They woke before the sun.
The hill was still wrapped in bluish dawn mist, cold enough that Midarion's breath hung in the air. Reikika rubbed her eyes with slow, clumsy circles, her hair sticking up in all directions. Keel chirped quietly, demanding breakfast long before Midarion opened his mouth to ask for it.
Elhyra stood already dressed, brushing dew from her sleeves as if she'd been awake for hours.
"Come," she said softly. "The morning is calm. It's the perfect time."
Midarion stretched until his bones cracked. "Perfect time for what?"
"You'll see." Elhyra smiled.
She offered them warm bread from a small pouch, handed Keel a chunk no bigger than a nail, then guided them down the hill. The market in the distance was just beginning to stir—lanterns guttering out, merchants yawning awake, voices rising in a soft morning hum. The world felt peaceful.
For once, Midarion didn't run ahead. He stayed close.
There was something in Elhyra's voice—too serene for an ordinary visit—and his chest buzzed with anticipation.
— — —
They walked for nearly half an hour, leaving behind the town's noise and entering a vast valley carved naturally by time. The sky widened until it felt endless, a pale and flawless blue. Rocks glimmered faintly as if touched by old embers.
Elhyra slowed her steps as the valley opened fully.
"There," she whispered.
Midarion looked.
And his breath simply—stopped.
Reikika gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.
Even Keel froze.
At the center of the valley, towering above all life, was a statue so impossibly massive it swallowed the horizon itself. Dark, polished stone—smooth as glass, cold as meteors—shaped into the form of a dragon.
Not a dragon.
The dragon.
Thormael.
The Skyfather.
His wings spread outward in a colossal arc, each one long enough that they touched the cliffs on either side of the valley. One hundred and twenty meters tall, easily—but even so, Elhyra murmured, "This is only a fragment of his true size."
Midarion stepped forward, mouth parted. The closer he walked, the more the scale of it crushed him. The claws alone were bigger than houses. The tail curled behind the statue like a petrified storm. The head—majestic, angled, fierce—was carved with a precision no human hands should have been capable of.
His eyes were gemstones—two colossal spheres of starfire crystal, burning silently even in daylight. They didn't glow. They shimmered, like deep cosmic embers waiting for breath.
The ground beneath the statue was scorched black, lines etched into stone in patterns Midarion didn't understand. Even centuries later, the earth held heat, faint but undeniable.
Reikika whispered, "It feels alive."
Elhyra nodded. "It remembers."
People were already scattered around—pilgrims, historians, travelers, wanderers. Some prayed, some touched the stone, some simply stared in silence. Children ran between the statue's shadow, laughing, too young to grasp that they stood beneath a god.
Midarion swallowed, unable to move his gaze.
"That's the biggest thing I've ever seen."
"That," Elhyra agreed, "is the closest the world has ever come to touching the sky."
— — —
They walked to the base.
A breeze swept through the valley, carrying heat and dust.
Reikika stayed closer than usual. "Do you think," she whispered, "anything like him still exists?"
Elhyra did not answer immediately.
She placed a hand against the monumental foreleg of the statue.
"When this was built," she said quietly, "the civilization that lived in these lands ruled the entire planet. They worshipped dragons—not as guardians, but as gods. The last great dragon-rider was that civilization leader. When he died… Skyfather vanished."
Midarion blinked. "Where did he go?"
"No one knows." Elhyra looked up at the towering form above them. "Some say he ascended. Others say he sleeps beneath the earth. Some believe he waits for a rider worthy of the sky again."
Midarion felt something warm in his chest. A pull.
"What do you believe?" he asked.
Her eyes softened. "I believe dragons do not die the way we think. They return to the stars that birthed them."
Reikika touched the base of the statue. "He's beautiful."
Elhyra smiled. "He was more than that. He was the wind made flesh. When he flew, entire cities fell into shadow."
Midarion stepped back to take in the wings. "They tried to make him as big as he was… but they failed."
"No material on earth was enough," Elhyra said. "And the stone they used—the meteorite—it has never aged. Nor cracked. Nor lost its shine. It is as if the universe protects his memory."
Midarion felt a shiver that had nothing to do with cold.
Keel chirped, tiny wings fluttering against the bars of his cage, staring up too—as if recognizing something.
Reikika blinked. "Keel…?"
"Easy, little guy," Midarion whispered. "It's just a statue."
But Keelzarion wasn't listening. The baby dragon's eyes locked onto the glowing gemstone eyes of the Skyfather. And something—something instinctive—snapped taut inside him. His tiny body stiffened.
Then—he slammed his small head into the bars.
Nearby visitors turned. "What's in that cage?" "That wasn't a bird."
Midarion panicked. "Stop, stop—Keel, what's wrong?!" Keel's claws clung to the bars, pulling with a desperation Midarion had never seen.
Elhyra knelt instantly, voice low and steady but tense. "Midarion. Close the fabric. Now." He fumbled, hands shaking, dragging the cloth over the cage. Keel screeched, muffled now but still pushing.
Elhyra pressed both hands against the cover, whispering something—old words, gentle, soothing. Slowly, Keel's struggling softened. He trembled, whining, until finally he lay curled inside, exhausted.
Midarion's heart pounded. "What… what was that?" Reikika was pale. "He looked like—like he knew it."
Elhyra's expression tightened, unreadable. For a moment she stared at the statue with a look of deep concern. "Some bonds do not begin in this lifetime," she murmured.
"Stay close. And don't let anyone near the cage." Midarion nodded quickly.
The onlookers eventually lost interest, returning to their prayers and conversations.
— — —
They then moved and reached a viewpoint built by the ancient civilization, a platform extending toward the statue's face. The valley wind shifted, warm and strange, carrying a faint hum that bordered on song—like vibrations from the stone itself.
Reikika sat on the edge, legs dangling. Midarion joined her.
Elhyra stood behind them, watching the horizon.
"Tell us about him," Reikika said quietly.
Elhyra exhaled. "Thormael was the last of the Great Ones—the dragons born from the purest stars. His flame was pure celestial essence. They say that he could reshape mountains, heal dying lands, ignite spirit evolution. And when the world faced annihilation… he chose to stand with humanity."
Midarion frowned. "Against what?"
"No one truly knows," she answered. "Old texts speak of an enemy without form."
Reikika shivered. "He fought that alone?"
Elhyra hesitated. "He was not alone. Humans once rode dragons. Bonded with them. Their souls intertwined."
"They were called Dragon-riders."
Elhyra nodded. "To tame a dragon meant surviving its fire. Matching its will. Proving your spirit would not shatter in their presence. Those who succeeded were not revered as heroes."
Midarion leaned forward. "What were they?"
"Absolute," she said softly. "Civilizations bowed to them."
Reikika stared at the massive stone wings. "Then… what happened?"
Elhyra's voice dimmed.
"Humanity betrayed them."
Midarion's stomach tightened. "Why?"
"The same reason men always fall." She touched the scorched earth with her foot. "Greed. They wanted the dragons' divine flame without earning it. They experimented on eggs, tried to bind dragons with corrupted spirits… they even attempted to make artificial cores."
Reikika whispered, horrified, "Did it work?"
"No." Elhyra's tone hardened. "And the balance broke. Dragons fought back. And for their anger—however justified—they lost their blessings. Their celestial fire faded. Their size diminished. They became… lesser. Not extinct. But punished."
Midarion glanced at Keel.
Reikika did too.
Elhyra noticed their silence.
"There are rumors," she added softly. "Of medium-size dragons wandering remote lands. Weaker. Harmless. But still dragons."
Midarion swallowed, heart drumming.
— — —
The sun was dipping toward the horizon.
The Skyfather felt too vast for words.
After a long while, Elhyra placed a hand on both their shoulders.
"Come. It's time."
Midarion stood reluctantly. "Do we have to leave already?"
"Yes," Elhyra said. "the black post awaits your return"
They turned back toward the path.
The wind shifted once more—warm, heavy, almost like breath.
Midarion paused.
For one impossible moment, he thought he saw the gem-eyes flicker.
Just once.
Barely.
As if the sky itself had blinked.
He blinked back, stunned.
Reikika tugged his sleeve. "Midarion?"
He looked at her, then back at the statue.
The eyes were still.
Lifeless.
Silent.
He shook it off and followed.
But deep inside, something whispered:
You were seen.
And he couldn't tell if that idea terrified him—
—or thrilled him.