The world was holding its breath.
At the heart of the continent, far from the cold stones of the Academy, rose the Red Mountains. Peaks of petrified lava, tall as cathedrals, pierced the sky darkened by clouds. The fissures still spewed torrents of fire, and in their shadows gathered hundreds of dragons. Titanic silhouettes crowded on the ledges, their folded wings covering entire valleys. Their breaths stirred burning winds that twisted the air like invisible flames.
At the very top, on the highest peak, a natural throne opened in the rock. That was where the Ancient Dragon awaited. His immense body, armored with red scales veined with gold, shimmered like a dormant volcano. His broken horns bore the mark of millennia, and each of his glances set the mountain ablaze.
Facing him stood Oratius.
He did not need to roar to impose silence: his aura, made of ash and concentrated mana, already smothered the surroundings.
