At the heart of Ignara rose a massive stone platform, carved from black rock marked with traces of frozen fire.

  It was not a throne for display, nor an empty symbol.

  It was a place of judgment.

  A place where the fate of dragons was decided.

  Upon it sat a colossal dragon.

  His body was covered in ancient scales—some cracked, others scarred by wounds that time itself had failed to erase.

  Every mark on his body was proof of battle… and survival.

  His name was Arkail.

  Leader of the dragons.

  He did not move his wings.

  He did not raise his voice.

  His presence alone was enough to weigh heavily upon the space around him.

  Around the stone platform stood several guardian dragons, silent and alert, watching both sky and ground.

  Suddenly—

  The silence was broken by the sound of wings descending rapidly.

  A smaller dragon entered, his movements tense, his scales still dusted with the marks of long flight.

  He landed heavily, then bowed immediately before the platform.

  It was Fyrn.

  Messenger of the borders.

  He took a deep breath before speaking.

  “My lord… the reports are confirmed.”

  Arkail did not move his head.

  His expression did not change.

  “Speak.”

  Fyrn lifted his head slightly.

  “We have detected unusual activity along the southern perimeter.

  New facilities… massive metal structures.”

  He paused, then added,

  “The mechanical dragons are no longer limiting themselves to observation.”

  The frozen fire beneath the platform gave a faint cracking sound.

  “They are building a weapon, my lord,” Fyrn continued.

  “We have not yet identified its nature, but the amount of energy they are gathering is unnatural.”

  Arkail slowly raised his eyes.

  They burned with a deep, steady flame—no fear within them, only calculation.

  “Have you detected flame?” he asked.

  Fyrn shook his head.

  “No. Not any known flame.

  It is manufactured energy… cold and unstable.”

  Arkail pressed his claws into the stone beneath him.

  The rock cracked slightly.

  “If they are creating a weapon without flame,” he said calmly,

  “then they are not preparing for a conventional battle.”

  The guards exchanged glances.

  Tension spread through the platform.

  “We believe they are planning a single strike,” Fyrn said.

  “One attack that leaves no room for retaliation.”

  He hesitated, then added,

  “My lord… if this weapon is completed, Ignara itself may not be safe.”

  Arkail lifted his head fully.

  His wings shifted slowly, casting a wide shadow over the platform.

  “Summon the clan leaders,” he said.

  “And the warriors.”

  He looked directly at Fyrn.

  “Time is no longer on our side.”

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  Then, in a heavier tone, he added,

  “If necessary… we will move toward the planet’s core.”

  Fyrn’s eyes widened.

  “My lord… that is dangerous—”

  “I know,” Arkail interrupted.

  A charged silence followed.

  Such a decision

  had not been made for ages.

  And Ignara itself

  might not accept it peacefully.

  Arkail raised his voice for the first time since the messenger’s arrival.

  “Summon the commanders.”

  It was not a routine order.

  It was an emergency call.

  Moments later, dragons began arriving one by one onto the stone platform—

  veteran fighters and renowned leaders of Ignara.

  Each bore the marks of old battles, and a different fire in their eyes.

  At the front stood two prominent figures.

  Serath, bearer of violent red flame, known for his strength in direct combat.

  And Liora, who carried a rare blue fire—calm in appearance, decisive in judgment.

  They formed a semicircle before Arkail.

  A heavy silence fell, as if they all sensed that what would be said was no ordinary matter.

  Arkail spoke without introduction.

  “The mechanical dragons are building a weapon.”

  Several leaders shifted.

  Whispers spread.

  “We do not know its form,” he continued.

  “We do not know how it functions.

  But we know its purpose.”

  Serath lifted his head and said harshly,

  “The extermination of the original dragons.”

  Another leader added,

  “If they are developing a weapon without flame, then they have crossed beyond traditional warfare.”

  A third asked,

  “How do we confront something we do not understand?”

  All eyes turned to Arkail.

  He was silent for a moment.

  Then he said clearly,

  “We move toward the planet’s core.”

  Voices rose immediately.

  “This is madness!”

  “The core is not a weapon!”

  “Ignara may not cooperate with us!”

  Liora stepped forward, her voice controlled but tense.

  “The core is the source of balance.

  Interfering with it could destroy the planet before it destroys the enemy.”

  Arkail met her gaze.

  “And I am aware of that.”

  Then he raised his voice slightly.

  “But if the machines complete their weapon, there will be no planet left to protect.”

  “We are not asking Ignara for control,” Arkail said.

  “We are asking for survival.”

  He looked at each leader in turn.

  “If we lose this battle, there will be no future for the original dragons.”

  No one answered immediately.

  But the tension in the air shifted.

  It was no longer debate—

  it was preparation.

  “The decision has been made,” Arkail said.

  It was not a threat.

  It was a fact.

  “We prepare.

  And we move.”

  Silence returned.

  But this time—

  it was the calm before the storm.

  And the risk…

  had already begun.