The Elemental Domain was not a place meant for mortals. Or immortals. Or anything that needed a straight line to stand on.
Gravity twisted like a living thing, pulling sideways one moment, upward the next. Floating continents drifted like forgotten gods, layered in storms and shadow. Rivers of lightning fell from cloudbanks that hovered miles above the ground, striking suspended lakes that rippled and reformed with unnatural patience.
This was the fortress-realm of the Elemental Lords—part temple, part battlefield, part living organism of raw power.
The fortress itself sat on a titanic fragment of stone drifting through the rift like a continent torn free from reality. Its pillars reached thousands of feet into the air, carved from indestructible elemental crystal, each glowing with faint sigil-shaped hollows. At least twenty waterfalls flowed upward into floating basins overhead, forming shimmering curtains of liquid that defied gravity purely out of arrogance.
At the center of it all was the Council Chamber.
Seven thrones.
Seven pillars.
Seven dormant sigil stones embedded high in the walls, drained of their radiant glow and reduced to faint embers.
A lattice of pure storm-energy held Mira suspended between two pillars—arms bound by crackling bands of lightning, feet anchored to a glowing platform. She was bruised. Bloodied. Exhausted. But her eyes were sharp, yellow, furious.
She had snapped through a dozen restraints already.
These ones, however, were designed by gods.
The air trembled as the first of the Lords entered.
A thunderclap split the room as Tempestron descended from a bolt of lightning, materializing atop his throne with the dramatic flourish of someone born to be worshipped. His cloak crackled and curled around him like stormclouds given personality.
"Mira," he greeted with a smile that would have charmed mortals, "you look well."
"Go to hell," she snarled.
Tempestron's grin widened. "I've been. Too warm."
Another presence formed—a molten slash across the floor as a river of lava surged upward, spiraling until it shaped itself into a towering woman of burning magma and ember hair.
Pyronyx.
Her voice was a war-drum. "Where is the dragon?"
"On his way," Tempestron said with absolute confidence.
She snorted flames. "He should have come already. I want to see if the myths underestimated him."
"They never do," came a rumble from behind.
The ground itself cracked open, and a massive figure pulled himself up from the depths of the stone. Every footstep shattered the floor before reforming instantly.
Terragorn.
Lord of Stone.
Tallest of the seven; slowest to speak; wisest by unwilling necessity.
"We push too far," he intoned, voice like mountains grinding. "The sigil stones grow weaker with every drain."
"That is the point," Tempestron said. "We require their energy, not their approval."
Terragorn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Balance is not something to be ignored."
Tempestron waved him off gleefully. "Balance is for mortals."
A wave of water spiraled into the chamber, rising and forming the elegant figure of a woman with seafoam hair and eyes shifting between turquoise and dark abyss.
Myrraline.
She studied Mira with concern far deeper than she wished to show.
"You bound her with storm chains?" she asked Tempestron sharply. "Storm energy is unstable. It may tear her apart."
Mira spat. "Do it, coward."
Tempestron chuckled. "If she breaks, he will come angrier. Useful, but… messier."
Myrraline scowled. "This is cruelty. Not strategy."
"Cruelty is merely efficiency with personality," Tempestron replied.
A soft hum filled the air as golden sunlight gathered in the center of the chamber.
A man—no, something more refined than a man—formed from beams of radiance. He hovered inches above the floor, eyes glowing bright as a newborn star.
Aetherion, Lord of Sky & Light.
He spoke without looking at anyone, as if addressing invisible constellations.
"The Dragon moves. His heart threads through fate like a needle in velvet. The map unwinds. Patterns shift. He is coming."
Mira jerked forward against her restraints. "Danny, don't—"
The chains shocked her, and she gasped.
Aetherion turned his head slightly. "Your voice echoes. He hears you, faintly."
Tempestron smiled. "Good."
The shadows in the chamber stirred.
A figure stepped out of a darkness so deep it seemed to swallow sound.
Umbrakrell.
Quiet. Dangerous. Predatory. He circled Mira with interest, steps silent.
"She does not fear death," he murmured. "Her scent is defiance. It is… pleasant."
Mira bared her teeth.
He smiled faintly.
Tempestron clapped his hands sharply. "We are nearly all present. Where is—"
A sudden flare of brilliant white filled the chamber.
It settled into the form of a woman clad in radiant armor, eyes sharp, movements graceful yet decisive. She carried herself with the calm efficiency of a general and the unshakable resolve of a judge.
Solmara, Lady of Wisdom & Light.
Her light did not merely illuminate the chamber—it clarified it.
She scanned the room, pausing at Mira longer than the others.
"We are crossing lines that should not be crossed," Solmara said, voice level as a blade. "Draining sigil stones. Kidnapping mortals. Luring a Golden Dragon into a trap. This feels… reckless."
Tempestron spread his arms. "Reckless innovation is the birthplace of power."
Solmara's eyes narrowed. "Or ruin."
Pyronyx scoffed. "Spare us your philosophies. The sigils feed us. The dragon will feed us more."
Terragorn rumbled in agreement. "But we risk the rage of creation itself."
"And why not?" Tempestron lifted his chin. "Creation has slept for millennia. It has abandoned the realms. If Danny is truly its successor… then we shall make use of him."
The thrones shook with the force of his proclamation.
Mira snarled. "He is going to tear you apart."
Tempestron approached her, cupping her chin with fingers of crackling lightning.
"That is precisely what I want him to try."
Her eyes flared.
He tightened his grip.
"You are his heart. His instinct. His rage. You are the chain that will drag him to me."
Solmara stiffened at the cruelty.
Myrraline looked away.
Aetherion murmured, "The pattern grows unstable…"
Umbrakrell chuckled softly.
And Tempestron turned to the council.
"It is time. Bring forth the Rings."
One by one, the Elemental Lords raised their hands, each adorned with a radiant ring—rings Bones had given them ages ago, born from lies and shadow.
And the sigil stones embedded in the chamber walls flickered weakly in response.
Mira watched in horror as the Lords began converging their power.
The trap was beginning.
The seven Elemental Rings ignited like newborn stars.
Each ring was a nexus of impossible power—living conduits forged by Bones himself, wrapped around the fingers of gods who believed every lie he whispered to them.
The air in the chamber tightened as the rings' energies resonated, each vibrating at a pitch that rattled the floating continent beneath them. Lightning crawled across the ceiling. Shadows twisted. Molten cracks spidered through the floor. Aetherion's radiance grew so intense the walls cast no shadows at all.
The sigil stones embedded in the towering pillars responded weakly, their remaining energy tugged toward the activated rings like dying suns pulled toward black holes.
Mira strained against her restraints, the storm chains sparking as she pulled with every ounce of strength in her body.
Tempestron watched her struggle with amused patience.
"It won't work," he said lightly. "Thunder chains adapt. The harder you pull, the stronger they become."
Mira's muscles trembled with effort. "I'll kill you," she hissed.
Pyronyx barked a laugh. "I like her."
Solmara stepped forward, expression sharpening.
"Before we proceed," she said, "I want to make something clear."
Tempestron sighed theatrically. "Must we begin with your reservations?"
"Always," Solmara answered.
Pyronyx rolled her eyes. Aetherion floated silently. Terragorn remained still as a mountain. Myrraline hovered between concern and curiosity. Umbrakrell whispered something to the shadows, which whispered back.
Solmara continued.
"We all agreed the sigil stones were tools—sources of energy, yes, but sacred. Their draining strips our worlds of balance. Prolonged siphoning will leave the realms unstable, perhaps permanently."
Tempestron waved dismissively. "Balance is a myth told to mortals so they behave."
"And yet," Solmara replied, "the sigils themselves were created to maintain cosmic equilibrium. You presume to know more than the forces that birthed this reality?"
Pyronyx sneered. "If power is within reach, we take it."
"As Ares would," Solmara murmured, eyes narrowing.
"And you?" Pyronyx snapped. "Always judging, always calculating. Athena with a golden stick up her—"
"Enough," Terragorn rumbled. The floor trembled with the weight of the word.
Solmara turned to him. "Will you say nothing of this?"
Terragorn's granite features shifted minutely. "I fear we are stepping beyond our roles. But the Council voted. I abide."
Myrraline crossed her arms, waves rippling across her form. "I objected then. I object now. Kidnapping her—" she gestured to Mira— "is not the path of rulers. It is the path of tyrants."
Umbrakrell drifted closer, voice soft and unsettling. "Mortals are resilient. If she dies, another appears. If she lives, she serves her purpose. Either way, the outcome aligns."
Mira snarled. "I'm going to rip your throat out."
Umbrakrell smiled. "Perhaps one day. Not today."
Tempestron raised his hand, and lightning crackled upward with an ear-splitting shriek.
"We do not have time for philosophy. The sigils fade. Our rings hunger. And a Golden Dragon lives."
Aetherion's gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he watched events unfold centuries ahead.
"The flame of creation walks toward us," Aetherion murmured. "He burns through fate like wildfire. He does not come quietly."
Tempestron's grin widened. "He doesn't need to."
He gestured at Mira.
"She is enough of a tether. Enough of a spark in his heart."
Mira spat, "I'm not bait, storm boy."
Tempestron leaned close, lightning flickering across his eyes.
"You are exactly bait. And a lure. And the key."
Then he lifted his ringed hand.
"Begin the ritual."
The chamber roared to life.
The first surge came from Pyronyx, who hammered her fist into the platform. Molten cracks spread outward like spiderwebs, glowing like veins of magma. The heat intensified. The air shimmered.
Next came Myrraline. Her waters spiraled into serpentine currents, forming a cage of swirling tides that could freeze creation flame itself. Mira's breath caught—she knew how deadly hydropower could be.
Terragorn raised both arms. Runes carved themselves into the stone floor in patterns that predated even the sigils—deep, ancient designs wielded only by the Elemental Kings of old.
Aetherion sang—a quiet, celestial note that warped the space inside the chamber, bending gravity until light began looping around corners.
Umbrakrell dissolved into shadows. The darkness reached out like living tendrils, weaving a cage thicker than night, a mental prison as much as physical, capable of restraining thought itself.
Finally, Solmara—reluctantly—lifted her hand.
Her light didn't burn. It clarified. It sharpened edges and straightened curves. Her radiance was not flame or storm or destruction. It was truth. Logic. Structure.
The trap's foundation solidified under her influence.
Solmara's brow furrowed.
"This design…" she realized aloud, "is meant to hold not only his body, but his essence."
Tempestron's grin widened. "Of course."
"This crosses into sacrilege," she snapped. "This isn't capturing him—this is cannibalizing the last remnant of creation itself."
"And you voted," Tempestron reminded sharply. "You stood with us."
Her jaw tightened. "I stood for protecting our people—not enslaving the universe."
"Same thing," Pyronyx muttered.
Solmara ignored her. She looked at Mira, saw the terror she hid behind her fury.
A flicker of doubt—small, quiet, but sharp—stabbed into Solmara's conscience.
Tempestron raised his hands.
"Lords. The trap is ready. Prepare your rings."
Each ring flared, beams of raw elemental might converging into the center of the chamber.
A black void spiraled open—a cosmic snare designed specifically for one being.
A Golden Dragon.
The force of it tore open small fissures in the air itself. Mira felt her heart lurch. The energy was suffocating, oppressive, wrong.
Tempestron turned back to her one last time.
"When he arrives," he whispered, "he will be bound. And once we drain him, the sigil stones will awaken again—under our rule."
Mira's voice broke into a snarl.
"He'll kill you."
Tempestron laughed softly.
"He will try."
The ritual intensified.
Lightning split the ceiling. Water froze into crystalline blades. Shadows curled inward like jaws. Runes burned white-hot.
Mira felt something then—
a pulse in her chest,
a tremor through her bones,
a breath not her own.
Danny.
She felt him.
Far away.
Raging.
Searching.
And getting closer.
Her breath shuddered.
"Danny… don't come alone."
The chains crackled, tightening.
The trap hummed like a living entity.
And the Elemental Lords stood in a circle, united in the single most dangerous plan assembled in the modern age.
A plan built on lies they did not yet see.
A plan built on the whisper of Bones.