Beyond the jagged slopes of the Grey Mountains, where the stone bled into endless dunes, lay Ragash-Kor, the last bastion of civilization before the barren desert swallowed the land.
It was a city of sandstone and brass, where domed towers gleamed under the sun, its streets bustling with traders, blacksmiths, and desert wanderers. Canals of oasis water snaked between the copper-colored buildings, cooling the air, while hanging gardens overflowed with lush greenery, defying the arid wastes.
Ragash-Kor was ancient, powerful, its walls thick as fortresses, manned by elite Ashen Guards clad in golden lamellar. The city had withstood wars, sandstorms, and raiders—but it had never faced a god of fire.
Midday. The desert was always hot—but today, it burned. Atop the watchtower of the Sun Gate, a guardsman wiped his brow, gazing at the dunes. The horizon shimmered with heat, waves of mirage twisting the air. He squinted, seeing nothing but sand and sky. Then—the sun itself blinked.
A shadow streaked across the sky, so fast the guardsman had no time to react. One moment, the desert was empty. The next—a force unlike anything Ragash-Kor had ever seen tore through the heavens. A roar split the sky, louder than a thousand war drums. The ground trembled.
From above, Varkhaz'gor plummeted like a comet, wings ablaze, his descent setting the very air aflame. The city's brass domes reflected his fire, making it seem as though Ragash-Kor itself had ignited before he even landed. Then, he struck.
The impact was a cataclysm. The central bazaar exploded into fire, the very stones melting beneath his claws. Stall vendors, merchants, and beggars alike were instantly incinerated, their shadows burned into the walls.
The mighty Sun Gate, carved with warding glyphs from the old empire, cracked and fell, its defenses useless against true ruin. Soldiers screamed, scrambling to man the ballistae, but it was already too late.
Varkhaz'gor unfurled his wings, sending a shockwave of searing wind that toppled guard towers and turned banners to ash. He breathed in deep, then unleashed hell—a torrent of fire so bright it rivaled the sun, so hot it turned sand to glass. Ragash-Kor, the Jewel of the Sands, was no more.
And above the roaring inferno, his voice thundered once more:
"YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO RULE THIS LAND.
YOU ARE AS DUST BEFORE ME.
I AM FIRE INCARNATE!"
Beyond Ragash-Kor, past the endless golden dunes and shifting mirages, lay Azrakar, the fabled Kingdom of the Lost Sands—a land hidden from the world by eternal sandstorms.
Azrakar was ancient beyond reckoning, its palaces carved into the black cliffs of the Sunscar Canyon, its streets lined with obsidian statues of warrior-kings. The kingdom had never fallen—not to invaders, not to famine, nor to time itself.
Its armies were legend—the Titan Guard, elite warriors clad in black steel, their swords forged in volcanic flames, said to cut through anything. They stood unshaken for centuries, defying both man and beast. But this was no mere beast.
The sandstorm howled, swallowing the sky, reducing the world to whirling darkness. Within the fortress-palace of Zarakhal, the capital of Azrakar, King Alzared stood atop the obsidian walls, gripping his war-spear, his cloak whipping in the storm. He saw nothing beyond the swirling sands. Yet he felt it.
A pressure in the air, like the world itself was holding its breath. Then—a streak of flame split the storm. And the sky turned red. Varkhaz'gor tore through the storm as if it were mist. A towering inferno with wings, he descended upon Azrakar like divine punishment.
The great walls of obsidian, unbroken for a thousand years, shattered in an instant beneath his weight. Gates of blackened gold buckled like wet parchment, the massive spires that had pierced the sky for generations crumbled into the streets. Then—he spoke. "YOU DARE CALL YOURSELVES TITANS? SHOW ME YOUR MIGHT!"
The Titan Guard charged—a thousand warriors in enchanted armor, their obsidian halberds glinting under the flames. They struck.
Their weapons snapped like twigs against his adamantine scales. Their shields melted before his breath of ruin. Varkhaz'gor laughed—a deep, guttural sound, like the earth splitting open. Then, he unleashed annihilation.
A torrent of fire erupted from his maw, so intense it vaporized flesh in seconds. The first wave of warriors didn't even scream—their bodies were reduced to blackened skeletons before they hit the ground.
Varkhaz'gor snatched men in his talons, crushing them slowly, letting their dying wails echo through the canyon. He flung burning corpses against the walls, turning the capital into a graveyard of fire. He did not simply kill—he punished. In the royal palace, King Alzared stood his ground.
He faced the god of fire atop the shattered throne of Azrakar, his war-spear gleaming with magic. With a final war cry, he hurled it with all his might, the weapon glowing white-hot, piercing through smoke and flame—And it shattered against Varkhaz'gor's forehead. The dragon's eyes narrowed. "PATHETIC."
His tail lashed out, breaking the king's body like a brittle twig, sending him crashing through the palace walls.
As the royal blood pooled across the marble floor, Varkhaz'gor turned his gaze upon the survivors—the women, the children, the elders cowering behind burning ruins. He sighed. "NO KINGS LEFT TO PROTECT YOU. PITY."
Then, he bathed the city in his fire. Every home, every street, every temple was engulfed. The grand library of Azrakar, containing centuries of lost knowledge, turned to ash in seconds.
The palace, once a beacon of power, melted into molten slag. When it was over, nothing remained but embers and ruin. Azrakar, the Kingdom of the Lost Sands, was lost forever.
As the last flames flickered over the charred remains of the once-mighty city, Varkhaz'gor took to the skies, his wings darkening the stars themselves.
His voice boomed across the smoldering desert, echoing through the bones of the fallen.
"ALL WHO DEFY ME SHALL BURN.
I AM VARKHAZ'GOR.
I AM FIRE INCARNATE!"
Then, he vanished into the night, leaving nothing but ash and the memory of terror. Even high above the clouds, beyond the reach of mortal hands, Varkhaz'gor's fury remained unquenched.
His massive wings carved through the night sky, scattering storm clouds in his wake. But even the endless heavens were not vast enough to contain his rage.
Beneath the glow of the moon, he spotted them—A flock of lesser wyverns, their serpentine bodies gliding through the stratosphere, moving in packs toward warmer hunting grounds. They felt his presence too late.
A dominant screech rippled through the sky as the wyverns turned—their reptilian instincts screaming danger, their wingbeats growing erratic. But there was nowhere to flee.
Varkhaz'gor descended upon them like a comet, his massive form a silhouette against the stars, talons outstretched, hunger for violence in his molten eyes.
The first wyvern, a mighty black-scaled beast, barely had time to react before Varkhaz'gor's claws pierced through its spine, snapping it in half with a sickening crunch. Its body spiraled downward, blood trailing through the sky like a falling comet.
The rest of the flock scattered, screeching in panic. But he was too fast. He caught another by the throat, its wings flailing helplessly, its eyes wide with animal terror. With a lazy flex of his claws, he ripped its head clean off, letting the body plummet into the abyss.
A third lunged at him, trying to bite at his throat in desperation. Varkhaz'gor laughed. With a snap of his wings, he twisted in the air, grabbed the attacking wyvern by the tail, and swung it like a flail—smashing it against another mid-flight. Their broken bodies tumbled down together, lost to the winds.
The few that remained tried to flee. Varkhaz'gor's chest swelled, his throat glowed with the heat of a thousand suns, and he unleashed his wrath.
A column of fire, hotter than the heart of a volcano, erupted from his maw—consuming the remaining wyverns in an instant. Their screams were lost to the roar of the inferno.
Their wings turned to ash before their bodies even hit the ground. When it was over, nothing remained—only scattered embers drifting like dying stars in the cold night.
Varkhaz'gor hovered in the silent void, his chest rising and falling, his rage still boiling beneath his scales. But for now, his message was clear. There is no creature, no kingdom, no being in this world greater than him.
He turned his eyes to the horizon, where the distant lands of men still stood, unaware of what was coming for them. Then, with one final beat of his wings, he vanished into the storm.
As the midnight winds howled over the scorched desert, even an Elder Dragon needed rest.
Varkhaz'gor's massive wings folded, their immense span casting shadows over the barren hilltop where he had perched. His serpentine neck curled, his molten eyes narrowing as he gazed into the distance—toward a place etched deep in his memory.
Marsh Town. It stood far beyond the dunes, nestled between the poisoned swamps and blackened trees. A place he had destroyed once before, three decades past. Yet, there it was. Rebuilt.
Standing defiant under the cold moonlight. A low growl rumbled from his throat. Did they truly believe time could erase his wrath? That their pitiful hands could undo his judgment?
Varkhaz'gor's tail swayed, a slow and dangerous motion, his mind clawing at the past. Thirty years ago, he had reduced Marsh Town to ruin. The fires had raged for days. Men screamed. Women ran. Children sobbed.
And when the last embers cooled, when the smoke had lifted, nothing remained but bones and dust. Yet, there it stood again. A reminder. A defiance.
Varkhaz'gor's jaws parted, releasing a deep, guttural breath, the heat from within his lungs seeping into the night air. His hunger for vengeance stirred once more. Marsh Town thought itself safe.
It was wrong. With slow, deliberate movements, the Elder Dragon stretched his wings, his muscles aching from the day's fury and slaughter. But dawn would come. And when it did, so too would his flames.