"Before time spoke in hours, it sang in fire."
—An Ancient Fragment, etched in obsidian beneath the ruins of Iridon's Maw
There is no history without fire.
The ancients believed that to speak a name was to burn it into the world—that every word spoken in truth carried heat, carried weight, and left behind a scar. And dragons, they said, were not born of flesh, but of words once spoken too loudly.
They were the Gate's first scream.
Its first remembrance.
Its first mistake.
The journey led them east now, past the jagged cliffs of Serath and into the scorched plains of Aelthar—where no wind blew and no birds flew. Thanor, uneasy, had grown silent. His flames flickered strangely, casting shadows in unnatural angles. Even Mira had become withdrawn, her sleep plagued with dreams of fire raining from an invisible sky.
Only Amine felt strangely calm.
As if the fire that lingered in the air recognized him.
Or worse—was waiting for him.
They found the cave three days later.
Not by sight, but sound.
A slow, rhythmic chanting, deep and guttural, vibrating in the bones. The entrance lay beneath a collapsed hill, hidden behind layers of heat-shimmering air.
Inside: silence.
And carvings.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of them, spiraling across the black stone walls. Ancient script. Not human. Not even elven. But older.
Draconic.
Amine reached out.
And the walls breathed.
A vision struck him like lightning.
A burning sky.
A world without oceans.
A ring of gates orbiting a dying star.
And dragons—not monsters, not beasts, but constructs of pure thought. Intelligence woven into fire. Guardians. Archivists. Librarians of memory.
They had once spoken. Once thought.
But their speech was not words—it was flame.
And when the Gate began to forget… so too did the dragons.
They lost their names.
They lost their minds.
And in losing those… they became what they are now.
Amine stumbled backward.
Mira caught him, wide-eyed. "What did you see?"
"They were created to remember," he whispered.
"Who?"
"The dragons. All of them. They were born from the Gate—to guard its knowledge. To speak its memory."
Mira shook her head. "But they destroy. They kill."
"Because they've forgotten their purpose. The Gate is failing. And they're… decaying."
A deep voice echoed from the cave's heart.
"No. Not all."
A figure emerged.
Scaled. Tall. Eyes like molten stars.
Not fully dragon. Not fully man.
A hybrid.
Not like Thanor.
Older. Wiser. Broken.
"I am Kherys," it said. "Last of the Flame-Speakers. And perhaps, the last to remember."
Thanor stepped forward, growling low.
But the figure raised a clawed hand. "Peace, young flame. I do not bite my kin."
They sat in the heart of the cave while Kherys told his tale.
He had lived for thousands of years—before the first mage had ever drawn breath.
He had been one of the first Binders—those who could speak the Language of Flame, binding memory to magic, turning history into power. He had walked in the light of the Nine Gates. He had watched as the Gate began to fracture.
And he had made a choice.
"I preserved what I could," he said. "I took fire and gave it form. I carved memory into stone. But I could not stop the forgetting."
He looked at Amine.
"But you… you are different. You are remembered."
Mira frowned. "What does that mean?"
Kherys turned to her. "There are beings born from thought. From dreams. But there are also beings born from memory."
He pointed a talon at Amine's chest.
"He was someone once. Somewhere else. That life ended. But the memory of him did not fade. The Gate kept it. Held onto it. And now, it has brought him here."
Amine's blood ran cold.
"I was… chosen?"
"No," Kherys said. "You were preserved."
A long silence followed.
Kherys rose, flame trailing from his arms.
"The dragons are not your enemies. Not truly. They are what remains of a language that once defined reality. If you can relearn that language… you can awaken them. Restore them."
"And if I fail?" Amine asked.
Kherys' eyes dimmed. "Then the Gate will forget. And when it forgets you, there will be nothing left."
That night, Amine sat alone at the edge of the plains.
He stared into Thanor's fire, listening to it crackle—not randomly, but rhythmically.
A code.
A pattern.
Words.
He thought of Tokyo. Of his old life. Of his meaningless days and the weight of isolation.
He had thought no one remembered him.
But now he knew better.
He had not been forgotten.
He had been called back.
Because even memory needs a name.
And Amine Toku was now that name.
As dawn rose—though the sun never truly shone in this land—Amine turned to Mira and Kherys.
"We go east," he said. "To the First Gate."
Kherys bowed his head.
"The Flame will guide you. But beware: the closer you get to the Gate's heart, the louder its nightmares become."
Thanor let out a low roar.
Mira smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.
And Amine—
—for the first time since his death—
—felt alive.