Dreventhur's betrayal

When Vellithar returns to the prison chamber, her eyes avoid everyone’s glances.

“Your transport is on the way. The Emperor has approved a meeting”, she says with a voice lower and heavier than usual.

Vellithar looks at the Hero Party. He starts cheering after a long time of waiting, while Asa is adjusting her clothes to prepare for the meeting and Spidaract is thinking something.

Vellithar pauses, then steps closer. “But before that…”

From beneath her cheap leather sash, she unfolds a small, worn map. She slides it through the bars and taps one narrow route in red ink - a hidden passage that sneaks behind the prison, goes through narrow ridges, and emerges near the foot of Skaraden Peak.

“This,” she says softly, “will lead you past the Dragonborn wardens and might get in contact with the dragons.”

Arthur stares at the map in confusion.

“Other cephels don’t…like you a lot,” Vellithar mutters. “You can still choose to meet the emperor if you don’t believe me.”

She turns abruptly and marches off, claws clicking against the stone. She leaves Drok behind, the little lizard still perched like a statue outside the bars.

Silence returns.

Then Drok twitches.

With a slow, exaggerated flick of his tail, he begins to trace letters in the dust. It takes time, but Arthur reads them clearly.

“It’s a trap.”

The escape is fast and quiet.

Spidaract carries Asa. Arthur leads with the map. They follow the narrow crevice past the outer cells, ducking beneath bridges while trying their best to cling to the walls created for octopus-like creatures.

Above them, the Cephel kingdom stretches like a maze of mountain-burrowed caverns. The homes are carved into sheer cliff sides, without stairs or railings. Cephels climb effortlessly, weaving in and out of jagged openings, some barely wider than a torso.

At each entrance, nestled in shaded alcoves, dragon eggs glow softly. Some even have “guards” wandering around: teenage dragons crawl lazily around thresholds, their scales shine like crystals in sunlight. Cephels feed them meat and plant, brush their horns, and bow to them everyday.

The deeper the Hero Party descends, the colder the air gets. Eventually, they sneak into the lowest valley - a natural pit surrounded by jagged cliffs, where the air feels heavy and breathing feels challenging.

Inside, there is a chamber that is vast but low-ceilinged, shaped like the inside of a giant throat. Bioluminescent vines crawl across the walls, and crystals embedded in the rock reflect every movement.

…

Standing boldly against the icy winds of Draventhur’s upper altitudes, the House of the Emperor is the only fully constructed structure in a kingdom where most dwellings are hollowed into stone.

It is built atop a wide, flattened shelf near the summit of the Guloep peak, the second highest peak. The palace rises in tiers of pale, glimmering stone, imported from the deepest caverns and compressed under enormous pressure to withstand the cold, the storms, and occasional dragonfire. The structure gleams faintly, reflecting the sun through a network of embedded quartz veins, giving the whole building an ethereal glow at dawn and dusk.

When Vellithar arrives at the gate, she kneels low and stays bowed for long minutes. Her tentacles are still and her skin is dull with anxiety.

Agragon, ruler of the cephels, watches her from a raised perch. His body is larger than most - huge head with tentacles thick and coiled with muscle, head crowned with three horn-like fins.

“You haven’t delivered the guests?”

“They’re en route,” Vellithar says quickly. “I… hope to speak about something before…”

Agragon raises a claw. “You wish for peace with the surface races.”

Vellithar opens her eyes widely in surprise, trying to think about her breakfast to hide the Hero Party’s plan.

Agragon descends.

His movements are deliberate, artificial claw-tips scraping softly against stone.

“From now, may we be truthful to each other?. Tell me, jailer, what do you know of our last war?”

Vellithar hesitates. “It was against a monstrous species from the eastern sea. We poisoned the ocean to drive them back.”

Agragon exhales, a low, thunderous sigh.

He gestures, and a portion of the wall peels open, revealing a hidden chamber. Within lie ancient relics: flesh and scales not from any sea creature, but more like cephels; scrolls etched in coral; broken masks designed for breathing underwater.

“Those are lies, jailer. We fought no monsters. We fought ourselves.”

He enters the chamber. She follows, breath catching.

“Cephels were once a single aquatic species, bound to the currents. But we…changed and evolved. Learned to breathe air, walk land, speak with trees and animals. This made the others…envious.”

He lifts a cracked helmet from the dust.

“Conflict was inevitable. Those of the sea clung to the old ways. We, the land-adapted, sought the surface.”

Vellithar stares.

“The war lasted decades. We might have lost…until we met them.”

He gestures upward to a painting of dragons across the ceiling, their wings unfurled in flame and storm.

“They saved us. With lightning, they shattered reefs. With fire, they scorched the sea. But in doing so…”

He looks at her, eyes still unchanged, but his eyelids squint.

“…they unintentionally poisoned the eastern ocean.”

Vellithar sits, legs folded beneath her. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because your request for peace is noble. But naïve.”

Agragon walks past her, his voice echoing in the hallway.

“We are no longer unified, Vellithar. Some Cephels speak to vines, some to birds, others to rocks. The old division of sea and land is beginning to emerge again, ready to choke each other.”

“But the war with skalls is keeping us from turning on ourselves.” Agragon finishes. “As long as we face enemies beyond, our people stay united.”

He turns to face her fully.

“If peace comes…so does the second civil war.”

Vellithar opens her mouth, but no answer comes.

Her tentacles tremble in fractured beliefs, she suddenly rethinks if the plan to help the Hero Party or not.

Agragon speaks once more, gently:

“Thank you, jailer.”