The decades did not pass with the turning of leaves or the falling of snow; they passed with new faces at the edge of the pit.
Generations of men grew old, died, and handed the iron keys down to their sons.
Although the two tribes had entered into truces on numerous occasions, peace was never lasting. Each truce was eventually broken, giving rise to wars that grew longer and more bitter with every conflict, while their desire to conquer the opposing tribe only grew stronger.
They brought mages with them... men with ink-stained fingers and long scrolls, who built chalk circles on the stone floor and measured the dragon's breath with silver pendulums.
They were trying to build a cage not of stone, but of bone and flesh. They were trying to force the spirit of a god inside the heart of a man.
Pyronox watched them from his bed of chains, his eyes dull, his ancient mind cool and detached.
