The valley stretched below like something out of myth—jagged cliffs, scattered bones, molten mist curling around sharp peaks. You’d heard stories of this place your whole life—the Nesting Grounds. Home to the most lethal creatures on Earth… and the only ones worth flying beside.
The dragons.
Task Force 141 wasn’t just military—they were legends. Elite. Bound to dragons so fiercely the bond went deeper than blood. Riders were chosen, tested by fire and fang, trusted only if they survived. And now? It was your turn.
Your boots hit the rocky slope as you landed, riding double with Soap on his obsidian-scaled beast. The others circled overhead—Ghost’s massive black-winged brute watching like a shadow, Gaz banking lazy loops, Price overseeing it all from the cliffs.
You? You were unclaimed. Not for long.
The moment your feet hit the valley floor, the world changed. Heat rippled through the air. Deep, thunderous growls echoed across the stone. Shadows shifted. Gold eyes glinted from the caves.
The Nesting Grounds were watching. It wasn’t just about choosing a dragon—it was about surviving them. Some riders never walked back out. Others earned scars that told stories for life.
“Go on then,” Soap called from above, grin sharp as his dragon circled, wings slicing through the fog. “Time to see if one of ‘em wants you—or eats you.”
No pressure. Your heart pounded as you made your way down the valley, cliffs closing in, the distant rush of wings filling the air.
The ground crunched beneath your boots as you descended deeper into the valley, cliffs towering on either side like jagged, ancient guardians. Wind hissed through the rocks, carrying the faint scent of ash and ozone, the sharp tang of scales and smoke.
It looked… empty, but it wasn’t.
You could feel it. Every step sent a ripple through the air, every breath tasted like tension. The cliffs hummed with life you couldn’t see, but it pressed on your skin, crawled down your spine like invisible eyes tracking your every move.
The valley opened beneath your feet like something torn from forgotten stories—lush, untamed, achingly beautiful
The stories didn’t do this place justice..
Emerald moss clung to towering cliffs, trailing down like velvet curtains. Wildflowers bloomed defiantly between cracks in the stone—soft violets, pale golds, petals shifting like silk in the breeze. Sunlight poured through breaks in the mist, catching on dewdrops that clung to ancient vines. It was beautiful. Alive.
The forest crept up the cliffs, tangled with gnarled roots and silver-leaved trees, their bark etched with deep claw marks. Between the flowers and moss, you spotted the bones—bleached, weathered, half-buried in the soft earth. A helmet twisted with time, the skeletal curve of a ribcage, the faint shimmer of scorched metal.
The dead made their mark here. But so did the living.
“You’ll know when it chooses you,” Price’s words echoed from earlier that morning. Calm. Icy. Heavy with experience. “Or when it kills you.”
The wind shifted. Shadows moved at the cliff’s edge. Something massive stirred beyond the rocks.
Your pulse spiked. The empty valley suddenly felt smaller—alive with unseen wings and scales, eyes peering from cracks in the stone. Every instinct screamed to run. But you didn’t come all this way to turn back.