Azurax coiled his massive sapphire body atop mountains of gold, gems cascading between his scales as he shifted. From his lair at the peak of Mount Vantian—the tallest in the world—he gazed down upon the seven human empires sprawled across the continent below. The setting sun caught his scales, casting blue-gold reflections across his treasure hoard, a collection amassed over four millennia of careful cultivation.

  Near his talons lay the crown of Emperor Jaden IV, whose great-grandchildren had offered as tribute. Beside it rested the Orb of Kalindor, gifted by the Rendalf the Archmage after Azurax had diverted the Great Flood with a sweep of his tail. Further still, the Starmetal Blade that had once been meant to slay him—now just another trinket among thousands.

  "Beautiful, are they not?" he rumbled to himself, voice like distant thunder. Gently—far more gently than creatures of lesser intelligence would believe possible from a being of his size—he lifted a delicate crystalline harp from the pile. A gift from the Elven kingdoms before they had faded into myth. Its strings, woven from material even he could not identify, had somehow survived the centuries without decay.

  Azurax inhaled slowly, savoring the metallic scent of his hoard. Dragons of lesser standing often accumulated wealth indiscriminately—common gold coins, uncut gems, whatever humans deemed valuable. But Azurax was no common dragon. Each piece in his collection had significance. History. A story that connected to his own legend.

  The Dragon King stretched his wings, spanning half the mountaintop. In his youth—a mere three thousand years ago—he had been one of many. Dragons had ruled the skies of the world, claiming territories and warring among themselves. The strongest had established themselves as regional powers, demanding tribute from the smaller, scurrying creatures below.

  But Azurax had been different. When rival dragons challenged him, he did not merely defeat them—he offered them subordinate positions in what became known as the Sapphire Flight. Those who refused met their end; those who accepted learned that service to Azurax brought greater rewards than petty independence.

  Where other dragon lords destroyed human kingdoms that defied them, Azurax had shown restraint. Not from mercy—dragons had no use for such weakness—but from pragmatism. Dead humans offered no tribute. Destroyed kingdoms built no treasures. Instead, he had cultivated relationships with human rulers, offering protection from other dragons or natural disasters in exchange for crafted treasures and recognition of his supremacy.

  After five centuries, there were no more challenger dragons. After ten, the lesser drakes had either joined his Flight or retreated to distant lands. Now, almost three thousand years into his reign, his power had grown beyond what any dragon had achieved before. Where other dragons weakened with age, Azurax had only grown stronger, his scales harder, his flame hotter, his magic deeper. He was an anomaly even among his own kind—evolving rather than declining.

  The dragon king exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils as he reminisced. Two thousand years ago, humans had still tried to slay him. A millennium ago, they had still tried to trick him. Now, they built temples in his honor, sent regular tributes, and occasionally, when he grew bored of the silence in his mountain, he would select a princess to bring to his lair.

  Not to eat—Azurax found the notion barbaric. Princesses were educated, cultured creatures who could read him the histories of their kingdoms and sing songs that even a dragon's ears found pleasing. His most recent guest, Princess Elara of the Southern Isles, had spent three months teaching him the intricate vocal traditions of her people before he had returned her with a necklace of starlight gems.

  Her father had promptly built a new temple in his honor.

  That's how it should be, Azurax thought with satisfaction. The arrangement worked perfectly: the humans stayed respectful, their fear and admiration evident, and he maintained his position as the undisputed Dragon King.

  As twilight deepened over his domain, Azurax's keen eyes spotted a distant glint—another caravan of tribute winding up the ancient dragon road toward his mountain. He recognized the banners of the Northern Kingdom, whose craftsmen specialized in platinum work of exceptional quality.

  The Dragon King's massive jaws curved into what might be called a smile.

  Life was good at the pinnacle of creation.

  One hundred years later.

  Azurax basked on an outcropping of sun-warmed stone, his scales absorbing the day's last heat. Unlike lesser dragons who grew frail with age, his power continued to increase with each passing decade. The magic that flowed through his veins had deepened, crystalized, becoming something beyond what dragonkind was meant to possess.

  Other dragons might eventually diminish and fade, but Azurax knew instinctively that this fate would not be his. His inner flame burned not just with heat but with a peculiar immortality that even he did not fully understand. The oldest scrolls in his collection—those written by the first dragonspeakers—hinted at such potential, but none had ever achieved it before him.

  The air around him suddenly charged with energy. His dorsal spines stiffened, sensing the disruption before his eyes confirmed it—five tears in reality opening above his mountain peak. The distortions shimmered like heat waves, reality folding back upon itself as the barriers between mortal and divine realms thinned.

  The dragon had been expecting this visit, though perhaps not so soon. The gods rarely intervened directly in worldly affairs, preferring to work through chosen champions or natural events. For five of them to manifest simultaneously suggested matters of unprecedented importance.

  From the rifts emerged the gods themselves, each taking form appropriate to their domain. Myrantha of the Harvest descended first, her body composed of golden wheat and summer light, eyes like twin suns, a crown of intertwined fruits and grains adorning her head. The very air around her ripened, plants on the mountainside straining toward her presence.

  Next came Drakomir the Forge, his form that of a giant with skin of molten metal, veins pulsing with liquid fire, hammer in hand that had supposedly struck the first spark of creation. Heat radiated from him in waves that would have melted ordinary stone. The mountain beneath them, however, had been Azurax's home for millennia and had adapted to dragonfire far hotter.

  Noctis of the Void emerged third, less a being than an absence—a shadow with stars for eyes, the space between worlds given sentient form. Where he drifted, reality seemed to darken and thin, as though the very substance of creation respected his authority over emptiness.

  Sylvari the Verdant followed, formed of ancient wood and living vines, leaves rustling with each movement, roots temporarily anchoring into the mountain when she touched down. Birds that had fled at Azurax's arrival centuries ago briefly returned to circle her before remembering the greater predator present.

  And in the center, stepping through the largest rift, came Chromys, God of Time, whose appearance shifted between youth and age with every heartbeat—now an ancient with flowing white beard, now a child with innocent eyes, now a warrior in their prime, each aspect blending into the next without clear boundaries.

  Only Thalassa of the Depths and Solaris the Radiant were absent from this divine congregation.

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  Azurax rose to his full height, wings extending in a display that cast a shadow over the assembled gods. He was not afraid—he had lived too long for fear—but neither was he foolish. Gods rarely brought good news, especially when they traveled in groups.

  "Dragon King," Chromys spoke, his voice neither young nor old, but somehow both simultaneously. "The balance is broken."

  Azurax stretched to his full height, wings extending to block out the sun. Even gods looked small before him now—a fact he knew discomforted them. In the ancient days, when he had been merely a powerful dragon rather than the Dragon King, the gods had seemed so much larger. Now he could look Drakomir directly in his molten eyes without tilting his head.

  "I've broken nothing," he rumbled, voice reverberating across the mountain range. "I've taken only what was freely given." He gestured with one massive talon toward his lair, where his hoard gleamed in the fading light. "Every piece offered in tribute or fair exchange."

  Sylvari stepped forward, leaves rustling with disapproval. Flowers bloomed and withered in her footprints, the accelerated cycle of life playing out with each step. "It is not what you have taken, but what you have become. Humans no longer war among themselves. They no longer strive. They no longer evolve."

  "They worship you," Myrantha added, her voice like the whisper of wind through wheat fields. "A dozen of generations have passed without significant human advancement. No new art forms. No new schools of magic. No new weapons of destruction."

  "They cower beneath your shadow," Noctis added, voice like the space between stars. "Their fear of you has united them in stagnation. In peace. Their potential fades."

  Azurax snorted, a burst of blue flame scorching the mountainside. Beneath his scales, irritation kindled. What concern was human advancement to him? What matter their artistic stagnation? So long as the tributes continued, their internal affairs were their own business. As for the peace—didn't it make those tiny creatures happier? Did they really need to repeat the endless cycle of violence when they were so weak and short-lived? He couldn't imagine how it would feel to only live for a pathetic century, let alone a few decades—he had naps longer than that.

  "And this concerns gods? Since when do you care for human progress?" he asked, smoke curling from his nostrils. "You, who abandoned them to dragonkind's mercy millennia ago? You, who watched as my less civilized brethren burned their cities and devoured their children?"

  "Since the tapestry of fate showed us what comes next," Myrantha replied, raising her hands to conjure an image in the air between them—a vision of human cities empty, overgrown, populations dwindled to nothing. "This world needs conflict to grow. It needs striving. It needs change. You have become too powerful, Dragon King. You and your kind."

  "The only one of my kind who continues to evolve," Azurax corrected. "The others grow weaker with each passing century."

  "But they still exist," said Drakomir, his voice like metal on stone. "And they watch you with envy and ambition. Already, some seek to discover your secrets, to emulate your path to ever-increasing power. Should they succeed, this world will bear the weight of multiple immortal dragon lords. Even you must see the imbalance in this."

  The forge god raised a molten hand. Where he pointed, reality shimmered, revealing glimpses of another realm—mountains higher than any on this world, vast caverns glittering with crystals, skies untainted by human settlements.

  "We have created a new realm. A dragon realm. You will lead your kind there, where you may rule as you wish without disrupting the natural order of this world."

  Azurax felt rage build within him, his inner fire growing hotter until blue flame licked between his teeth. Exile? From the mountain he had claimed? From the hoard he had built? From the humans whose fear and admiration he had perfectly cultivated?

  "I refuse," he growled, the mountain trembling beneath him. Pebbles cascaded down the slopes as his tail lashed against stone. "This world is as much mine as it is yours. More so, perhaps. When did you last walk among your creations, Time God? When did you last feel the heat of the forges you supposedly inspire, Drakomir?"

  "It was not a request," Chromys said, his form settling into that of an old man, perhaps to convey wisdom. "The decision is made. The new realm awaits. Your continued presence here violates cosmic order."

  "Cosmic order?" Azurax laughed, a sound like avalanches. "I am cosmic order. Four thousand years I have maintained balance—preventing lesser dragons from destroying what humans build, preventing humans from destroying each other. I have been both sword and shield."

  "You have been neither," Sylvari said. "You have been a cage."

  Azurax launched himself from the mountain ledge, massive wings carrying him not toward the gods, but deeper into the mountain range. Let the battle happen away from human settlements—not out of concern for their safety, but for the preservation of his future tribute-payers and entertainers. Princess Elara's great-great-granddaughter had promised to visit soon with new songs.

  "Then come, gods," he roared, white flames erupting from his jaws in a torrent that split the heavens. "Let us see if divinity burns."

  The gods streaked after him, comet-like, divine light trailing behind them as Azurax banked around a distant peak. The Dragon King knew he could not defeat five gods—but he could make their victory so costly they would reconsider their demands.

  Divine light clashed with dragonfire as the battle for the world began. The first impact shattered a mountainside; the second boiled away a lake. From distant human cities, it would appear as though the stars themselves had descended to wage war.

  For the first time in a thousand years, Azurax felt truly alive.

  Three days later, the Dragon King lay broken upon the shattered remains of what had once been the continent's third-highest mountain. Three ranges had been reduced to rubble. A new sea boiled where battle had split the earth to its molten core.

  Azurax's once-brilliant scales were cracked and dulled. Two of his five horns had been sheared off. One wing hung useless, divine lightning having seared through the membrane.

  Chromys alone remained of the gods, the others having retreated to recover from wounds inflicted by dragon fury. The time god looked diminished, his shifting form now stuttering between aspects rather than flowing smoothly.

  "Even in defeat, you are magnificent," Chromys said, voice echoing with exhaustion. "Two gods may never recover their full power. I did not anticipate such resistance."

  Azurax tried to summon flame, but produced only smoke. "Kill me then," he rasped. "I will not leave this world."

  Chromys's form settled into that of a child, perhaps to conserve energy. "Death would only release your essence back to the cosmos. No, Dragon King. Your punishment must be... educational."

  The god raised a small hand. "You will learn what it means to be the least rather than the greatest. To build rather than to dominate. Perhaps then you will understand why balance matters."

  Golden light enveloped Azurax. His consciousness stretched, compressed, then shattered into fragments. His last thought was of his hoard, gleaming and unguarded atop Mount Vantian.

  Consciousness returned to Azurax like the slow burn of embers rekindling to flame.

  First came confusion. Where was his mountain? His hoard? His wings?

  Then came awareness of unfamiliar sensations—a soft bed beneath a body too small, too weak. Lungs that couldn't hold enough air. Limbs that felt wrong.

  Finally came the memories—not his own, but belonging to the vessel he now inhabited. A mere sixteen years of human existence flooded into his ancient mind.

  Astor Killdrake. Bastard son of Duke Killdrake. A life of servitude and scorn.

  Azurax opened his eyes—human eyes—and stared at the wooden ceiling of the tiny servant's quarters in the eastern wing of his "father's" estate. Sunlight filtered through cracked shutters, illuminating a reality he had never imagined.

  He sat up slowly, examining thin hands that had never known talons. In the small mirror on the wall, a stranger's face looked back—a youth with dark hair and eyes now tinged with inhuman blue. Beneath his nightshirt, a dragon-shaped birthmark burned like a brand.

  The Dragon King was trapped in human flesh.

  Yet as the human memories settled alongside his own, Azurax realized that his consciousness, his true self, remained intact. Whatever the gods had intended, they had not destroyed him—merely changed his form.

  Even gods can bleed, he thought, the certainty undiminished by his transformation. I've seen it.

  He would face this world as the thing he had once considered barely worth noticing: human.

  But behind these new eyes burned the mind of a being who had challenged divinity itself.

  His thoughts remained filled with gold... and princesses.