The journey to war was no simple flight.
For four grueling days the Eldfjall Dragon Army carved a wide, forbidden arc through the skies, deliberately skirting the borders of every other realm. No one dared fly the straight path — not when every kingdom stood armed and watchful, ready to ignite a second front at the first shadow of foreign wings. The dragons flew in perfect formation, thousands of emerald-and-gold scales flashing like living emeralds against the clouds. When exhaustion weighed their wings, the riders guided them down in tight spirals to the massive longships sailing far below on the silver mountain lakes. There the beasts rested on reinforced decks, fed whole oxen, while sailors tended wounds and soldiers sharpened blades by lantern light. At night the fleet glowed like a moving constellation on the dark water, lanterns swaying, dragons' low rumbling breaths mixing with the crash of waves against hulls.
It was a sight of terrible beauty — a kingdom on the move, silent and unstoppable.
On the dawn of the fifth day they arrived.
Grom'thar rose before them like the spine of the world itself.
Jagged black volcanoes thrust into the sky, their craters glowing with molten hearts. Rivers of lava snaked through iron-clad fortresses and terraced cities carved straight into the mountain faces. Smoke pillars twisted upward like dark banners. Massive iron bridges spanned bottomless chasms, and colossal forges belched flame and sparks that painted the clouds orange. The air itself tasted of sulfur and steel. This was no hidden valley — this was a realm forged in fire and war, proud, brutal, and eternal.
Commander Grimvald Ironwing, cloak snapping in the high wind, smiled a cold, wolfish smile atop his colossal dragon. He opened his mouth to give the order to descend—
Thousands of arrows screamed upward from the mountain ridges below.
Black shafts with flaming tips filled the sky like a sudden storm of death. The air whistled with their passage.
"SHIELDS!" Grimvald bellowed.
Dragons banked wildly. Riders slammed iron-and-dragonscale shields together, forming a living wall. Arrows hammered against metal with thunderous clangs, some shattering, some finding gaps and punching through armor with wet thuds. Screams tore across the formation as riders and dragons fell, spiraling downward in trails of smoke and blood.
Before the last arrow even struck, the real attack came.
Grom'thar's Dragon Army erupted from hidden caves and cliff ledges like a black tide — hundreds of obsidian-scaled beasts, faster and more savage than anything Eldfjall had trained for. They struck without warning, tearing into the formation with horrifying speed. Jaws clamped around necks. Talons ripped wings. Riders in dark iron armor leapt from dragon to dragon, blades flashing.
"They knew we were coming!" Grimvald roared, voice raw over the chaos. "Everyone — ATTACK! No further commands! Just kill them!"
The sky exploded into full war.
Dragons collided mid-air in sprays of blood and fire. Magic flared. Spears flew. The Battle of Grom'thar had begun.
Grimvald carved through three enemy riders in seconds, his axe singing. If they knew our route, they hit the land army too, he realized with a spike of dread. I have to protect the ships—
His eyes found Joran.
The boy was already descending like a falling star, sword dripping, hollow hazel eyes empty of fear. He moved without effort, cutting grown soldiers as if they were straw. His dragon obeyed every silent command, lunging forward to snap enemy mounts out of the air and swallow rider and beast whole in single gulps.
"Joran!" Grimvald shouted across the fray. "I'm giving you ground command! Handle the lower assault — I'll hold the sky!"
Joran gave no reply. He simply dove.
On the rocky ground below, the Eldfjall land forces had already crashed ashore. Joran's dragon slammed down among the Grom'thar infantry like a meteor. The boy leapt from the saddle and pointed.
"Eat."
The dragon obeyed without hesitation.
It rampaged through the ranks, jaws opening impossibly wide, devouring soldiers by the dozen — armor, weapons, screams and all. Blood sprayed in arcs. The beast's massive jaws crunched through iron like paper.
"THIS IS AGAINST THE WAR RULES!" a Grom'thar captain screamed, voice cracking in horror. "DRAGONS ARE NOT FOR LAND MASSACRE!"
Joran's only answer was a cold smile. "Rules die with the weak."
From the front lines, fifteen-year-old Ragnar froze mid-sword swing. His bloodied face went pale as he stared at the descending rider.
"Light brown hair… hollow eyes…" he whispered in raw terror. "It's him. The one who is going to—"
Eldfjall land troops slammed into him before he could finish. Ragnar fought desperately, weak but stubborn, blocking with his shield, stumbling, barely staying alive.
High above the civilian districts of Grom'thar — where iron houses and forges gave way to markets and homes — Joran rose again on his dragon. He steered straight toward the heart of the kingdom where normal families lived.
From the palace balcony, King Borin Stonefist, Prince Thrain, and the ministers watched in stunned disbelief.
"Is this warrior mad?!" the King bellowed, beard trembling with rage. "He's taking a dragon into the civilian quarters!"
Prince Thrain's amber eyes narrowed. "He's breaking every code of war…"
Even Grimvald, still locked in aerial combat, glimpsed the descent and shouted, "What in the nine hells is he doing?!"
Grom'thar dragon riders swarmed Joran from every side. He killed them all — effortless, mechanical, beautiful in its horror.
Below, the normal people of Grom'thar looked up and saw death coming on emerald wings. Panic erupted. Mothers grabbed children. Merchants dropped wares. Everyone ran screaming in every direction.
Joran's dragon crashed deliberately into the crowded square.
Stone cracked. Bodies flew. Dozens were crushed or slashed by thrashing wings and claws.
In the middle of the chaos, a fifteen-year-old girl with soft golden hair tied in simple braids, wide sky-blue eyes full of kindness, and a gentle, adorable face knelt among the injured. Her simple wool dress was already stained with blood as she pressed glowing healing magic into wounds, voice soft and steady.
"It's okay… I've got you… breathe…"
Her name was Elara.
Joran dropped from his dragon, boots hitting stone. Without a word he began beating the fleeing civilians with his bare fists — brutal, precise strikes that dropped men and women alike.
He ripped a heavy repeating crossbow — a "bow machine" — from a fallen Grom'thar soldier who had tried to stop him. He leveled it at Elara, who was still healing a child.
The bolt flew.
"RAGNAR!!" Elara screamed.
Ragnar — bloodied, exhausted — threw himself in front of her at the last heartbeat. The heavy bolt punched through his shoulder with a sickening thunk. He staggered but stayed upright, teeth clenched.
Elara ran to him, dropping to her knees, hands already glowing with healing light. "Ragnar! Hold on — please!"
Joran started walking toward them, crossbow still raised, hollow eyes promising more death.
Before he could take three steps, a massive black dragon exploded in from the side — so fast Joran never saw it coming. Talons clamped around his entire body mid-stride, lifting him clean off the ground.
From the dragon's saddle, Prince Thrain Stonefist glared down, flames of the burning city and the greater war raging behind him like a hellish halo. The cinematic inferno painted his armored form in crimson and gold as he roared over the chaos:
"You will not touch them!"
The chapter ended on that frozen moment — Joran caught helpless in the prince's grip, the war burning all around them, and the first true clash of destined enemies hanging in the smoke-filled sky.