The Great Drocular heed my command, I Memphis first of my kind, summoner of the veiled throne,
guardian of forgotten rites and weaver of shadowed destinies, summons you.
The ancient stones of the cavern tremble as your voice echoes through the deep, dark tunnel. Flickering torchlight from the newly ignited lamps casts long, writhing shadows across the walls, revealing carvings of forgotten runes and the faint glint of gold-veined obsidian.
A low, resonant growl rumbles from the heart of the chamber, like thunder trapped in the earth itself. Dust and small pebbles cascade from the ceiling as the massive form stirs,From the inky blackness beyond the cracked door, two glowing crimson eyes snap open—slitted, ancient, and brimming with primordial power. They fix upon you with an intensity that could shatter lesser souls.
A voice, deep and velvety as midnight velvet, laced with centuries of slumber and hunger, slithers forth:
"Memphis… First of your kind… bold title that suite a king.
The ground quakes as the colossal figure uncoils, scales the color of dried blood and midnight shifting in the firelight. Wings, vast enough to eclipse the moon itself, unfurl with a sound like tearing silk and cracking bone. The air grows thick with the scent of ozone, sulfur, and ancient magic
The blood moon rises…" and you dare summon me for this 'new chosen prince' aligned with the strongest of magical eggs?"
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrates through the chamber, sending ripples across nearby puddles of condensation.
Speak your full purpose, summoner. The Great Drocular has awakened. But my patience is as thin as the veil between worlds on this night. What offering do you bring? What pact do you seek? And tell me more of this prince… and these eggs that dare claim supremacy in the old ways."
The crimson eyes narrow, boring into you as the dragon's massive head lowers, hot breath washing over the entrance like a forge's exhalation.
"Choose your words wisely, Memphis. The blood moon waits for no one… and neither do"
The realm holds its breath.
The Horn of Kunde lies cold and silent upon its ancient dais, its golden runes dark, its voice stolen. None of the princes or princesses—those bright flames the gods themselves kindled in my loins—have been chosen. The court whispers. The nobles circle like vultures. The people fear the throne will pass to shadow and blood-feud when I cross into the ancestral halls.
I am the Keeper of the Horn, the last voice that still dares speak its secrets.
"Tell me, great mother of dragons , what must be done?
Shall I summon the royal children before you so you may look into their eyes and speak the truth no scroll or prophecy can utter? Shall we ride at first light to the Forbidden Caves where the Horn was first carved from the tooth of the World-Serpent? Or… do you already suspect the gods are refusing to choose—but waiting for me to name the test that will reveal the true heir?
The kingdom is mine to command.
Speak your will, and the Horn will either wake… or I will break it with my own hands and forge a new destiny from its shards.
What is your decree?"
I hear the weariness in your voice( replied the mother of dragons) like wind through ancient ruins. You have guided rivers of fate, raised empires from dust, and watched stars wheel overhead more times than any mortal could dream. Now you seek only rest—the quiet halls beyond the veil where even gods grow silent.
Yet the Horn of Kunde remains mute.
The princes and princesses stand ready, each carrying fragments of your divine spark, but none has been claimed. The court grows restless; whispers of succession wars already poison the air like black lotus smoke. If you withdraw your hand entirely, the kingdom you built across a millennium may fracture before the first moon of my absence.
I ask that you protector of the realm and offer little wisdom your experience has to offer
You been betrayed by your those you truest most.
The Horn does not refuse out of malice.
Ancient lore speaks of rare seasons when the gods test not only the heirs… but the king who must release them. Perhaps it waits for you to perform one last rite—one that proves I truly surrender the throne, not merely step aside while still clutching its shadow.
Three paths lie before you, if you will hear them:
1. The Rite of Unbinding — Gather all your children in the Hall of Echoes at midnight. Let each speak their vision for the kingdom without your guidance. The Horn may sing for the one whose words make its runes glow. You need only listen… and then depart.
2. The Journey of the Worthy — Send the princes and princesses on a final quest together—to the Crystal Spires or the Whispering Abyss—where they must face trials without your intervention. The survivor who returns with the Horn's true note upon their lips shall be chosen.
3. The King's Farewell Decree — You alone name the test. One final command from the thousand-year sovereign: a single challenge so pure and difficult that only the heir worthy of your legacy can complete it. The Horn has never ignored a king's true will when spoken with an open heart.
You have ruled longer than mountains have stood.
No one would blame you for simply walking away and letting chaos claim what it will. But I see in your eyes the same fire that built this realm. Even in weariness, you do not wish to see it burn.
What do you choose, King?
Will you perform the Rite of Unbinding on the seven days of my awakening ?
Command the quest?
Or speak your own final test that will awaken the Horn at last?
Your word is still law… for a little while longer.
I await your decree with bowed head and steady heart.
The heavy oak door slammed shut with a thunderous boom that echoed through the ancient throne chamber, sealing away the last fading echo of the dragon's voice.
Silence.
Absolute, crushing silence.
You sit alone now upon the Eternal Throne, carved from the petrified heart of the World-Tree itself. The weight of a thousand years presses down like leaden chains. Torches flicker low along the walls, casting long shadows that seem to reach toward you with greedy fingers. The Horn of Kunde rests inert upon its velvet-draped pedestal mere paces away—still cold, still silent, its golden runes as dark as forgotten graves.No footsteps. No servants. No children. Just the slow, labored rhythm of your own immortal heart and the distant howl of wind through the high arrow-slits.
For the first time in centuries, the kingdom's fate rests entirely outside my grasp echoes the king
What stirs in your chest now, weary sovereign? Asked (the kings warlord)
Is it relief… that the endless decisions, the wars, the intrigues, the weight of rule have finally slipped from your shoulders?
Or is it something sharper—a quiet dread that the realm you forged across ten lifetimes will tear itself apart the moment you step beyond the veil?
The door remains sealed.
The the dragon is gone.
The princes and princesses wait somewhere beyond these walls, unaware that their father has just withdrawn his hand from the tiller of destiny.
Do you rise and open the door once more?
Do you reach for the Horn with your own hands and demand it speak?
Or do you simply close your eyes, lean back into the throne, and let the thousand-year vigil finally end… consequences be damned?
The choice, at long last, is truly yours to make.
I am Memphis first of my name I would not watch my kingdom fall before I'm called home
Echoed the king.