It began a thousand years ago, when the wrath of Death swallowed the horizon—and the world forgot the sun.

  Corruption oozed into the world like smoke. Forests withered. Rivers ran black. The skies knew no sun, only ash. Kingdoms fell like leaves in a dying season, and with every battle, the earth grew quieter.

  Wherever Death went, shifters perished. Whole clans vanished. Blood soaked into the soil until it forgot what life tasted like.

  He sat upon a throne made of bone and silence, draped in shadows that whispered no name. The world trembled at the weight of him, and every soul that breathed did so carefully.

  But even in that darkness, something still burned.

  The dragons.

  Fierce. Ancient. Unyielding.

  They did not bow.

  They did not break.

  They fought Death’s minions in skirmishes and shadows, fire meeting void, claw meeting fang. But it was not war yet. It was survival. Stalemates. Bleeding lines that never held.

  Until the day their king—Kaeltheron, the Dragonlord—found the Sword of Ecron.

  Buried deep beneath their mountain castle, wrapped in ancient wards and molten stone, the sword called to him. Some said it wasn’t forged, but born. Others said it remembered the sound of Death’s name.

  And when Kaeltheron, the Dragonlord gripped the hilt, the world tilted.

  Rumor spread like wildfire: the sword could match Death’s power.

  Maybe even surpass it.

  So the dragons gathered. Not just to defend—but to strike.

  They chose their battleground well. Forests turned to flame. The skies rained steel. Fire raged as thousands clashed—shifters of legend and monsters of shadow locked in a war no one would win.

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  The field was soaked with blood long before he arrived.

  But when he came…

  The world went still.

  He didn’t ride. He didn’t shout.

  He walked, and the ground curled beneath his feet.

  He wore no crown—only a veil of shifting shadow, and his face—if he had one—was lost beneath the smoke. Eyes like burning eclipses pierced stone. His presence unmade things not by touch, but by intent.

  And the ground curled beneath his feet.

  Dragons dove from the sky to stop him. They turned to ash before they landed.

  His aura alone tore souls apart.

  Even the bravest flinched when his eyes found them.

  And yet… Kaeltheron, the Dragonlord did not run.

  Inside his fortress, sword in hand, he waited.

  Death stormed the gates.

  His minions were a tide of corruption—twisting, howling, snapping reality apart as they flooded the castle. Walls crumbled. Fires screamed. But Kaeltheron, the Dragonlord held the line. Every swing of the Sword of Ecron shattered steel, sundered bone, and left the battlefield trembling.

  Still, it wasn’t enough.

  Death reached the throne room.

  And at last, the two forces met.

  They did not speak.

  They had no need.

  Kaeltheron, the Dragonlord fought with fury, with light, with everything left of his kind. He didn’t fight to survive. He fought to end it.

  And he did.

  Not with the sword.

  But with the last curse of the dragons.

  With his dying breath, Kaeltheron, the Dragonlord whispered a binding spell. Ancient. Forbidden. One so powerful it cost him his soul.

  And as Death raised his hand for the final blow—

  The air fractured.

  Light poured from the Dragonlord’s chest. Not fire. Not magic. Something deeper. Something woven from the First Flame.

  The curse took hold.

  Chains of fire and light wrapped around Death’s form. He thrashed—roared—but the spell held. The final curse of the dragons sealed not just body, but will, forcing eternity into stillness. The chains burned with light woven from the First Flame, a fire older than time itself.

  And Death was locked away.

  Not destroyed.

  Sealed.

  Buried beneath the ruins of the battlefield. Trapped in a prison made from the last heartbeat of a dragon.

  The world exhaled.

  But the silence that followed was not peace.

  It was fear.

  And waiting.

  Some say the seal is weakening.

  Some say the sword is calling again.

  Others say it vanished—buried in ruin, lost to flame.

  Some whisper it broke.

  But a few believe it waits, still burning beneath the ash, for a hand bold enough to wield it.

  And in the silence beneath our feet, something begins to stir.

  A presence not forgotten. A breath not silenced. A promise unfulfilled.

  But one truth remains:

  He was sealed, not slain.

  And when he rises again... we won’t call him Death.

  We’ll call him familiar.

  Not everything buried stays dead.