities will fall. Rivers will boil. The sky itself will bleed if we stand divided."
Lord Thandrel rose, his massive frame dwarfing those around him.
"My people do not kneel to mages," he rumbled. "Nor to the descendants of monsters."
A low growl built among the Stoneborn behind him.
Kael met Thandrel's gaze without flinching. "I do not ask you to kneel," he said quietly. "I ask you to fight beside me."
For a long moment, silence.
Then Lady Seris of the Sylvan Courts rose, her voice like wind through leaves.
"We have seen omens," she said. "Fires in the northern woods. Wolves born with two heads. Stars falling from the sky. The world itself rejects what comes."
Her green eyes glittered as she turned toward Kael.
"I will fight with you, Stormborn."
A new wave of whispers spread through the hall. One by one, others stood—grudgingly, cautiously, but they stood.
Thandrel scowled—and then, slowly, he too rose, planting his warhammer on the stone floor with a sound like a thunderclap.
"So be it," he growled. "We fight."
Cheers broke out—raw, fierce, desperate.
The first alliance in centuries was born.
Forging the Blade of Unity
In the days that followed, Aramoor transformed.
Tents filled the fields beyond the walls. Blacksmiths' forges burned day and night. Airships descended from the floating isles of Eryndor, bearing supplies and warriors. The river glittered with the sails of a hundred ships.
The Free Armies of the Realms—no longer isolated fiefdoms—trained together under a single banner: the silver dragon of Aramoor, reborn.
Kael and Rynn worked tirelessly, moving among the camps, bridging old rivalries with strength and sheer force of will.
He sparred against the Stoneborn champions, earning their respect through blood and bruises.
Rynn negotiated with the Sylvan assassins, striking deals that no human diplomat could have survived.
Slowly, grudgingly, the armies knit themselves together.
But all the while, Kael felt the pressure building.
The egg he had bonded with pulsed stronger each day. Dreams plagued him—visions of a dark figure cloaked in shifting shadows, standing atop a mountain of corpses. A crown of black fire burning over its head.
And worse: whispers.
Join us, Stormborn.
There is no victory without sacrifice.
He woke each night in a cold sweat, Rynn's hand tightening around his.
"You're not alone," she whispered each time.
But the darkness inside him grew.
The Betrayal Within
It happened during the Night of Oaths—the ancient ritual where alliances were sealed with blood and magic under the open stars.
Kael stood before the gathered lords and warleaders, a silver dagger in hand.
One by one, they came forward, cutting their palms and binding their magic to the pact.
When the last warrior stepped back, a tremor shook the earth.
For a moment, Kael thought it was another vision.
Then the ground split open.
From the fissure rose a figure cloaked in tattered black robes, face hidden behind a mask of bone.
Not a man.
Not entirely.
The corrupted sorcerer—Veyrix the Hollow—had come.
"The pact is void," Veyrix hissed, voice like knives scraping over glass. "The blood you spill will not save you."
Kael drew Veyrion, lightning surging along its blade.
"You'll find we're not so easily broken," he said, stepping forward.
Veyrix laughed—a sound that curdled the blood.
Behind him, figures emerged—former allies now twisted into monstrous forms, their faces familiar and horrifying. Sorcerers. Knights. Even one of the Council elders.
Betrayers.
Veyrix raised his arms, and the sky above shattered like glass, revealing a swirling vortex of darkness.
The final battle had begun.
The First Clash
Kael charged.
His blood ignited, ancient power flooding his body.
The first of the betrayers fell before he even registered Kael's strike.
Around him, chaos erupted—spells clashing in midair, arrows black with poisoned magic cutting down warriors.
Rynn fought at his side, a blur of motion and lethal grace.
Together, they carved a path toward Veyrix.
But each step cost them.
Friends fell.
Allies died screaming.
Kael could feel the weight of it pressing down on him—the terrible knowledge that no matter how fast he moved, how fiercely he fought, he could not save them all.
He reached Veyrix just as the sorcerer unleashed a torrent of shadow, slamming into him with enough force to crack stone.
Kael staggered, blood streaming from his mouth.
"You're too late," Veyrix said, voice triumphant. "The world ends tonight."
Kael raised Veyrion, feeling it pulse with the egg's magic.
"Not while I still stand," he growled.
They clashed—light against dark, storm against void.
And somewhere in the battle, Kael realized the truth:
This was not the final war.
It was only the beginning.