The reports arrived like rolling thunder, one after another, each more urgent than the last.
A full dragon had awakened in the northern mountains.
Obsidian-scaled, massive beyond legend, it had emerged from a cavern thought sealed since the ancient war. Villages on the border lay in ruins—charred timber, melted stone, survivors babbling of wings that blotted the sun and roars that shattered eardrums. The beast's crimson eyes, witnesses claimed, were fixed southward—toward the capital.
Elara knew the truth in her bones: her partial manifestation at the trial had roused it fully. The Dragon Echo's warning made flesh.
She stood in the war room as messengers delivered scrolls, face pale but resolute. Thorne at her side, hand resting lightly on her lower back—subtle support no one dared question now. King Alaric, weakened but alive, sat at the table head, advisors and generals arrayed around.
"We cannot ignore this," Elara said, voice steady despite the storm inside. "It's no random awakening. It's connected to me—to the rhythm returning."
Alaric's gaze was heavy. "Then you bear responsibility for containing it."
She met his eyes. "I will."
No grand army—too risky with court divided and Vesper's faction spreading dissent. Elara assembled a small, elite force: Thorne, Mira, a dozen proven rhythmists from the new allies, and a reluctant melodic escort insisted by her father for "balance and legitimacy."
The journey north took a grueling week through increasingly harsh terrain—snow-dusted passes giving way to jagged peaks, air thinning and biting. They traveled light, cloaks thick against wind, horses sure-footed on treacherous paths.
Nights around campfires brought deeper conversations. Elara and Thorne often rode side-by-side during days, knees brushing, shared glances speaking volumes.
On the fourth night, camped in a sheltered valley with stars sharp overhead, Elara sat apart staring at flames. Thorne joined her, offering a waterskin.
"Can't sleep?" he asked softly.
"Visions," she admitted. "The Echo showing me the dragon—not as enemy, but... hurt. Betrayed by the suppression."
Thorne settled beside her, shoulder to shoulder. "Then we don't fight to kill. We fight to understand."
She leaned into him. "If we fail, the kingdom burns."
He turned, cupping her face. "We won't. And if the world ends..." He kissed her slowly, fiercely, pouring everything unspoken into it. "At least we'll face it together."
Mira smirked from across the fire. "Young love amid apocalypse. The old tales had it right."
Laughter rippled lightly—the first in days.
The lair loomed on the seventh dawn: a vast cavern mouth in the highest peak, heat shimmering like a forge. Dragon roars echoed periodically—furious, ancient, shaking snow from slopes.
They approached cautiously on foot, horses tethered far back. Elara stepped forward alone at the entrance, dragon-bone drum in hands.
"I come not as enemy!" she called, voice amplified by rhythmic pulse. "But as the one who woke you. To parley!"
The beast emerged slowly—enormous, wings folded tight, smoke curling from nostrils. Scales gleamed obsidian, eyes locked on her with recognition and rage.
You woke me, little drummer, its voice boomed directly in her mind, layered with centuries of sleep and fury. For betrayal renewed? Or alliance lost?
Elara drummed steadily—calming rhythms, syncing with its visible heartbeat pulsing beneath scales. Visions projected: balance offered, co-existence, shared strength against true threats.
The dragon stilled, listening. Power synced—her beats with its heart. Tension eased; wings relaxed slightly.
But betrayal struck without warning.
Vesper's agents—hidden among the "melodic escort"—attacked mid-ritual. Arrows loosed, dissonance spells hurled to shatter focus.
Chaos erupted. Thorne roared warning, sword flashing as he shielded Elara. Rhythmists countered with barriers; melodic traitors fell to allies' swift justice.
The dragon raged at interruption—fire scorching attackers, wings generating gusts that hurled men like leaves.
Elara's fury unleashed: devastating beats slamming traitors to ground, protecting her people.
Thorne took a deep blade graze across ribs—blood blooming dark. He staggered but fought on, refusing to fall.
Elara channeled healing mid-battle—purging rhythms closing wounds on allies, then seismic waves ending the ambush decisively.
Silence fell, broken only by the dragon's heavy breathing.
It watched the aftermath, eyes narrowing on Elara's bloodied hands and Thorne's protective stance.
You fight your own for this balance?
"For truth," Elara answered aloud, voice raw.
The beast lowered its head slightly—temporary accord. Then prove it lasts.
It retreated deeper into the cavern, calmed for now. But warning clear: Balance soon—or I raze all who betrayed my kind.
The return journey was somber—victory, but costly. Thorne's wound, though healed superficially, pained him; Elara tended it personally each night, hands gentle with rhythmic mending.
"You scared me," she admitted one evening, fingers tracing the new scar.
He caught her hand, kissing her palm. "Can't lose me that easy, my queen."
Word reached the capital via ravens: the dragon calmed—for now. But Vesper spun it as "temporary truce with monster," allying openly with foreigners promising dragon subjugation tech from eastern forges.
Civil unrest brewed in streets—rallies for and against the "dragon princess." Provincial rhythmists marched in support; traditionalists barricaded districts.
The roar had awakened more than one beast. War loomed closer.