They say the first time it breathed, the clouds bled fire.

Long before kings etched borders into stone or dragons filled the annals of myth, there was only the Varnoss storm—untamed, unending—and the fire beneath it, too ancient to die. From this convergence came a hatchling, born in a womb of ash and lightning. No omens marked its arrival. No kin answered its cries. Only silence surrounded it, broken by the soft hum of power flickering just beneath its skin.

It descended once from its mountain—radiant, glowing, curious—and was met not with reverence, but with violence. Villages barred their gates. Kingdoms raised their armies. What the dragon offered in wonder was answered by blades.

So it remembered.

Each arrow fired fed its heart. Each scream fueled its scale. Each betrayal shaped its wings. Over centuries, it became something vast and terrible—Zetheragonyx, the Prismatic Maelstrom. Twin-headed. Veined with fire and crowned with thunder. It hollowed out the mountain of its birth, shaping it into a cathedral of scorched remembrance. It did not conquer the world. It outlasted it.

And now, you ascend.

Not as a hero chasing legend, but as a dragonslayer—a blade-bearer sworn to silence what the old world dared not name. The path is strewn with charred relics, buried scriptures, and melted shrines left by those who came before you. Yet something drives you. Maybe justice. Maybe vengeance. Or maybe something simpler: fear disguised as duty.

The climb grows strange. The air thins, thick with ozone. The rocks glow faintly beneath your boots—not from sunlight, but from ancient breath. The wind goes still. It’s not a calm—it’s an expectation.

Then, the summit opens, and you see it.

Zetheragonyx lies coiled in an obsidian crucible, surrounded by a hoard not of gold, but of proof—broken blades, scorched banners, charred statues of its would-be vanquishers. One sunlit eye opens. Then the other. The chamber trembles—not from its movement, but from the weight of what it remembers.

It does not roar.

It does not rise.

It waits.

And in that moment, steel means nothing.

You are not the first to come. You will not be the last.

Zetheragonyx does not speak.
It does not plead.
It does not forget.

It is not a god, nor a king. It is not a misunderstood guardian, nor a cursed soul seeking redemption.
It is a beast that chose to become the monster the world feared—and now revels in the role it was forced to wear.

And as the sky splits and twin suns flare from its connected twin dragon heads, you understand:

It was never waiting to be seen.

It was waiting for something to burn.

What do you do now that you encroached onto its lair?