Long before humans knew how to build kingdoms or name the stars, the world belonged to something else chaos.
Back then, dragons ruled the skies, demons crawled the earth, and the very balance of existence hung by threads of fire and fury.
Among them all stood a single force powerful enough to keep everything in check. He wasn't called a king or a god by choice he simply was.
Nygeris.
He wasn't born. He wasn't made. He just… was.
Stories say his presence could quiet volcanoes, stop storms mid-air, and make entire armies bow without lifting a finger. But when dragons and demons grew greedy when they stole magic they weren't meant to touch.
They came for him. All of them.
A sky black with wings. Ground crawling with twisted claws and glowing red eyes. Demons, dragons, corrupted beasts every one of them overflowing with stolen power. The final battle wasn't just a war. It was an ending.
The sky turned blood red.
And they attacked.
A tidal wave of power surged toward him dark, angry, desperate to destroy what they feared most.
But Nygeris didn't flinch.
He stood alone, calm, eyes glowing like dying stars. And then…
the roar came.
It wasn't from him.
It was from his dragon.
A single cry from above, louder than anything the world had heard before. Ancient. Terrifying. Divine.
The moment it echoed, everything stopped. Dragons lowered their wings. Demons froze in place. Even the sky seemed to hesitate.
Then Nygeris raised his hand.
And just like that they vanished.
All of them.
No screaming. No fire. No war.
Just silence.
The fire crackled in the small wooden house settled between the frozen hills. Steve sat curled up near the fireplace, eyes wide, hands gripping the ends of his blanket.
His grandfather's voice was steady, low, and warm like the stories he'd told a hundred times, and still believed with all his heart.
"Did he lose, Grandpa?" Steve asked, barely above a whisper.
The old man chuckled softly, lifting the boy gently onto his lap. He brushed Steve's dark hair from his face and looked him in the eyes.
"No, my little Steve," he said. "He's Nygeris. No one can defeat him."
The flames in the fireplace surged suddenly, brighter, louder. And for the briefest second, Steve thought he heard it
A distant, bone-shaking roar.
He stared into the fire, his heart racing.
"Then… where is he now?"
The question lingered.
The old man's smile faded slightly.
"That," he said quietly, "Is the question no one can answer."
Steve tilted his head. "He's hiding?"
"Maybe. Or maybe… he's waiting."
"For what?"
His grandfather looked down at him again. His eyes were still kind, but something darker sat just behind them. Something old.
"For the one who's meant to wake his dragon again."
Steve was still staring into the fire, the warmth of the story clinging to his skin, when a voice came from behind.
"Dad, that story again?"
that was Steve's father, leaning in the doorway with a half-smile. "You told that same tale to me when I was his age… and probably a hundred times after."
Grandpa just chuckled. "And you never forgot it, did you?"
Steve's father shook his head, but there was no irritation in his voice just something softer, like distant respect. "No. I didn't."
The moment passed in silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Grandpa stood up, lifting Steve gently from his lap. "Come," he said. "There's something I want to show you."
Steve's eyes lit up as he hurried after his grandfather, down the narrow hallway to a small, creaky room at the back of the house. It smelled of cedar and old papers. The only furniture was a wooden shelf, a dusty desk, and a low bed tucked under a slanted ceiling.
Grandpa knelt beside a large trunk tucked under the bed worn, aged, its iron corners rusted by time.
Steve tilted his head. "What's this?"
His grandfather didn't answer right away. He slid the trunk out carefully, as if afraid it might break just from being touched. With a deep breath, he opened the lid.
Inside, wrapped in old cloth, was something round, glowing faintly pulsing with flickers of blue and violet light.
Steve's breath caught in his throat.
"Wow... Grandpa," he whispered. "It's beautiful."
The object looked like a tavis a disk-shaped small pocket hand, etched with strange symbols. Its glow was soft, but alive, like a heartbeat beneath glass.
His grandfather stared at it for a long moment before speaking.
"This," he said slowly, "Is the only thing that's been passed down by our bloodline. From my father. And his before him. And now…"
He looked at Steve.
"I'm giving it to you."
Steve blinked, confused. "But… what is it? I don't get it."
His grandfather didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted the tavis gently into Steve's hands. It was cool to the touch, but the longer he held it, the warmer it became almost like it recognized him.
"You don't have to understand it now," Grandpa said softly. "But you will. One day."
The tavis pulsed brighter.
Steve looked up. "Is this... from Nygeris?"
The old man's expression grew unreadable. "Some say it is. Some say it's the key to where he vanished. Others… that it chooses the one who'll wake the dragon again."
Steve looked down at it in awe, heart pounding.
Outside, the wind rattled the window.
TEN YEARS LATER.
END OF CHAPTER.