The morning of departure had arrived. The dragons of the Eldfjall Attack Unit were lined up in perfect formation on the open fields outside the Golden Keep, wings folded, scales gleaming under the early sun. Joran sat rigidly on his mount, his cold hazel eyes fixed forward, armor strapped tight over his newly forged soldier's body.
A familiar figure approached through the crowd — Uncle Eldrin, the old wizard neighbor. His long white beard flowed over his deep purple robes embroidered with silver runes, and his wise blue eyes carried deep concern. He stopped beside Joran's dragon and looked up at the boy who had once been like family.
"Joran," Eldrin said gently, "if you ever need help — any help at all — wear this locket. Remember me, and I will always come to you."
He held out a small, beautifully crafted silver locket on a sturdy chain. It pulsed faintly with soft blue magical light.
Joran didn't even turn his head to look at him. His voice came out flat and empty.
"I don't need it. I don't need anyone's help."
Eldrin paused for a moment, then gave a slow, understanding nod. Without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Joran never glanced back. The locket remained untouched in Eldrin's hand.
High on a raised platform, the commander of the Eldfjall Dragon Army stepped forward. He was Commander Grimvald Ironwing — a tall, imposing man in his late forties with a heavily scarred face, a thick black beard streaked with gray, and piercing steel-gray eyes that seemed to cut through anyone they landed on. His armor was heavier than the others, etched with golden dragon motifs, and a long crimson cloak billowed behind him. His voice was deep, gravelly, and carried the weight of countless battles.
"Attack Unit!" he roared, his tone sharp and commanding. "The time for training is over. Today we fly to war. Stay in formation. Obey orders without question. Strike hard, strike fast. For Eldfjall!"
With a single powerful gesture, he mounted his own massive dragon and raised his spear high.
"Fly!"
Hundreds of dragons launched into the sky at once. The thunder of wings filled the air as the Attack Unit climbed higher and higher, soaring toward the mountain passes that led beyond Eldfjall — straight for Grom'thar.
Far below, on the rocky shores of the mountain lakes, the main ground-and-sea forces of Eldfjall were already setting sail on reinforced longships, their dragon escorts circling overhead. The full might of the hidden valley kingdom was marching to war.
Meanwhile, in the volcanic realm of Grom'thar
Deep inside the mountain stronghold, the grand throne hall of Grom'thar Palace echoed with the sound of heavy boots and low voices. The palace was carved from black volcanic rock and reinforced with gleaming iron and gold.
On the massive throne sat King Borin Stonefist — a broad, muscular dwarf king in his sixties, with a long, braided red beard adorned with golden rings and runes, fiery orange eyes that burned with unyielding pride, and skin toughened like weathered stone. He wore heavy plate armor even on his throne, a crown of jagged iron and rubies resting on his thick brow.
Seated around him in smaller thrones were his most trusted ministers — stern dwarf lords and a few goblin advisors in ornate robes. To the right of the king's throne stood his son, Prince Thrain Stonefist — a younger, equally broad dwarf in his early thirties, with a shorter but still impressive braided beard of dark red, sharp amber eyes full of ambition, and armor decorated with flaming motifs. His expression was serious and calculating.
A breathless messenger — a wiry goblin scout with green skin, large pointed ears, and tattered travel cloak — burst into the hall and knelt.
"My King! The forces of Eldfjall are on the move. Their Dragon Army has taken to the skies, heading directly toward our borders. Their sea fleet has also launched from the mountain lakes. They come for war!"
King Borin Stonefist slammed his fist on the arm of his throne, the sound echoing like thunder.
"If they are coming, then we will not sit silently!" he bellowed, his voice deep and resonant. "Grom'thar will defend its mountains with iron and fire. We will crush Eldfjall and send their golden castle crumbling into dust!"
The ministers and Prince Thrain raised their fists in unison.
"Yesss, our King!" they roared together.
Grom'thar Training Grounds
Not far from the palace, in a dusty, rocky arena surrounded by cheering crowds, a brutal sparring match was underway.
An older, heavily built teenage boy (around 18) was mercilessly beating a smaller 15-year-old. The younger boy's mouth was filled with blood, his lip split, one eye swelling shut, yet he refused to fall. He kept blocking and countering with stubborn determination even as blows rained down.
The crowd chanted loudly for the older fighter:
"Beat him more! Beat him more!"
Three boys in the front row watched with clear worry on their faces — the younger fighter's friends.
Finally, the instructor — a scarred veteran dwarf — stepped in and ended the fight with a sharp command.
The 15-year-old staggered over to his friends, blood dripping down his face and staining his training tunic. Despite the pain, he flashed a weak but genuine smile.
"Ah… that was a good fight."
One of his friends, a skinny goblin boy with messy black hair and wide yellow eyes, shook his head.
"By the mountains, Ragnar! A good fight? You were getting destroyed out there!"
Ragnar wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, still smiling through the pain.
Another friend, a young dwarf with short brown hair and concerned green eyes, spoke up.
"What happened to you these past 3-4 days, Ragnar? Before that you were just like us — normal kids our age. But now you're acting like some adult, taking every responsibility on your own shoulders. Because of your stubbornness, we all joined this war training camp too. We don't even know when the real war is going to start."
Ragnar looked at his friends for a moment, then spoke quietly but firmly.
"Yeah, I know… But I've got something planned. The war is coming very fast. I just know it. I can't explain how… but I know."
He turned his gaze upward. The sky above Grom'thar had turned strange — dark clouds gathering unnaturally fast, swirling with the promise of a coming storm. Lightning flickered silently in the distance.
Ragnar's bloodied face remained calm, but his eyes held a quiet intensity as he stared at the darkening heavens.