A Promise of Fire
Epilogue
The Zaldean Arcanum University was the pinnacle of aethereal advancement in Singard. It was through their intrepid, scholarly arcanists that allowed their city, their nation, and their military to advance at such an incredible rate. Through their experimentation of the Arcane Artes, they’d developed technological advancements that those a century prior never could’ve imagined: lights that required no flame or tinder, glyphs that could create immaculate moving images, containers that could keep their interiors perpetually cold or hot, great networks that could move water seamlessly through the city, and immaculate tablets that could record sounds and play it back perfectly.
Zaldean was the brain of Singard, and it was all thanks to the greatest arcanist of their generation: Archmagus Aria Bellanoire.
Deep beneath the academy, there was a laboratory hidden to all except the Archmagus and those of her most trusted and most gifted fellow arcanists. It was there within that laboratory where the Archmagus conducted her most lucrative and—in some instances—dangerous experiments. Within its pristine white walls inscribed with numerous sigils of protection, arcanists toiled away as they experimented with a strange relic bestowed upon them by Lord High Lord Gallon himself: a strange crystalline orb that contained an ever burning, ever changing flame. The power within was unlike anything the arcanists had ever experienced, and for the past sixty years, they’d been delicately trying to tap into its power.
Over the years, many had been caught in the deadly crossfire while tampering with the strange orb. It seemed impossible to pour Aether into it, and trying to pull Aether out was life threateningly dangerous. Many young and promising arcanists had lost their lives to the strange relic. Most peculiar of all, and what intrigued the arcanists the most, was that the orb itself never seemed to diminish in Aether. Even the most powerful and well-cut gemstone would slowly weaken with time, yet this orb perpetuated Aether. Either that, or it contained so much that the amount from which they could pull was negligible.
While study had been continuous, due to the alien nature of the orb, experimentation was extremely limited. Production soon became just learning how to contain and control the orb’s Aether output so that there would be no more accidents. Luckily, Grand Arcanist Mistran—a scholar with more than a century’s experience—discovered a series of Abjuration glyphs that proved pivotal in the study of the orb. She’d inscribed a glyph—later referred to as a dampening sphere—around the orb to mitigate its total output. When pulling the Aether from the orb, it’d be pulled through a series of progressively weaker and weaker dampening spheres, allowing fellow arcanists to record the exact moment where the Aether became stable enough to control.
For decades, the Zaldean arcanists studied the orb, for should they learn how to harness the seemingly infinite supply of Aether from within, then they’d have the most powerful aethereal power source across all of Ark. It was the Zaldean Arcanum University’s number one objective.
Yet there was something else about the orb that intrigued Archmagus Bellanoire. Amongst her most trusted arcanists included an even smaller, more secret subsect whom she’d trusted in the most harrowing and controversial experiments, for to the Archmagus there was no such thing as forbidden or unethical research. In secret, those arcanists recorded exactly how the orb’s unstable Aether interacted with mortal bodies. Even in small doses, trying to harness the Aether from the orb—as one would a regular gemstone—proved highly dangerous, and often times fatal, but those who’d survived noted that they felt the orb’s Aether linger within them long after it had been consumed.
That was when the experiments needed to be kept secret, for it was when Grand Arcanist Cazenave—a man over two centuries old—tapped into the orb and found that the arthritis in his hands no longer hurt him, and the pain in his back subsided, and his legs which had long since been crippled began to obey him once again, that they knew the orb was something more than special; it was a gift from the gods. In addition to the orb healing him of his ails, he lived until he was nearly three-hundred years old; far longer than even he’d expected.
Archmagus Bellanoire knew that not only could this orb be used to make Singard the single greatest empire in the world, but if she was successful in learning its secrets and harnessing its power, then Singard would be equal to, nay, greater than the Dragons themselves.
Locked away within a cell adorned with countless arcane sigils, hidden deep within the most heavily guarded and secret of Zaldean laboratories, under constant supervision by a series of incredibly powerful arcanists, lay the human Zedar Hakiram; a captured Tridian spy and assassin.
He stared at his prison cell and at the various runes and glyphs that made up the sigils that kept him bound. He recognized several of them: exhaust, fatigue, ward, barrier, shield, slow, and many more. It wasn’t enough that they’d kept him bound and chained in a cage barely big enough for him to stand and given only the scanted amount of food and water to keep him alive, but they’d even adorned his skin with similar glyphs, all to keep him from breaking free.
At first, he thought of it as a mere challenge: he’d freed himself from several imprisonments before, even those deemed neigh impossible, but as the days dragged into weeks, and the weeks into months, Zedar began to lose hope. The torture they’d inflicted upon him was more than he thought his body could handle, yet it appeared that some of the glyphs adorning his body were keeping him alive.
For as long as he could remember, they’d been imbuing him with the Aether from a strange crystal orb. At first, it was invigorating; the power of the orb was unlike anything Zedar could ever have imagined, and even long after the Aether was consumed, he could still feel it surge within him. It was as if the orb’s Aether was replacing his own. He thought the Singardians had made a terrible mistake giving him that kind of power, but he soon came to realize that the orb was not meant for mortal use. It was as if the Aether from the orb was poisoning him, and the only thing keeping him alive were the glyphs from the arcanists.
But Zedar did not fear death—no true Tridian did—but embraced it. He’d been taught by the Highmoon Orthodoxy that death was just the second step to life, and that when one perishes their soul would ascend to the Hall of Stars within the Cradle of the Moon—M’hat-Qamal—to be with the Mother of Moonlight—Umu’Alqa—herself. If his duty was not yet finished, then he’d be reborn back to the world below.
For as far back as he could recall, Zedar had always accepted that death would one day come for him, whether it be as a sacrifice to his people or a foe getting the better of him in combat; Zedar knew his time upon the mortal world was finite.
He closed his eyes and recalled the legendary tales of heroes such as Raylion Skypiercer, Xurt Cloudrunner, and Trifa Flamedrinker; all of whom had overcame incredible odds and returned home to be told of in stores for all time, but who was Zedar Hakiram—He who Chases Dreams—to those legends? He was an assassin, regarded by his peers as one of the greatest in his people’s history, a man with more than two-hundred bodies left in his wake at the age of thirty-three, but he still just an assassin. Though he was trained as one of their great Warrior-Priests, he was not considered a hero, nor where his deeds considered great acts of heroism, but instead the workings of the shadow from where none could see. His deeds—not his name—would go down in history.
A whirr filled the room, and Zedar opened his eyes. Along the ceiling, a great circuit of runes and glyphs roared to life as Aether surged into them. The room was illuminated with vibrant blue and yellow light. He winced as the aethereal lights burned his eyes, and his head throbbed with pain.
The two arcanists standing guard turned and bowed as Singard’s Archmagus entered the room. She strutted in with more than a dozen arcanists behind her, wearing a blue dress with vibrant orange trim made from the finest Singardian silks, and a green shawl that draped over her shoulders. Around her neck, she wore a silver and gold necklace with a pendent that contained the five gemstones: a sapphire, a citrine, an emerald, a ruby, and an amethyst; each to hold the five colors of Aether. Her skin was the lightest lavender Zedar had ever seen on an elf, her hair was a silken dark crimson, and her eyes were a muted empty gray.
Tucked under her arm was her grimoire, a large leatherbound tome inscribed with dozens if not hundreds of arcane formulae that she could call upon at a moment’s notice. How Zedar would love to nab that book from her and give it to Arbiter Numair to study over. What wonderful things could they learn from the Archmagus of Singard’s illustrious spell book.
Along with the grimoire, she carried a small case covered in various glyphs of protection, as well as glyphs used to keep the case hidden from any Divination.
Zedar was familiar with the Singardian language—he had to be if he was to be a spy and assassin—but the arcanists chose to speak in old Galdic around him. It was infuriating, but he was able to pick up bits and pieces of their archaic tongue. The Archmagus spoke briefly with her arcanists before she turned to Zedar and gave him a crooked, sadistic smile.
She opened the case with a wave of her hand, revealing the accursed crystal orb within. Gently, a pair of arcanists lifted the orb from its casing using strange rune marked gloves and placed it upon a pedestal before Zedar’s cage. He winced, for he knew what tortures would soon befall him, but he was determined that all of this would end today. He’d either escape using the power they’d given him, or he’d die trying. There was no other outcome.
Archmagus Bellanoire stepped forward and delicately waved her hand above the orb. She smirked, and with a quick flick of her wrist, sent a small stream of Aether into the orb. In an instant, all the glyphs around Zedar’s cage flashed to life, and his body was wracked with an indescribable pain. He thrashed against his bindings as the Aether flowed into him, more Aether than his body could contain, but the glyphs strewn across his body kept him in one piece.
He tried to concentrate, to pull even more Aether from the orb, but his mind was blank. He couldn’t think of anything but the pain. His bones cracked and broke before reforming themselves; his body grew and crushed itself against his small cage before it shrank back to its normal size; the bindings around his wrists and ankles tightened and cracked as his body swelled; an awful burning formed in his throat—hotter and hotter—until his screams erupted into a cone of red flames. He felt the skin of his lips and tongue blister.
Zedar screamed until he couldn’t scream anymore, and then everything fell silent.
His body was cold, and his vision had faded. Zedar was dead. He stood alone in an empty black nothingness and took a deep, cold breath. He could still feel the heat upon his tongue and lips, but the pain was gone. Everything was gone; Zedar felt nothing except death’s cold embrace.
As he stared out into the empty darkness around him, Zedar spotted a faint glimmer of silver light, and then another, and then another. Stars! He stood in the Hall of Stars within the cradle of the moon, just as the old priests had said. Zedar closed his eyes and accepted his fate. Had he lived a good life? Would the Mother of Moonlight be proud of what he’d accomplished? Did any of it matter, or would Umu’Alqa cast him into the darkest abyss of Dozgir to be tormented by Megidos and his demons forever more? Perhaps he’d just be left to drown in the endless ocean of nothing for all eternity.
A voice, one pure and soft yet intense and powerful, rang through the abyss. It spoke his name, and when Zedar opened his eyes, he saw a woman tower above him. Her skin was as white as pearls, and her eyes gleamed like the stars that pierced the darkness. Her pure black hair swirled around her like smoke, and she wore a dark violet gown that flowed like water; it looked as if she was the very night sky itself, for in a sense she was.
It was she: the Goddess of Death, Mother of Moonlight, Velhien.
Zedar bowed his head in reverence and said, “My time has come, has it?” The Goddess did not speak. “Have I made my people proud? Have I made you proud, Umu’Alqa?”
“Do you not fear death, Zedar Hakiram,” spoke the Goddess. Her voice was unlike anything Zedar had ever heard; it didn’t seem to obey the same rules and laws that mortal voices need obey.
“No,” he said calmly, “I’ve awaited this day for a long time.”
She waited and then asked, “How many lives have you taken, Zedar Hakiram?”
“More than I can count,” he said.
The Goddess giggled, the smallest laugh that seemingly echoed throughout the entirety of the night sky. She brushed his cheek—her hands frigid and cold—and turned his eyes to meet hers. “No, it is not your time, Zedar. Not after what they’ve done to you.”
Zedar looked into the Mother of Moonlight’s silver star-like eyes, and he thought he noticed something strange: he felt bigger. He hadn’t quite noticed before, but his shoulders felt wider, his legs and arms felt heavier, and his muscles stronger. Not only that, but his nose protruded out further from his face, almost a snout. He touched it, and it felt course and rough, or was that because his hands—that now seemed to be covered in bright red scales and tipped with long sharp nails—were course and rough.
Is this just a part of being dead? The scripture did not speak of this.
She shook her head as if she’d read his thoughts and then waved her hands. A pool of silver-black water appeared in the air before them from seemingly nothing. Zedar looked into its dark surface and saw his reflection; no longer was he human, but instead a creature covered in red scales with a long snout that contained dozens of sharp jagged fangs, with large glistening reptilian eyes.
The Goddess sighed and said, “The first dragon born in sixty years; born at the hands of the savages my daughter calls her children.” Zedar saw the disdain upon her face and heard the bitterness in her voice. She turned back to him, eyes as intense as the brightest stars, and said, “Zedar Hakiram, what is it that you wanted from life?”
Zedar truly did not know. For years he felt hollow, empty, and cold. It was that lifeless void that led him to becoming an assassin in the first place. Killing was what made him feel alive, but not mindless killing. No, Zedar did not approve the random lustful killing of innocent civilians like a common murderer, but instead the swift execution of those who thought themselves above death. Nothing brought Zedar more joy then to watch the life fade from the pleading eyes of those who’d inflicted so much pain upon others; those who lived without care, who’d created a world filled with such strife and hate and thought themselves untouchable.
He looked upon the Goddess and said, “I want to bring retribution. I want them to suffer: the Archmagus, her arcanists, all of them. I want them to pay with their lives for the sins they’ve committed against me, my people, all mortals of Ark, and even for the heresy of defying the Dragons.” Zedar’s body grew hotter and hotter, as if life was returning to him. “I want them to fear the death that I will so swiftly bring them.”
She nodded and said, “In your years, have your actions not brought pain upon others? Have you not caused hurt to those whose fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters you killed? Would not your own blade fall upon yourself?”
“That kill is saved for last,” said Zedar proudly, “for when all evil, and hate, and suffering is wrought from this world, only then shall I take my own life, as is the sworn oath I took all those years ago.”
With those words, the Moon Goddess smiled and held out her hands. The stars around them began to swirl and dance, colliding together in the palms of her hands until they formed a cold silver flame.
“Zedar Hakiram, I offer you my power—the gift of Moonfire—to enact your retribution upon the vile, the greedy, and the wicked. To be the executioner of those who do not fear death. In return, I ask you to reclaim that which has been stolen from us: The Dragon Orb.”
Zedar’s mind flickered back to just before his death. That crystal orb that the Archmagus coveted so much had to be The Dragon Orb of which the Goddess spoke. He was so close to it, and it was from that which transformed him into a Dragon.
With that revelation, Zedar bowed to his goddess and reached out to take the Moonfire from her hand. The flame did not burn, but instead sent the very chill of death through his body. As his hand clasped around it, the flame erupted and whelmed over him with its otherworldly cold. It froze Zedar to his core; a thousand years in the coldest depths of the Masubain Highlands would be nothing compared to the cold he felt engulf him, but he dared not let go.
Zedar watched as Velhien’s form as a beautiful woman melted away to reveal a great silver eye, greater in size than anything Zedar could ever comprehend. It was surrounded by an infinitude of writhing shadowy tendrils that seemed to pull the stars from the sky and warped the very night itself.
Zedar stared upon the godly visage of the Death Goddess, and he felt like the cold would freeze him in that moment in time forever. He tightened his grip around the frozen flame and forced it to bend to his will. He pulled the flame close to his chest and felt the cold fire burn itself into him.
As with his death, Zedar felt something boil within his throat, but instead of a horrible heat, it was the frigid icy chill of death. He bellowed a mighty roar that echoed throughout the Hall of Stars, breathing out a great cone of silver Moonfire that illuminated the darkness.
Though her emotions were beyond that of mortal understanding, Zedar could feel Velhien’s approval. As immediately as the cold engulfed him, it was gone, and Zedar was back in the darkness, alone. Her words—soft, yet booming—rang in his head.
TO BRING FEAR TO THOSE UNAFRAID OF DEATH, TO ACT AS THE HARBINGER OF VENGEFUL OBLIVION TO THE CRUEL, I GRANT THEE, ZEDAR HAKIRAM, THE GIFT OF MOONFIRE.
Zedar heard strange murmurings and cheers of triumph all around him. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself back in his cage within the world of the living. No longer did he feel the pain wrack his body; no longer did he feel lethargic and weak from the arcanists’ glyphs. His vision was hazy, but he could still see—not ten paces from him—was The Dragon Orb sitting atop its pedestal.
The arcanists had dropped their façade of speaking in old Galdic and spoke in their modern tongue. Zedar heard them congratulating one another about their successful experiment: they’d controlled the orb enough to the point of creating their very own Dragon. It had not mattered that they killed him; that was not important.
Was that all he was to them? An animal to test their twisted experiments upon? Even in the cruelest Tridian gaol, they’d never forced prisoners of war to a fate such as this. These cretins did not value the lives of others, he thought. They valued themselves, and felt they were above those of “lesser races.”
Rage built within Zedar.
These Singardian savages shall be the first victims to my holy retribution.
To bring fear to those unafraid of death, and to take The Dragon Orb in the name of Velhien, Mother of Moonlight; The first mission in his quest as the Umu’Alqa’s divine executioner.
Zedar reached for the bars of his cage, and as he did, he heard one of the arcanists screech in terror. Frantically, he shouted, “H-He’s alive! The Tridian is still alive!”
The look of shock and terror on the Archmagus’ face as she turned to see Zedar rip the bars from his cage was one of the most satisfying things he’d ever seen in his career, second only to the look that would follow as the life drained from her horrified gray eyes.
Zedar stepped free from the cage, marveling at his newfound strength before his eyes set themselves upon The Dragon Orb. After their initial shock had worn off, the arcanists quickly made work attempting to subdue him; they’d focused their Aether into any and all glyphs they could—fire, lightning, paralysis, fatigue—but none of it affected him. Zedar felt Velhien’s frigid flames course through his veins, and it allowed him to shake off their most feeble attempts at restraining him.
His Aether swelled from within, and Zedar let loose a horrible roar with a power so great he felt the air grow thicker. The aethereal pressure within the laboratory grew and grew until its weight became unbearable, and those not strong enough to resist his might were crushed beneath him.
Zedar never dreamt of wielding such a power. His Aether had been infused with that of The Dragon Orb, infused with the very Aether of the gods themselves. No longer did he stand amongst them as equals; he stood amongst them as something greater, something akin to a god: he was a Dragon.
A force like that of a mighty hammer struck Zedar to his core, and his body began to solidify; he’d been so distracted by his newfound power that he’d been completely unaware of the Archmagus invoking a series of glyphs from her grimoire. She was powerful—as to be expected of Singard’s Archmagus—but she was not comparable to the Moon Dragon. Zedar’s maw curled into an unholy smile of terror and vengeance, and in that moment, he felt the looming presence of death all around him. The lingering dead bodies of those he’d slain were strewn about the ground, and he could hear their souls wail in agony. He breathed in deeply and felt their anguish and pain merge with the Moonfire of Velhien.
Zedar let loose another powerful roar, and a burst of death cold’s flame whelmed the laboratory. The Archmagus was forced to release her aethereal grip from him as she conjured forth a barrier of Abjuration to protect herself. While she may have been strong enough to resist him, many of her arcanists were not; their paltry barriers were nothing compared to the might of Death, and they were reduced to ash.
With that, there was just Zedar, the Archmagus, and two lucky arcanists left. Zedar laughed with delight as he watched their expressions turn to terror; all except for Archmagus Bellanoire. Instead, she glowered at him with a face of twisted hatred and of shattered pride.
“It is my favorite,” said Zedar, his voice cold and merciless, “to watch prideful smugness turn to fear; to see the hope leave their eyes. Your death will be very special, Archmagus.”
The woman’s expression did not falter, and Zedar found her attempts at fighting back most obnoxious. He turned his attention to The Dragon Orb still set upon its pedestal. He pondered all the things he could do with it; with his new powers and body, surely, he could use it more effectively than these pitiful mortals. Executing the wicked would come easily to him once he had the orb in his grasp.
Recognizing what Zedar was after, the Archmagus lunged for the orb, and as her hands fell upon it, she pulled as much Aether from it as her body could handle and invoked a series of powerful glyphs from her grimoire.
Zedar felt the weight of the cosmos press down on his shoulders, and he collapsed to his knees. The weight was unbearable; the stone ground beneath him cracked, and Zedar felt his bones begin to break. As much as he tried to resist—to focus his Aether into that of Abjuration to resist her onslaught—the combined power of the Archmagus and The Dragon Orb was too much for him, even with Velhien’s blessing.
No, no, no! Not when I’m so close! I can’t fail. I won’t fail!
Collapsing to his elbows, Zedar felt the prideful smile of the Archmagus upon him. She spat a taunt at him in Singardian, but as he looked upon her, he could see the catastrophic damage the orb was inflicting upon her: the skin of her hands and arms seemed to be melting from her bones, and he could see streaks of Aether scorching her chest and neck. If he could just hold out long enough, the orb would kill her, or maybe…
The weight grew more intense, and Zedar’s body was pressed flat to the ground. It was impossible, he thought, that a mortal like her could hold such power over him. If he did not do something—if he did not escape—he would die again.
Zedar closed his eyes and focused on the souls of the dead around him. He hoped that their deaths would empower him enough to resist the Archmagus’ assault, and that’s when he felt it: there was one arcanist not yet dead, but just unconscious. Zedar smiled, for there was one secret he had from even his own people; an Arte forbidden and feared by his kinsman, but one which granted him unparalleled prowess as an assassin: Lunamancy, the magic of dreams.
Zedar closed his eyes and felt his Aether pulse and resonate with the Aether of the unconscious arcanist nearby. In an instant, he vanished, and the weight was gone.
He looked around and found himself standing atop the water of a colorless ocean in an empty void: Mora’Dhasis, the realm of dreams. He sighed with both relief and frustration. He was so close to killing the Archmagus and reclaiming the orb for his Goddess, but at least he was still alive, and that meant the Archmagus would fear his return for months—perhaps years—to come.
Floating within the empty waters, Zedar found the arcanist whose dream he had entered. In the dream world, the only rules that applied were those the dreamers decided. Those asleep could dictate the laws and forces of the dream world, but this arcanist was currently unaware he was even asleep in the first place. As such, Zedar had total control.
He marched over to the young man—perhaps only fifty or sixty years old in Elven years—and pulled him from the empty sea. Upon doing so, the man came to his senses and realized he’d fallen within the clutches of the Dragon he and his kind had created. He tried to fight back—to use his Aether—but in Mora’Dhasis, only those who knew they were dreaming could cast Aether.
“I am within your debt, arcanist,” said Zedar. “If not for your strong will, I wouldn’t have been able to mount my escape.”
He dropped the man back into the water and watched him sink like a stone. In his panicked state, the poor arcanist didn’t know he didn’t have to breathe, and that if he really wanted to escape, he could just continue sink beneath the surface. Zedar smiled with a playful delight as the man finally began to dream a shore for himself to climb upon and scamper out of the water.
Unfortunately, this dream was no longer just his; Zedar willed the world of dreams to alter and shift, and the man lost all feeling in his legs and collapsed to the ground. Before he knew it, he was trapped within a small, confined cell in the darkest and most rancid gaol Zedar could imagine.
Zedar laughed at the man’s pathetic attempts to break free and said, “Do not worry. You will not die here, for I want to reward you for helping me so.”
With a wave of his hand, Zedar conjured forth a horrible beast: claws of a wolf, face of shark, and breath that reeked of decaying flesh. The monster snarled at the arcanist, and as the poor man begged, Zedar opened the cell for the beast to enter.
The monster pounced, clawing and tearing into the man’s flesh and ripping him to pieces. The man screamed in anguish as no matter what horrors befell him, his body always recovered, and the beast continued to devour.
Zedar watched in delight as the arcanist was cursed to die hundreds of deaths before him. As he watched, he saw a strange aethereal chord hover in the air above struggling to pull the man free. Zedar beamed with joy.
The thread of waking, or so he’d heard it called, was what tethered one’s soul back to the waking world. When the dream ended, the thread would yank the dreamer back to their body, and they would wake.
Zedar couldn’t contain his excitement. If he could see it, then he could touch it, and if he could touch it, then…
He looked down to the arcanist whose body continued to regenerate as his nightmare tore relentlessly tore him apart, and then looked back up at the thread of waking dangling above. With a snap of his fingers, the thread was sliced in twain. With it gone, the nightmare would never end for the poor arcanist until his mortal body decayed.
“I hope you learn to control your dreams,” laughed Zedar, “for else this nightmare of yours shall be never ending.”
The man screamed as Zedar cackled with pleasure and warped the dreamscape to his bidding. He shifted himself far, far away until he found himself in a different dream: he stood within a small cozy bedroom. At his feet was a little elf girl playing with her toys, surrounded by the joyful friends she’d imagined.
Upon his arrival, the girl stopped playing, and there was silence for just a moment before she screamed. Zedar embraced his role of nightmare within the girl’s dream and gave a terrible roar. He willed the dream to shift and warp until the room was gone, and they were out in the deep darkness of the woods all alone; there was no light but that of the full moon, and Zedar had made the little girl’s toys come to life and begin to attack her.
The little girl tried to fight them off as they clambered and crawled over her. Slowly, Zedar manipulated the dream until the toys became more horrible, gifting them claws that could scratch and jaws that could bite. The girl screamed as one of the toys lashed out with its newfound claw and stabbed her in the eye.
The thread of waking that hovered above the little girl drew itself tight, yanking her free, and the dream ended.
Instantly, Zedar found himself pulled out of the dreamscape and into a dingey old room, not nearly as warm as that from the dream. The house was old and rickety, and it reeked of mold and mildew. As the little girl began to stir, Zedar quickly made his way out the nearby window. Soon, he’d be nothing more than just a nightmare.
Once outside, Zedar was frustrated to realize he was still in Zaldean. He sneered knowing that it wouldn’t be long before the Archmagus alerted the crownsguard about him, and rumor would spread about the return of the dragons, but that was not what upset him the most. No, what upset him was that he was so close to The Dragon Orb, and now he’d have to work his way back into the Archmagus’ clutches to retrieve it.
But then he laughed. Zedar was a Dragon now, a being unto a god. He was more powerful than he’d ever been, and with his newfound powers and his revelations in Mora’Dhasis, he’d got an idea. There was a treasure—a deadly weapon wielded by a Lunamancer from the Age of Dragons—said to be hidden within the darkest nightmares of the dream world. If he found it, he’d be unstoppable; a nightmare of the wakened world; the living incarnation of death upon Ark.
No longer was he Zedar Hakiram—He Who Chases Dreams—but something more. He decided that he needed a new name for himself, one befitting a Dragon. There was but one-word Zedar thought was fit for him now: Thraximund, the Draconian word meaning the end of all things; extinction.
Yes, Zedar Thraximund: He Who Brings Oblivion.
He would find that treasure, he told himself, and then he’d be back to seek retribution upon the Archmagus, and upon all of Singard itself. As alarm bells began to ring, Zedar smiled; he sensed the dreams of others sleeping without a fear in the world and vanished back into the darkness of Mora’Dhasis.