Throne of Embers

Chapter 1 – Ashes of Gods and Fire

Long ago, when the world still bore the scars of creation, three great powers clashed: the Gods, the Demons, and the Dragons.

The war raged for centuries—across skies of flame, seas of blood, and mountains shattered into dust. No side won. No side lost. The land itself wept under their fury until even time dared not move.

In the end, the world fell silent.

And in that silence, Vaerion, the last heir of the Crimson Flame, the Pure-Blood Dragon King, descended into slumber beneath the blackened mountains of Aetherion.

His body sealed in obsidian chains, his fire encased in crystal tombs, he dreamed of a time when dragons soared freely… when gods feared his wrath.

Until now.

It began with the echoes of boots.

Iron-clad feet clattered through the ancient ruin—voices, mortal and arrogant, laughing as they descended into the dark. A band of human adventurers, drawn by tales of lost treasure and godlike power.

They should have turned back.

With a breath, the cavern shuddered. Embers stirred. The air grew heavy with forgotten rage.

And then his eyes opened—golden slits burning like twin suns in the dark.

“Foolish mortals,” he growled, voice like thunder scraping against stone. “You disturb a tomb meant never to open.”

They drew blades.

He unleashed fire.

When it was done, the dungeon burned with charred bones and molten stone. Vaerion stood amidst the ruin, breathing in the air of a world long changed.

Outside the mountain, he took flight for the first time in a thousand years. But what met his eyes was not the dominion of dragons. No gods. No demons. Only cities—vast and tall, built by humans.

He listened. He learned. The world had moved on.

The Age of Fire was over.

The dragons were no longer rulers.

They were hunted.

And humans ruled the world.

“They’ve forgotten who we are,” Vaerion said, his wings casting a shadow over the forest below. “Let them remember.”

Vaerion hovered high above the earth, the wind caressing wings forged in flame and might. He gazed down at the realms of men—cities glittering with steel and stone, smoke curling from towers, machines groaning where once dragons roared. There were no skies ruled by wings now, only by smoke. No mountains claimed by fire, only mines carved deep for gold.

He watched their carriages move without horses, their magic replaced by crude tools, their armies armored in arrogance rather than power.

And then… he smelled it.

Burnt scale. Faint. Fading. But unmistakable.

He followed the scent—northward, across jagged peaks and forgotten valleys. He found a carcass in chains. A young dragon, no older than a hatchling, flayed and mounted like a trophy in a village square.

Children threw stones at it. Men drank beside it. Women hung laundry beside its rotting wings.

Something inside him cracked.

“They butcher our kin,” he whispered, voice trembling with rage. “They wear our bones… they laugh at our ashes.”

The forest around him wilted from the heat rising from his skin. Leaves curled. Birds fled. The sky dimmed.

Vaerion looked to the horizon, where distant peaks pierced the heavens—where perhaps, just perhaps, others of his kind remained, broken or hiding.

No more.

No more hiding. No more silence.

He clenched his fist. Fire curled around his arm, golden and cruel.

“I will awaken the dragons,” he vowed. “And the world will burn with our return.”

🔥 Vaerion Drakonheart – The Pure-Blood Dragon King

Race: Pure-Blood Dragon

Forms: Human and Dragon