The morning air was still, carrying the scent of wet earth and scorched stone.
The lake, once disturbed by the chaos of the previous days, now lay calm and clear. Ripples gently spread across its surface as the female dragon stepped toward the water's edge.
Her scales glistened faintly in the pale light of dawn, and her breathing was slow—weighted with exhaustion.
Unlike Karasungur's obsidian armor, her scales were a radiant, pure white—like snow untouched by time. Her long, curved horns gleamed like polished ivory and her eyes, shimmered with the quiet light of the heavens—as though they reflected a sky no longer seen by mortal beings. Even in her weariness, she bore herself with an otherworldly grace, the silent dignity of a queen from an age long vanished.
Lowering her head, she began to devour from the lake with an anxious expression, as if trying to drown her tension in its depths.
Among the countless unseen particles floating in the water, one was unlike the others. A single-celled organism, fragile and barely clinging to life, born from the remnants of a distant meteor, had drifted toward the surface. Unaware of its fate, it was swept up by a sudden current and drawn into the dragon's mouth.
Carried down into the depths of her being, through warmth and darkness, the tiny lifeform floated along paths unknown even to the dragon herself. It journeyed farther than thought, until it arrived at a place that pulsed with dormant power.
A dragon egg, unfertilized, dormant, the seed of new life.
There, the foreign cell came into contact with the ancient vessel of creation. In that quiet moment, something new began...
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Five years later, the long wait of the two dragons was finally coming to an end.
The black dragon returned to his cave, wings casting vast shadows as the sun broke the horizon.
In his jaws hung freshly caught prey and before him lay his mate—her massive form curled protectively around her distended belly.
"Kutbike," he said, his deep voice low with concern. "I can't stay any longer. The pressure of my presence… our little one won't survive it. I hate leaving you on a day like this, but she is on her way. You'll be in good hands."
Kutbike lay groaning, her breath ragged. Her muscles tensed with each wave of pain. When she opened her eyes to look at him, they were filled with sweat, weariness—and unshaken love.
"Aghh… I know," she gasped. "You don't have to worry about me. With her help… ARGH… I'll endure."
With a loud boom, her tail slammed against the stone floor and the cave trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling like ash as the rock began to crack with warning groans..
"The cave won't last much longer," he muttered, already moving. "I'll reinforce it."
By his will, dark flames emerged from the earth, spiraling up like shadowy dragons. They coiled around the cavern walls like protective vines, stilling the tremors—for now.
But the agony inside Kutbike only grew more intense. Her tail slams grew more frequent, more forceful and her cries grew louder, echoing through the forest like war drums.
Then, just as the tension reached its peak, a figure appeared at the mouth of the cave.
Four meters tall, a slender and aged cyclops, she carried the weight of years yet stood straight and proud. Her single, vibrant eye shimmered with life, defying the wisdom etched into her olive-toned, deeply wrinkled face. Her long, white hair, braided like a flowing river, cascaded down to her waist.
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Cyclopes, despite their towering forms, were born not as brutes, but as beings of innate wisdom and piercing intellect.
Their single eye—known in ancient tongue as the Abıköz, the third eye—was not merely a vessel of sight; it was the Eye of the Soul. From the moment of their birth, this eye stood open, a gift granted only to their kind. For other races, awakening the third eye required immense effort and countless hardships—if it could be awakened at all.
It was said to reflect the truth of the spirit and grant vision beyond mortal comprehension. Through it, they could perceive what lay hidden from all others—the subtle movements of unseen realms and the presence of beings beyond the veil.
Each bearer of the Abıköz awakened magics, techniques or powers unique to their soul—no two were ever the same.
Yet not all the gifts of the ancients lay in the eye or the soul. There were powers wrought from the very essence of language—sacred arts spoken and inscribed, whose origin was said to come from Tengri himself.
One was Tilbuyruk, the Word of Binding. It was not magic as mortals knew it but the authority of the cosmos woven into syllables.
When spoken with true intent, a single word could command the world to obey. To say "Stop" was not a request—it was law. Mountains stilled, minds froze, storms bowed. It was will made sound.
The other was Tamgabitig, the Art of Scripted Power. Through this discipline, sacred runes were etched not merely as symbols but as vessels of intention. Each mark drawn by a true scribe of the old ways pulsed with meaning.
With Tamgabitig, a command could be sealed into stone, a ward carved into bone, or a fate written into air. It was voice transformed into permanence—power in stillness, in silence, in sign.
These two disciplines—Tilbuyruk and Tamgabitig—were said to be twin gifts bestowed upon the Cyclopes by Tengri, Sky Father and Weaver of Balance.
Where others struggled to open their eyes to the unseen, the Cyclops were born with the Abıköz open and clear. And with it, they carried the weight of voice and word—the sacred trust of command and inscription.
To master either was rare. To wield both without faltering? That was the path of sages, the legacy of the ancients, and the sign of one touched by the divine.
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At her arrival, the last trace of composure faded from the black dragon.
"Oh Tengri, finally you came," he exhaled, voice low with urgency. "Hurry—help her."
She was completely unfazed by the towering harbinger of doom before her. Stepping calmly into the flickering gloom of the cave, she glanced up and replied with a teasing smile "Glad to see you too. You could've at least said 'welcome,' you know."
He didn't even register the remark in his anxious state, already turning away.
"I'm leaving her in your care, then. I've stocked enough food here to last a year."
She didn't feel the slightest disappointment. She had long grown used to his manner. Instead, she approached the writhing, groaning dragoness—her voice soft, almost like a lullaby. "Are you ready for this, my poor, pitiful old friend?"
Kutbike couldn't even fully open her eyes, but her voice held unwavering determination.
"More than ready."