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In the farthest reaches of the broken skies, a cataclysm beyond mortal reckoning unfolded.
Lightning, wild and ungoverned, lashed across the heavens, tearing the atmosphere into gaping rifts of gold and black. Fragments of marble and consecrated stone, torn free by the storm's fury, cascaded downward like relics of a crumbling age.
Thus ended the reign of Vaelrix, Lord of Storms, last of the Thunderborn.
Beneath him, the airborne city of Seresthos—a marvel of marble, crystal, and ancient sorcery—shuddered upon its failing currents. Tens of thousands stood frozen in terror on crumbling streets and shattered balconies, their prayers lost amid the roar of the tempest. Towers splintered, hurling sacred debris onto the helpless masses.
In the halls of the High Spire, the priests of the Saints, gripped by desperation, hurled sanctified weapons skyward, desperate to destroy the divine force they had once worshiped.
Vaelrix roared, and the very heavens buckled. His voice crushed mortal lungs and split ancient foundations.
The storm he summoned—a vortex of wrath and despair—boiled unchecked across the firmament. Yet it could not alter the destiny bearing down upon him.
From the depths of Seresthos, the Spear of Celestial Judgment rose—forged from the bones of a fallen god and anointed in the blood of countless sacrifices. It seared through the sky like a vengeful comet and struck Vaelrix squarely, piercing his heart with a sound like the sundering of worlds.
The mighty wyrm faltered; his vast wings crumpled inward. Flickering streams of lightning spilled from his jaws, and golden ichor fell like dying stars upon the trembling city below.
With a final, defiant cry that tore through existence, Vaelrix plummeted from the heavens.
Through broken clouds and howling winds he fell, crashing into the sacred grounds of the Shadowed Chapel. The impact shattered temples, obliterated relics, and tore great wounds into the land itself.
Seresthos, its arcane supports ruined and its spirit broken, could no longer cling to the skies. With a mournful groan—the death-knell of a world—the entire city collapsed, raining marble, steel, and fire upon the earth.
Buildings were vaporized. Cathedrals melted into rivers of molten glass. Towers ignited as pyres, reaching futilely for a sky choked with ash. The last screams of the dying were consumed by the greater roar of a world undone.
Those few who endured spoke in broken, haunted whispers of the dragon's final roar—a cry not of death, but of a vow that would endure beyond annihilation.
Amidst the scattered bones of gods and mortals, the last of the Skywyrms lay broken.
Yet Vaelrix's spirit did not surrender to oblivion.
In his final breath, as blood slicked the ruins and smoldering fragments of his body lay strewn about, Vaelrix gathered the remnants of his soul. He sealed it into a single, jagged fang, torn loose in his fall and half-buried in the broken earth.
There, hidden among the ruins, his essence remained—silent, watchful, undying.
Fueled by rage, sorrow, and an oath that no death could silence, Vaelrix left no song behind—only the slow, endless murmur of storm and sorrow woven into the bones of the earth.
He would endure.
Entombed within the drowned wreckage of a forgotten sanctuary, lost beneath marble, wyrmbone, and ash,
he would endure.
Waiting for blood, for breath. Waiting for the desperate soul who could awaken the storm.
For the one who would bleed upon the ruins of saints.
For the one who would fight as he had fought—wounded, furious, unbroken.
For the hour when the storm would rise anew.
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