THE WEIGHT OF THE TITLE
The sky above Eldrion glowed a deep, bruised scarlet as twilight surrendered to the towering mountains. Across the continent, the legend of Calessia, the first to hold the rank of Dragon Master, was whispered in every tavern and palace. Yet, few understood the brutal truth behind that title.
In the ancient age of shadows, when darkness threatened to devour all life, Calessia had earned her rank by gathering the twenty-one fragments—primordial relics bound to the spirits of the First Dragons. With the shards and the forbidden power of the Universal White Dragon, she saved the world. But her victory came with a bitter price: her sacrifice ushered in an era where the shadows never truly stopped growing, waiting for the next person worthy of her title.
Inside a grand hall lit by the rhythmic flicker of golden candelabras, an elder in ceremonial robes stood before a group of young apprentices. Among them sat a boy with unruly dark hair and eyes of piercing emerald: Zyrion.
"Listen closely," Master Eldren began, his voice echoing against the cold stone walls. "The rank of Dragon Master is not a gift. It is a burden. Calessia did not just protect this world... she defined the peak of power that we all strive to reach."
Zyrion leaned forward, his pulse quickening. "Master Eldren, is it true she faced the Shadow Dragon alone? That the Title was only granted after she bound the Shards to her soul?"
Eldren nodded, his expression weighted with solemn gravity.
"Yes, Zyrion. To hold the Title of Dragon Master, one must command the Shards. Each possesses a primal force: thunder, speed, regeneration. But the Ring—the symbol of the rank—demands a price no mortal should pay."
A young apprentice with soft golden curls, Kyrahna, raised a trembling hand. "What is the cost of the Rank, Master?"
Eldren's shadow loomed large against the wall. "Mortality. Every time the power of the Dragon Master is invoked, it drains the wearer's very essence. Calessia didn't fall to the enemy's claws; she died because the power required to hold the Title hollowed out her soul."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Zyrion crossed his arms, his mind racing. "And the shards? If the Title is vacant, why are they hidden? Why aren't we using them to fight the rising darkness?"
The old man sighed, a sound of ancient exhaustion. "The fragments were scattered to the far corners of the world, guarded by sentinels who do not sleep. As for the Ring of the Dragon Master... some say it was shattered. Others believe it awaits the one strong enough to claim the Title once more."
"How is the next Dragon Master chosen?" Kyrahna whispered.
"The Rank is not given; it is taken through trial," Eldren replied. "The Universal White Dragon reveals the path, but the candidate must survive the forge. Many have tried to claim the Title. None have returned."
Eldren stood up, his silhouette casting a long line across the floor. "The world is in peril once more. The fragments must be recovered, and the Title of Dragon Master must be claimed again. One of you could be the one to rise."
Before anyone could speak, a violent crash echoed through the hall.
The heavy oak doors burst open. A young messenger staggered inside, his clothes torn and stained with fresh blood.
"Master Eldren!" the boy gasped, collapsing to his knees. "The village of Talvryn... it's gone! They came for it... the shards are in danger!"
Eldren's face turned ashen. "It has begun. The shadows move before a new Master can be crowned." He turned to the apprentices, his eyes burning with urgency. "Prepare yourselves. Your first test is no longer a lesson—it is a race for the fragments."
Kyrahna looked at Zyrion, her eyes wide with terror. "Is this it? Our journey for the Title starts like this?"
Zyrion stood up, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. The doubt in his eyes was replaced by a cold, sharp determination.
"We don't have a choice, Kyrahna. If no one is brave enough to be the Dragon Master, then the world burns. I'm going for those fragments."
Outside, the wind began to howl, carrying the scent of smoke and the distant, hungry roar of a shadow that had not been heard in centuries.
The prophecy was never written to be understood at first glance.