Good bye to dragons and cephels

The winds that once howled through Skaraden Peak now drift like sighs between quiet cliffs. Thunder has passed, lighting has ceased. The skies are a canvas of fading smoke and gentle clouds, painted with the ash of victory and pain.

Vellithar sits on the edge of a crumbled outcropping, Drok curled beside her like a stone tower with wings, neither speaks.

Raikage rests farther down the mountain, his massive frame folded beside the skeleton of the destroyed palace. His eyes are open, but don’t seem to focus on anything, just watching the sky as if he is trying to remember the friendship he once had with a dead friend. The shackles of the mana crystal are gone, but so are the certainties of his imprisonment.

Now, he feels no joy.

It is release and grief.

Spidaract walks along the ruined ledges, his chitin clicking softly against stone. He stops only once, glancing at the remains of the crystal that once bound the dragon. Then he lowers his head and moves on. Triumph is filling his heart, but his best friend doesn’t seem to enjoy this victory much.

Below, the cephel citizens and Dragonborn warriors begin to emerge from their cliffside homes, their translucent skin shimmering under the sun. From the mountaintop, their dwellings seem like a spiral of dark pocks in the stone, honeycombs carved into vertical walls with jagged holds and slick walls, perfectly natural for those born to crawl and climb.

And outside each home, near every crevice and entrance is a dragon egg nest in coils of moss, guarded by teenage hatchlings blinking at the light. The cephels don’t have the right to raise them like kin. The moment the eggs almost hatch, teenag dragons will take them to Skaraden peak.

A few hours pass before Raikage speaks again.

Not in words, but in his thoughts and transfered by magic.

“I want to see his people, and mine.”

The sentence echoes softly between the minds of the Hero Party and those closest to him.

They gather around the resting emperor, their shadows long in the afternoon sun.

“Why?” Arthur asks, the question already heavy in his throat. “You’re free now, wouldn’t you love to adventure to a place far far beyond this painful land.”

“I do, but I have to fix what we had started,” he replies. “Beside, this land is beautiful when we strape the pride from people.”

He shifts his gaze toward the slopes, where a young dragon curls protectively around a cracked egg.

“He and I once promised a wonder land. Funny, how we broke it ourselve by slowly distorting history.”

Asa lowers her eyes. “We understand.”

But Raikage isn’t finished. His massive head turns toward Spidaract.

“Your offer is noble, but I am a dragon, not an insect. I also can’t smell the rules of Velkath.”

Spidaract flinches, then thinks about Agragon’s mind reading ability and just nods at Raikage.

…

Later that day, Raikage remains behind as the Hero Party, Vellithar, and Drok gather at the edge of the mountain’s valley. There, a large stone platform has been cleared for them. Around it, every single one of the cephel race is waiting.

Vellithar steps forward. She’s never stood in front of so many of her own kind. She’s never spoken like this, or even raised her voice for anything so grand.

“There’s something you all deserve to know,” she says, arms at her sides, her bow is unstrung.

The crowd murmurs.

“For generations, we were taught that we were superior to all races. That our magic - the magic to speak to the wild, to know the will of beasts and leaves - meant we were chosen.”

She pauses. Her eyes land on a younger cephel near the front, one that is barely old enough to have clear thoughts. Their eyes shimmer with doubt.

She looks as if she is staring at her younger self to dismiss her own delusion.

“But superiority is a lie.”

Now the crowd grows louder.

“We poisoned the ocean to end a war we started. We fought with no monsters, but with our own kin. The aquatic cephels - the original race who lived where we once did - were wiped out because of our and their own stupid pride!”

One elder growls. Another begins to climb the wall, but Raikage’s quiet breath from afar stills them.

Vellithar doesn’t blink.

“And now, we do the same to ourselves. We divide into different cultures, lifestyles and values just because we can hear different things.”

She gestures to Arthur, to Asa, to Spidaract. All of them are standing silently behind her. Then Vellithar go into silence for the emperor of dragons to continue.

“We are all living beings, trying our best to survive. My thoughts and values are nothing above your thoughts and values.”

His voice wavers.

“Our species and your species have different magics because we fill different niches in the ecosystem. Believing in inheritance superiority is just harming our own ability to grow and develop as the lives that all matter.”

The wind stills.

And then, someone claps.

A small sound, hesitant, but it spreads fast.

Not all cephels join. Some vanish into the mountainside to gather their thoughts, but others remain with high curiosity.

…

Later, in the stillness of twilight, the Hero Party prepares for their next journey. Their eyes turn westward - toward the poisoned sea, and the voyage that they failed at the beginning.

“I hate this sea,” Arthur mutters.

“We’re not swimming,” Asa replies.

“I still hate it.”

A great shadow darkens the slope behind them.

It’s Drok.

Fully transformed, his wingspan unfurls with golden streaks and jagged scales. His neck curves proudly, but his eyes remain the same: wide, eager - ones that once belonged to a lizard who knew his destiny.

“I suppose you still need a ride,” Vellithar says with a smile that is no longer covered.

Drok lowers his head, letting them climb on.

“Sure you’re ready?” Arthur asks him, half-joking.

Drok snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils.

“You should ask yourself, not me.”

They rise into the air as the mountain fades behind them.

Below, Raikage lifts his gaze once more.

The wind carries a whisper, faint and warm.

“Fly far, to the place higher than the sky.”