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The tower still smoked.
Artorius stood on its shattered parapet, watching his soldiers move through the aftermath. The dunes around the base were fused into molten glass, the remains of the Black Dread's army littering the horizon like broken obsidian statues. The dawn bled pale red through the haze, its light struggling to pierce the drifting soot.
The Black Dread stood by his side like a loyal stooge, totally different from the arrogant hotshot that came here looking for a fight. Ouroboros hovered nearby, his golden eyes studying the horizon. "You should rest," he said softly. "Your people need time to rebuild."
Artorius shook his head. "They have their orders. Velkra will oversee the wounded. Sereneth's archers will guard the approaches. Anxar will jury-rig arms for our men. And Tzharun will hunt in the expanse for food."
He turned his gaze westward, toward a horizon of smoke and shadow. "It's time to take control of the Dark Peaks! We can't stop advancing, I plan to take advantage of this new biome that opened up to us and strengthen my forces."
"Ahh, you want to take over his home now," Ouroboros grinned. "Well what's his is yours now and what's yours is yours!"
"We cannot be rooted here," he simply said. "This tower is a coffin and a bait. We will be swarmed constantly picked apart by every noble blooded dragon who wants to crush us. We need to become something harsher, faster, unstoppable."
-
It took three days to gather supplies and reforge the wounded army into a moving force. The tower's inner halls echoed with the sounds of activity and commands as Artorius's legion prepared to march. The surviving followers of the black dread were now forcibly bound to him through the Dread's defeat, serving as both beasts of burden and vanguard scouts.
In total now his forces stood at fifty eight strong, he had them divided up into six units of archers to thin a host at distance, spears to meet the line, swords for the press, shields to hold the gaps, scouts to read the land, heavies for the moments that demand blunt force.
At noon, when the sun had clawed high and the heat shimmered, Artorius climbed the central stair and stood before the assembled masses. He let the silence grow for a while, he had been thinking about this decision for a while now and was set with it.
"This place remembers us only in pain," he said, voice even and cold. "Walls hold more than roofs, they keep memory. Within these stones we were twisted, broken, and countless unspeakable things were done to use. Tonight, those stones will not stand to remind us."
A murmur ran through the line, Ouroboros looked at him as if asking if he was sure.
He took the black standard and unfurled it, letting the fabric catch the sunlight in a dull sheen. This would be their banner, an empty black flag. "We will not be farmers of ruin, burying our grief here. We will be wind-borne. We will be the storm that takes and leaves nothing to be used against us, nomads, raiders, the free spirit of old: fast, cruel where we must be, free where we can. We will not let these towers make us timid."
He had resolved himself for this, the cost of staying here and being tied to this tower outweighed being free and on the move like the steppe people of old from his world. This place wasn't his home and he didn't need to build it up so he rather keep moving to other biomes for new opportunities and raiding the lordling and kinglets staying there.
"Burn it," he said then, short as a blade. "Let the flame finish this place. We will carry all we need and we will live by cunning, by speed, by hunger and by each other."
A torch was brought up the stairs. Artorius held it to the dry thatch and to the places nailed with oil-soaked rags. The flames found the Dread's banner first, the black cloth curling and spitting. Then heat climbed the crumbling crystal. Smoke poured up, thick and blue, and the tower gave a keening groan as if in answer.
When the roof collapsed with a shower of embers, the men did not cheer. They shouldered packs, mounted up in any makeshift they had, and fell in formation. Artorius spread his wings wide, Ouroboros shadowing him, and the column swung west, a black scythe cutting toward the Dark Peaks, toward a life that would be less certain but harder to corner.
The tower burned behind them; its smoke was a marker on the map of the world they were leaving. Ahead lay many dangers and obstacles but also the promise of a people who would take from the world by force and vanish like wind. Artorius breathed the smoke into his lungs and felt like a man who had finally could move on with his life.
The Crystal Expanse fell away behind them, the mirrored dunes dissolving into cliffs of blackened glass. The world shifted gradually, light dimmed, the sky grew heavy with ash, and mountains rose like spears carved from the earth's bones.
Artorius slowed. He felt it before he fully crossed: two worlds at war, meeting at a fault line scarred by ages of struggle. Behind him, the Crystal Expanse seethed with cold luminescence, its dunes humming with the residual energy of order with light that preserved, crystallized stillness. Ahead, the Dark Peaks radiated a heat that was not warmth but hunger, an unmaking fire that sought to consume whatever dared approach.
Where the two biomes touched, the land itself buckled. Shards of prismatic sand hung suspended in the air, locked in battle against drifting clouds of cinder. Glass dunes cracked as waves of ash washed over them; glowing fissures melted through the mirrored ground, while splinters of crystalline light stabbed upward in defiance of the encroaching dark.
Artorius stepped fully into the shadow of the Dark Peaks, and the world changed at once. The light behind him felt like a memory being swallowed.
The Dark Peaks were aptly named. They were not mountains in the mortal sense, but jagged pillars of dark stone and molten glass, thrusting upward like the ribs of a dead god. Streams of black flame ran between them, rivers that burned cold and silent.
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Artorius's army advanced along narrow ridges, the ground constantly trembling underfoot. Strange beasts moved in the distance; ash drakes and wyverns with wings of smoke, fire newts that slipped between shadows, eyeless scavengers that fed on dead bones.
The heat grew punishing as they continued. Water-skins boiled; the very air seemed to press against the lungs. The soldiers adapted in grim silence wrapping cloth about their faces, using enchanted crystals to condense vapor into drinkable moisture.
Artorius walked at the forefront, his silhouette outlined in red light. He stood upon a glass ridge and looked down into the chasm below, where his new domain began. Behind him, his army descended carefully, no banners except for crystal blades and spears. The Black Dread flew ahead, no longer master of these lands, but vassal.
"This place," Sereneth murmured, her voice echoing off the cliffs, "feels wrong."
"Because it is," Ouroboros replied from Artorius's shoulder. "This biome was birthed from a ruination dragon's corpse. A Black Dragon Lord that fell here long ago, his heart burned so long that it remade the land. Everything here is his echo."
The Black Dread spoke up for the first time since they entered this place, "he was my ancestor!"
Artorius said nothing, but his hand tightened around his lance. By dusk, they reached it, a fortress built into the skull of a dragon so vast its horns scraped the neighboring cliffs. The Black Dragon Keep.
It was no mortal construction, but a monument to ancient ruin, a castle built within the skull of a dragon. Its walls were not built of stone but of bone fused with black steel. The skull's hollow eyes served as windows, each one faintly glowing from within. Dark banners hung from broken tusks, emblazoned with a three-clawed mark, the Dread's sigil.
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Artorius landed on the basalt bridge leading into it. The gate stood closed, guarded by a few guards who stayed behind and they quickly surrendered when they saw the overwhelming force and their old leader now serving him.
As he stepped inside, the scale of it became apparent halls carved into fossilized bone, their ceilings ribbed like cathedrals. Stalactites of obsidian hung from above like teeth. The keep was a cathedral of death and craft.
The throne room lay within the skull center, a cavernous hollow lined with rib-like columns of fused obsidian. At its center sat a massive throne of melted metal and bone, still smoldering faintly from the heat that clung to everything here.
He ascended the steps and sat. The stone was still warm, the air tasting faintly of iron and blood. "Bring forward all who remain in the keep," he commanded. There weren't many left, only a handful of guards which were pressganged into his army and one old dragon.
The forges of the keep lay deep within the dragon's throat, a cavernous descent lit by magma veins and whispering chains. The air shimmered with heat. The clang of a hammer echoed rhythmically through the chamber.
There, bent over an anvil that glowed white-hot, was a figure of stone and scale.
A dragonkin taller than any Artorius had seen, muscles like carved obsidian, skin cracked and glowing with inner fire. His right arm was fused entirely to his hammer not worn, but grafted.
[Forge Dragonkin — Level 14]
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His eyes lifted, molten gold behind the crust of blackened lids. "Another master?" His voice was like boulders grinding. "I tire of this pattern."
Artorius stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I was once called Hewegar, Forger of the Peaks, an elder blood dragon," he said slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue after years. "Smith to the first Black Dragonling that arrived. Then to his siblings that followed. Finally a slave to the last of them." His gaze slid toward the Black Dread, who stood behind Artorius.
Artorius studied him then the Black Dread who at least had the decency to look away, shame flickering across his features. "You were forced to serve him?"
"I forged his blades. His armor. His throne." The hammer lowered. "Those that came before him long ago chained me here with wards I could not break. I could not leave the forge. Not until my fire burned out."
Artorius's eyes narrowed. "If I break your chains, will you serve freely?"
Hewegar laughed, the sound like breaking rock. "You will still make me serve chained or not."
Sighing, Artorius knew he had the right of it but, "We all must serve something whether it be our desires or something else. I will compromise with you. I will give you the chance to do what you love to do, smith to your hearts content. Make any work you wish, I will provide the resources you need."
"I see you are a sly fox, already knowing the heart's desire with a glance," the old dragon smith noted. "Fine, you have an accord."
With that Artorius broke the chains causing it to fall, the light in Hewegar eyes brightened as life seemed to return to him, his back straightened. He exhaled a sound that was almost laughter. "Freedom… it feels lighter than I remember."
Hewegar looked at Artorius. "What will you have of me, Commander?"
"Build," Artorius said simply. "Forge me an army worthy of fire and blood."
The smith's molten lips curled. "Then we shall awaken the forges of the Dark Peaks."
Days bled into nights of molten twilight. Under Hewegar's supervision, the forges roared to life. Drakes and wyverns carried ore from volcanic veins; the blacksmith hammered with tongues of fire. Each night, Artorius studied the land through maps, the Peaks stretched wide and also deep as it was lined with many caves that led into these aforementioned peaks.
Sometimes Artorius came down to see Hewegar, who was now free, do his craft until the old smith spoke up. "Flame," the old smith rumbled, eyes like twin furnaces. "You speak its Word, don't you? The true tongue, not the bastard syllables mortals use."
"I do." Artorius nodded.
Hewegar snorted, the sound deep enough to shake slag loose from the walls. "Then help me speak it. I've worked the forge with muscle and will for ages, but the Words of Power… that is how great smiths craft."
"Strike when I say. We will craft a sword today!" The anvil was set upon a foundation of cooled obsidian. The metal they worked was no mortal ore, it was molten basalt mixed with draconic bone dust, stubborn and defiant.
Hewegar's hammer fell. The forge roared. Artorius felt the pulse of creation in the air, a rhythm between destruction and form. When his turn came, he swung the hammer and spoke the Word under his breath.
The world answered. Flame erupted from the furnace, folding the metal, softening its rage, giving it shape. Hewegar grinned, a cracked expression of approval. "Good. You're learning. Fire isn't just hunger and destruction. It can also be for creation!"
They worked for hours. The clang of hammer and flame was the only sound in that deep forge. Sweat and soot turned Artorius's skin dark; sparks danced off his shoulders and wings. When the final strike came, the metal gave a deep, resonant note, a pure sound, not of pain but of becoming.
Finally, when Hewegar gave the word, they lifted the newborn blade from the forge. The old dragonkin reached for a claw-shaped stylus and began etching symbols into its surface. The scratching sound was slow, deliberate. Not idle decoration, something older.
Artorius leaned in. "What's that?"
"I'm adding a rune, one for sharpness," the old dragon answered. He paused to blow away the molten dust turning to look at him and the confusion on his face, the old dragon explained further.
"Dragon Runes," Hewegar continued, voice deep and patient. "They're the bones of magic. When you carve them into a thing, you teach it what to be. This one," he tapped a mark shaped like an inverted fang, "means Toughness. The blade will be much harder to break unless its spirit does."
Hewegar gestured for Artorius to look closer. "Between these Runes and the Words of Power you wield, all enchantment is born."
Hewegar raised his hammer, tracing a faint pattern in the air with its glowing head. "The Words of Power command the world directly. Flame, water, lightning — the many facets of reality obey because they hear you. But their obedience is fleeting. It is your will, your breath, your strength. When you are gone, the fire dies with you."
He tapped the runes again, each symbol flaring in response. "Runes are the opposite. They are promises written into the flesh of reality. They do not vanish when you sleep, nor fade when you die. They last but they are slower, less grand. They lack the passion of Words, but they make what is temporary become true."
Hewegar looked up, molten eyes catching the forge light. "Words give you glory. Runes give you permanence. The wise use both."
-
Besides checking in with the smith, he also toured the keep. The corridors breathing with faint heat and whispering ash. The Black Dragon Keep was unlike the Silver Tower less refined, more brutal. Where the Tower was knowledge and craft, the Keep was strength and fire.
The Armory lay behind walls carved directly from the dragon's ribs with racks of weapons: greataxes of obsidian edged with dragonsteel, halberds that drank light, shields of scaled bone. He handed them out to his followers to better equip them.
There was the Ash Warrens, a network of tunnels leading deep under the Peaks, filled with veins of volcanic ore, obsidian, and bones of ancient dragons. This seemed to be the way that the Black Dread made most of his wealth as his men worked those warrens.
There was the forge which he had been visiting that Hewegar worked in. Magma veins pulsed beneath grates of black steel. Above the forge levels lay the War Halls immense galleries lined with obsidian pillars carved into the likenesses of dragons mid-roar.
The Vault sat behind the throne chamber, sealed by three concentric runic circles. Ouroboros coiled along the air beside him, his voice low and sardonic. "Already looking to loot it!"
"Yeah, bring up the Black Dread, I rather not have to slay him to get this place unlocked."
"Will be my please," the small serpent dragon chuckled as it wasn't long before the harried black dragon came before the vault.
"Mind helping me get into my vault?" Artorius asked.
"Of course, boss," the black dragon smiled though its lickspittle grin looked pained. It stepped forward, its hand resting upon the black seal. It trembled, then cracked like cooling glass. One by one, the runes fell away, until the gates parted with a sigh of ash and heat.
The chamber within was vast, the walls gleamed with veins of molten ore, casting flickering light across the riches inside. Here, the hoard of a tyrant lay revealed. Stacks of Lesser Dragon Scales littered the floor like sand, dull bronze and black, used for everyday trade among the draconic vassals. Barrels brimmed with Greater Scales, polished to a mirror sheen.
"My, my, aren't well off," Ouroboros laughed wickedly.
Artorius walked among the piles, taking stock. "Catalogize it," he ordered the soldiers who followed him in. The soldiers bowed, getting to work sorting and measuring. Ouroboros kept on laughing as he slithered onto one of the scale piles, letting them run beneath his coils like coins. The black dread looked forlornly as his wealth was confiscated right before his eyes.
"If you are done enjoying yourself," Artorius called out, "I have a few questions for you." He had plenty of wealth now but not much to do with, he already had some ideas what to do with it but needed to run it through to his only advisor.
Artorius turned the scales in his palm, watching the firelight ripple across its surface. "All this treasure," he said quietly. "And yet it buys me nothing if I've no one to fight for it."
Ouroboros raised his head, the gold of his eyes catching the glow. "Ah," he purred, "so you've come to the right conclusion. You have wealth, but not force enough to hold it."
Artorius nodded his head. His family was in this sort of business of private military contractors. "Can we buy soldiers?"
"Of course," a grin tugging at his snout. "Everything is for sale here! There are plenty of clawed ones. There are companies of dragonkin and draconic beasts who sell their might to the highest bidder. They fight for scales, for blood, or for the promise of survival. The Nest breeds such desperation and avaricious nature."
Artorius's brow furrowed. "Where can I find them?"
Before Ouroboros could answer, the Black Dread who was close to tears and kneeling by the vault's entrance, his great wings half-folded. "I can," he said, voice a low rumble of old pride. "I once commanded some of them and traded favors with the mercenary bands who roam the skies. Many owe me debts... or fear my name still."
Artorius turned to him. "Can you reach them?"
The Black Dread nodded his head. "There is... a device. Come, I'll show you."
They ascended the spiraling stairs that wound up through the skull's crown. Heat gave way to thin, cold air. When they emerged upon the uppermost spire, the sky stretched endless above them black clouds veined with molten red, storms whispering across the horizon.
At the summit, set into a circular dais of black steel and bone, rested a massive contraption unlike anything Artorius had seen. A ring of obsidian pillars encircled a floating crystal sphere, its surface alive with runes that pulsed faintly like veins of fire. Chains of silver metal connected the sphere to the dais, thrumming with residual power.
"This," the Black Dread said, stepping forward, "is the Draconic Resonance Array, the device used by dragonlords to send their voice across the Nest. Each great keep once had one. It was how we waged war, made pacts, traded, and summoned aid."
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Artorius examined it. "And it still works?"
"Barely," the Dread admitted. "But it can reach the wider network. If you have scales to pay, you can buy the attention of mercenary bands scattered across the Nest."
"Call only the bands in the surrounding, they won't overrun you and run rough shot. Also you can barely afford the bigger bands or companies," Ouroboros advised.
Nodding his head, Artorius agreed with his assessment, looking at the black dread he directed him to do just that. "Let's do what Ouroboros recommended, call forth any bands in the surrounding area. Let them know the vanquisher of the Silver dragon and the victor over the Black Dread scales for service and the promise of war."
The black dragon got to work pressing a claw to the array. Light spread through the runes, a low hum filling the air. "I will open channels now."
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A/N: Blacksmith dragon is based on Heweg from elden ring.
Also yeah I decided in this place mc will be going full barbarian mode. Looting and raiding!
Kingdom building and business management will start once he is back on earth