In the shattered aftermath of Taurdain’s final battle, the people of the isles scrambled for shelter and sanity. Smoke still curled from the scorched bones of Ravensmoor, and the scent of death clung to every breath. It was on the second dawn, when hopes for peace had scarcely begun to flicker, that the sky was torn open by terror once more.
A gargantuan red dragon—easily two hundred feet from snout to tail, with wings that eclipsed the sun—soared overhead, a living tempest of fire and fury. Survivors scattered in fear, certain that another draconic tyrant had come to claim Lord Blue’s hoard, or to raze what little remained.
But the great beast did not attack. It circled the city in silence, a crimson omen against the clouds, and then descended with shuddering force into the ruin of Ravensmoor. For less than an hour it remained. And then, with a final keening roar, it rose and vanished westward beyond the charred horizon.
When brave souls at last dared to approach the impact site, they found no treasure disturbed, no stone overturned—only a singular, haunting monument.
Where Lord Blue’s massive body had fallen now stood a fused dome of granite, vast as a city block, shaped like a titanic cairn of old. The air shimmered with heat, for the stone had been molten, reforged by dragonfire and sealed by arcane might. And at its center, etched into the still-glowing rock, was the imprint of a colossal claw and a message wrought in burning script:
“Let none defile my brother in death, lest they also feel my wrath.”
Among those who stood before this brutal grave cap was Lars VanMorian, brother of the presumed new king. He dared to draw near, despite the blistering heat, and there he wept. The people understood then—this dragon had not come for conquest, but for mourning.
Later came word from across the sea: the volcano of Kangga, long dormant off the coast of Auris and Mithrin, had erupted violently on the very day Lord Blue died. The sky there rained ash and flame, and from the roaring caldera rose the same red beast—wreathed in smoke, ancient beyond reckoning. Its flight had been seen, a line of fire cutting west across the sky.
The name of this dragon, his age, and his intentions remain unknown. But all now whisper of a power awakened, a brother’s grief turned to wrath—and a vengeance that may yet come.
The dragon had come and gone like a storm made flesh, and in its wake, Taurdain remained—battered, leaderless, and afraid. Ravensmoor was little more than rubble and memory now, and the people who survived the final battle did so with hollow eyes and trembling hands. Their savior, Lord Blue, was dead. Their strength spent. And above them still loomed the shadow of something greater.
Lars VanMorian found his brother, Utgar, standing among the wreckage of what had once been the city’s grand temple square—now a scorched, broken plaza filled with refugees and ash. The sky above was stained with soot, and the winds from the coast carried the scent of smoke and the sea’s salt grief.
Lars approached quietly, his boots crunching over shattered marble. He spoke low, his voice tight with unease.
“I saw him, Utgar. Not just the fire or the wings. I saw him. With the old ones, you never know what to expect—Lord Blue was gentle, almost fatherly. The Dragon Queen of Innarlith is a cruel thing, greedy and cold. But this one…”
He faltered, searching the air for words that wouldn’t come.
“He was terrifying,” Lars said finally. “More than twice Lord Blue’s size. Older, angrier. Not a dragon that speaks to mortals, but one that remembers the world before we walked it. He didn’t destroy us—but not out of mercy. We were simply beneath his attention. I fear that if his gaze ever falls upon us in anger… we would not survive the day.”
Utgar listened in silence, his jaw tight. The new weight of command hung around him like chainmail, still settling into place. He gazed across the ruined square—at the lines of hungry children, the crumbling walls, the wounded lying on makeshift cots beneath torn banners of Ukko. His voice, when it came, was grim but steady.
“We couldn’t survive much of anything right now,” he admitted. “Not another dragon. Not another storm. Not even a hard winter. But we must survive. If that red titan chooses to fly west and never return, let it be so. But we will not spend our days looking to the sky, waiting to die.”
He turned to Lars, his eyes sharp with purpose. “Gather the people. The strong, the able, the willing. We’ll start with what we have—food, shelter, clean water. A wall if we can manage it. I will speak to them soon. They need to see their leader has not fallen into despair.”
Lars nodded, then hesitated. “And if he returns?”
Utgar’s reply was soft, almost a whisper. “Then we’ll meet death with dignity.”
He straightened, casting his gaze over the ruined city that had once been his home, his heart, his birthright. And then, as a soft breeze blew through the bones of Ravensmoor, Utgar VanMorian walked forward—not as a king, not as a paladin, but as the last hope of a broken land.
Shermans fantasy world 