War Chamber, Capital of the Empire
The war chamber was cloaked in silence, broken only by the sound of maps being unfurled and pins striking parchment. At the head of the obsidian table sat Duke Lucas de Kustoria, commander of the imperial siege. His presence, cloaked in battle armor, was commanding—.In front of him sat couple of captains including Snow Knight and The Crown Prince,Ian de Vermouth
This operation would not be like the others.
No endless lines of footmen. No thundering cavalry. This was a mission for elites—fast, deadly, precise.
Their target: Mount Nytheris—a place long untouched by civilization, whispered in legends as the cradle of dragons and the spirits of old.
But myths held no weight in the eyes of the Empire. The age of wonder would be buried under iron and fire. The Empire would reclaim even the skies.
Still, the announcement stirred unease throughout the realm. Protests echoed across the capital. Priests, scholars, and citizens alike condemned the march on sacred ground. "You cannot slay the spirit of the world," they cried.
The Empire did not listen.
Lucas's voice cut through the chamber like a blade. He spoke with certainty, laying out the plan in swift, exacting detail: Ballistae fitted with heavy, chained bolts. Flame-tipped spears, poisoned arrows, and smoke bombs crafted to choke the breath from even the mightiest wyrm.
They would not come unprepared.
And yet, beneath his measured words, Lucas's thoughts wandered to Itarim's warning—a whisper from an ancient master burned into his mind:
"The act of defying fate comes with a cost.Much more than one would expect."
But there was no room for doubt. Not now.
Five thousand soldiers moved under the Duke's banner. Their armor shone beneath a sun soon to be hidden by ash. As they approached Mount Nytheris, silence fell over the ranks like a funeral shroud. Camps were raised swiftly, and fire pits lit the dusk like stars.
That night, under a crimson moon, four figures sat beside a low-burning flame: Lucas, Ian, the Snow Knight, and Alaric.
The crackle of burning wood filled the air.
Then Ian spoke, his voice soft, thoughtful.
"What does it take?"
Lucas glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
Ian's gaze held steady.
"To reach the sixth star. What does it take?"
The flame surged, casting shadows across their faces.
Lucas smirked, but his reply held gravity.
"To lose yourself… that is the fifth star.
To regain what you've lost—that is the sixth."
Ian's eyes narrowed in thought. The answer, cryptic yet profound, struck something deep within him.
Reaching the fourth star is possible through discipline, battle, and raw talent. The fifth came only through trauma, loss, and a breaking of the self. A dragon's heart or a demon's core could aid the ascent—but the true leap required something more.
A shattering. Then rebirth.
Ian pondered long into the night.
The Siege of Mount Nytheris Begins
Dawn came with blood in the sky.
The mountain loomed ahead like a sleeping god. Its peaks were jagged and shrouded in thick mist, the caves below echoing with the ancient breath of dragons.
Lucas's plan was simple in theory, but monstrous in scale. The first step was to awaken the beasts.
And for that… they would smoke them out.
Thousands of soldiers spread through the narrow passes of Nytheris, each carrying bundles of straw, oily cloth, and flammable pitch. Every cavern, every fissure, every hidden den was packed with fuel. Smoke would force the dragons to rise—and then the real battle would then begin.
The entire day was spent preparing. Not a single dragon stirred.
But when night returned, the mountain itself would wake… and with it, the wrath of legends.
All was in place.
All that remained… was Lucas's command.
The Fire Dance of Mount Nytheris
The cold dawn light broke over Mount Nytheris like a blade across the sky.
Below its looming peaks, five thousand imperial knights stood ready. Ballistae lined the cliffs, their iron bolts tipped with enchanted chains, oil-soaked spears, and poisoned metal. Arrows glowed, waiting to be lit. Smoke coils lingered in the morning wind, but true fire had yet to come.
And at the heart of it all stood Duke Lucas de Kustoria, the Flame Emperor, cloaked in black and gold, eyes glowing with an inner inferno.
Then—
The drums began.
DOOM.DA DOOM.DA DOOM.DOOM.DA DOOM.DA DOOM
A slow, thunderous beat rolled across the valley like the steps of fate itself.
Lucas moved.
He raised his hand and turned—a graceful pivot on his heel. His cloak spun with him, embers trailing in the air. Another turn—his feet glided across the rock like he was dancing with a partner only he could see. And in his hand, flame bloomed.
"Heavenly Flame Art, First Form—Ember's Path."
With the next beat of the drum, he struck the first arrow with fire.
DOOM.
It lit like a dying star.
Another step, another twist, another flare—
DOOM. DOOM.
Dozens of arrows ignited as he danced between the archers, flicking his hand, spreading flame with divine precision.
It was no longer a battle formation—it was a ritual.
Knights stood breathless as their commander moved like a flame incarnate, a fire god dancing to the beat of war.
The rhythm quickened.
DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM—
The mountain trembled beneath their feet.
The knights, inspired, lit their own arrows. Fire passed from hand to hand, from torch to bowstring, from one soul to another. They joined the rhythm. They joined the dance.
Lucas raised both arms, fire spiraling up his sleeves like serpents coiled around his limbs. The sky darkened from smoke. His voice roared with the final beat of the drum:
"FIRE!!!"
The world exploded.
A thousand flaming arrows flew like meteors, raining down on the mountain with the fury of the heavens. Straw and pitch caught at once. Mount Nytheris became a volcano of smoke and fire.
The flames roared.
The drums fell silent.
Then—
A sound that split the very heavens:
"SKRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHH!!!"
A dragon screamed.
The mountain shook. Rocks tumbled from the peaks. From the depths of smoke and cave, ancient wings stirred. Scales of silver, gold, and obsidian shimmered through the haze.
Ballista turned and locked. The knights held their breath.
Lucas stood unmoved, the fire reflecting in his eyes, his body still poised in the final position of his dance—arms wide, cloak burning at the edges, like a man who had summoned the apocalypse and was unashamed to meet it.
"Come," he whispered,
"Let's dance."