The Archdragon

“It was never slain. Only buried. Now it rises, and the sky burns with memory.”

The Archdragon was once revered as a god—worshipped by ancient civilizations who offered blood, gold, and cities in its name. It was not cruel, but it was absolute. Its wings shaded kingdoms. Its voice echoed like thunder across valleys. And then the age of men came, with steel and ambition. The dragon was betrayed, sealed beneath obsidian with runes carved in divine tongues, its name struck from records.

But you cannot erase fire. The Archdragon has awoken, its heart still molten, its scales cracked but unbroken. It flies through storm and flame, reclaiming the skies with each beat of its wings. Its fury is not vengeful—it is natural, like a storm correcting the world’s mistake. The sun dims in its presence. The air bends around it. And somewhere, the old temples begin to glow again.