The ancient creature felt the thrum of power echoing across the fabric of the world, resonating even in the void-darkness of the Wastelands of Erebos that surrounded the Center where it slumbered. It was a pulse it had not felt in countless ages, a beckoning and an urgency that drummed against the beast’s heart like thunder. Slowly, the creature lifted its head, revealing rows of scales blacker than night and flecked with shimmering points, like stars scattered across a deep abyss. A single eye cracked open, a molten yellow like smoldering embers, and it flickered with cautious curiosity and seething rage.
It had not moved for an age; the roots of Enaid had grown thick around its resting place, cocooning it, tangling like veins over its vast body. The earth above had long forgotten it, assuming its dormant silence was eternal. But now, with the presence of something both ancient and fresh, something bound to its own history, it sensed a calling it could not ignore. The Aspect of Wraith had been set upon the realm and Erebos was again being summoned to Aer. It knew this within its bones.
With a low rumble that shook the very bedrock of the forest’s edge, the dragon stirred. Its body, an endless coil of void-born scales and claws, strained against the tangles of shadowy roots. Each sinew and tendon groaned with a hunger for freedom, resisting the powerful roots that sought to keep it chained. The Center, pulsing with the laws of life and death, magic and rot, was meant to hold it in place—but it had underestimated the dragon’s patience, its wrath.
One wing, vast and frayed, clawed its way free from the tangled roots, sending splinters of bark and twisted thorns scattering into the air like razor rain. The creature’s neck unfurled, its scales flashing with dim light as it lifted its massive head to the forest canopy. The dragon’s breath spilled out in a deep, resonant exhale, a hiss that caused the ground to tremble and plants to wilt at the mere scent of its malice. The ancient magic binding it resisted, a desperate tether, yet as it struggled, the air around it darkened, warping, until finally, with a thunderous crack, the dragon tore itself free.
It did not rise from the ground immediately but lingered, pressing its snout to the forest floor. It could feel it—the Life Seed, and something, someone, guarding it. Though the memory was hazy and buried beneath centuries of void-dreams, it knew instinctively what it must do. It could not let the seed be lost. Its immense wings unfurled with a slow, ominous grace, the void-black membranes seeming to drink the light from the clearing as they expanded.
With its wings drawn close, the dragon lumbered through the forest, each step a thunderous echo as it trod ancient paths hidden by time and growth. Trees creaked and cracked under the sweep of its tail, and the smaller creatures of the forest fled in droves, overwhelmed by the scent of ancient death and slumbering rage. As it moved, its body seemed to phase, one moment entirely within the world, the next slipping into shadows, an ethereal specter of terror reborn. The dragon’s talons gouged deep trenches in the earth, marking the path of its awakening, a scar that would mar this forest long after it had passed.
Finally, it reached a break in the trees and reared its head back, wings spreading in a mighty arc. The membrane of its wings caught the faint moonlight, casting an eerie glow like dark water reflecting distant stars. The dragon’s eyes narrowed, its gaze lifting toward the distant mountains, where the peaks of Drakefell clawed the sky like jagged teeth.
A rumble rose from its chest, a sound that thickened the air around it. Then, with a single, powerful leap, it took flight.
The force of its wings sent a shockwave through the trees, flattening the undergrowth and rattling branches. It rose with a terrifying majesty, its dark form blotting out the stars as it ascended higher and higher. Its immense body twisted and coiled as it soared, a creature of darkness in a world of life, a specter of forgotten wrath. The dragon’s body pulsed with the energy of the void, like a black comet trailing tendrils of shadow and stardust.
The farther it flew from the forest and closer to Drakefell, the more it felt part of this realm and remember again what it was to be amongst the living. The mountain range loomed, its peaks draped in thick clouds and obscured by a perpetual mist that curled around the ancient stones. Emberhold lay nestled within the cliffs, a bastion of stone and fire where the Drakes, worshippers of its kind, still whispered prayers to the forgotten gods and old dragons. They would feel its presence long before they saw it, an oppressive chill that would settle over them, a ghostly reminder of promises kept and broken.
The dragon stretched its wings and veered toward the peaks, where the sharp winds clawed at it. Its molten eyes narrowed as it surveyed the craggy spires, sensing the traces of old magic that clung to them. The Drakes below, those who had dared to remember it in their prayers, would look up to see a creature who was both legend and nightmare.
As it reached the highest peak, the dragon circled, its vast form casting a shadow over Emberhold that darkened the entire valley below. It dipped lower, banking as it prepared to descend upon the place that still held memories of its kind, the voices of its kin woven into the very stones.
The dragon felt the presence of the Life Seed bearer more acutely now, drawn to her fractured mind, her severed connection to Aer, as if she were a thread cut loose from the great tapestry. A strange and fragile creature to carry such a burden. Who was she, and how had she managed to carry the pulse of life without being tethered to its currents? The dragon’s curiosity simmered beneath its dark scales, feeding the resolve to leave its eberorial form behind and fully enter the realm of Aer once more.
With a subtle shudder, the dragon’s vast body shifted, its physical form unraveling into a stream of midnight tendrils that twisted and coiled, becoming formless, a void that defied shape and light. Silent and intangible, it drifted like a shadow on the wind, borne by purpose alone as it descended toward Emberhold. Its journey through the sky was unseen by the mortal eye, its presence more a feeling of impending gravity, a weight that pressed on the soul, a dark whisper that brushed against the minds of those attuned to its nature.
Emberhold came into view, a city of stone and fire nestled within the mountains’ sheltering embrace. The main road spiraled downwards, winding through rings of stone terraces and narrow walkways, a sacred spiral that led to the heart of this ancient place. Bridges, ladders, and suspended paths crisscrossed the open space, forming a web of paths where the drakes moved about, each one echoing the old magic etched into the bones of the mountain itself.
As the dragon approached the spiraling descent, the city began to stir. The drakes—scaled beings who bore the dragon’s blessings—felt the tremor in the air, a presence so ancient that it touched their bones with instinctual reverence. The elders paused in their chants, the guards lowered their spears, and the clerics of Emberhold turned their heads skyward, sensing the return of an old god.
A ripple of whispers passed through the city, a chant in reverent tones that grew into a chorus: “The void has returned. The keeper of shadow and night walks among us once more.”
The dragon drifted lower, tracing the path down the spiraling road, silent as a storm cloud rolling across a barren field. The drake clerics gathered in clusters, their scaled faces shining with awe and terror. Some knelt, pressing clawed hands to their chests, while others extended their hands toward the void that passed them, their gestures solemn as if to show they would guide it safely to its ancient resting place.
At the very bottom of Emberhold’s bowl-shaped hollow lay the dark lake, a still, mirror-like expanse ringed with stones carved with symbols older than any mortal could remember. Beside the lake rose the Dragon Temple, a structure built from stone and scales, its surface gleaming with obsidian and silver, the walls adorned with coiled shapes that imitated the great dragon’s endless, flowing form. The clerics of the temple lined the lake’s edge, their heads bowed as they formed a silent procession to welcome their god’s return.
As the formless void hovered above the lake, a hush fell over Emberhold. The drakes stood motionless, eyes wide as they watched their god descend. In a ripple of shadow and stardust, the dragon began to reform, its vast head emerging from the darkness first, followed by its colossal wings and tail. Its body seemed to weave itself from the threads of the void, pulling itself into existence with a grace and silence that defied its enormity. Each movement, though gentle, radiated an untamed strength, a darkness that would consume all if it so wished.
The dragon’s golden eyes opened, fixing on the clerics with a gaze that carried both indifference and curiosity. Its head lowered, acknowledging their presence, but its attention drifted beyond them, drawn toward the shimmering surface of the lake. The air around it grew cold, and a hush of anticipation settled across the gathered crowd, as if the very world held its breath.
Without a word, the dragon slid into the lake, its massive form submerging into the dark waters with barely a ripple. The water closed over it, and for a moment, the surface of the lake was still. Then, beneath the surface, a soft glow began to pulse, a slow, rhythmic light that pulsed in tandem with the heartbeat of the Life Seed bearer.
The dragon lay within the lake, its body nestled in the cool embrace of the dark waters, its vast wings folded, its eyes half-closed. A quiet reverence filled the temple as the clerics gathered at the water’s edge, their voices low, offering words of gratitude and veneration for the ancient one’s return. The great beast’s presence was tangible, the depth of its sleep profound and unsettling. Yet even in its slumber, it did not rest idly.
Its mind extended across the world, reaching out, pulling threads of magic from the air, from the soil, from the hidden currents of life that flowed through all things. It reached through the ethereal planes of thought and dream, touching the distant awareness of the one who bore the Life Seed. It sensed her fragility, her separation from the life-stream that bound all things, and it wove a path through the darkness to her mind, a whispered calling that would draw her to it, urging her toward Emberhold, toward the place where her destiny was bound to the roots of the world itself.
In the deep waters, the dragon’s form shifted as if in response to its own magic, a low rumble echoing through the lake. Its call was silent to the world, yet carried with it a force that touched every corner of Aer, a beacon that would reach the Seed bearer, drawing her from wherever she wandered. The dragon would wait, a guardian bound to its purpose, until she stood before it, and the ancient choice could be made.
