The storm-torn valley smoldered beneath him, molten rivers snaking through shattered cliffs, trees splintered like matchsticks, and the sky above painted in a bruised palette of ash and smoke. Vael'tharion hovered, wings outstretched, the edges of his draconic form flickering with Abyssal Flames. Shadows stretched from his form, lashing across the cratered landscape like sentient serpents, subtly probing, bending, whispering promises of obedience to all who dwelled below.
The mortals emerged slowly, hesitantly—sect warriors, mountain tribes, and scattered mages, eyes wide with awe and terror. They had heard rumors of the Primordial Shadow-Dragon, but no tale had prepared them for the sight of this cataclysm in motion. Some fell to their knees; others grasped magical wards or weapons that shivered in his shadow's presence. Every breath of wind, every quiver of rain, trembled under his aura.
Vael'tharion's molten eyes scanned the land, calculating, measuring. The Elder Worm's fall had left more than debris; it had left a message carved in fire and stone. The world was alive with fear, with possibility, with raw, malleable power that he could claim—or destroy.
From the east, faint pulses of arcane energy stirred. A sect army, hundreds strong, approached, their banners whipped by the storm. Battle-mages and warforged constructs were at their forefront, faces grim beneath enchanted helms. Even from afar, Vael'tharion could sense their fear, their uncertainty, their hesitation.
With a flick of his talons, shadows surged outward, coiling through trees, rivers, and mountainsides. The mortals gasped, shouting in alarm as tendrils of living darkness flickered past, bending around rivers and forming sigils of domination over the earth itself. Trees groaned as roots were ensnared, boulders lifted and rearranged into jagged, silent warnings. A dozen warforged toppled over as their mechanical limbs froze under the pull of shadow.
Vael'tharion's voice, layered with both human and draconic resonance, echoed across the valley. "You stand upon ground tainted by shadow and fire. Every thought of resistance… will be consumed."
The army paused, fear and awe battling in their ranks. Leaders whispered incantations, attempting to shield minds and strengthen wills, but the shadows probed deeper than thought, seeking hesitation, doubt, and weakness.
A lone mage, eyes alight with arcane fury, stepped forward atop a collapsed spire. Flames licked from his hands, runes carved into his robes glowing with desperate power. "We do not kneel!" he shouted, voice cracking. "The shadow-blooded may rise, but mortals endure!"
Vael'tharion's shadow tendrils swirled, extending into a thousand needle-sharp tips. They struck the spire, cutting through stone with surgical precision. The mage stumbled, wards shattered, robes smoking. Shadows recoiled and writhed like snakes tightening around his limbs, yet Vael'tharion did not kill. Not yet.
Instead, he unfolded his wings, human and draconic forms shimmering together, and let Abyssal Flames erupt in a controlled torrent. The flames swept through the valley, not enough to incinerate, but enough to scorch the earth and rivers. Mortals screamed, fleeing instinctively, scrambling over fractured rock and splintered forest. Shadows followed, mapping their movement, testing their reactions.
"The world is watching," Vael'tharion whispered, claws flexing. "And the shadow obeys me."
From the northern passes, another disturbance rippled—a rival bloodline, sensing the cataclysm, moved cautiously, observing from hidden heights. Arcane pulses, faint but distinct, brushed against Vael'tharion's Void Resonance. He smiled, eyes narrowing. "So they come… finally."
He leapt from the craggy cliff, wings slicing through the storm, Temporal Shadow Step fracturing his presence into three projections. Each strike of Abyssal Flames and shadow tendrils shredded rocks, hurled trees like javelins, and sent rivers boiling away in ribbons of steam. Mortals watched, some in despair, some in awe, as the battlefield bent and twisted at his whim.
A lone warforged champion, massive and forged from enchanted metals, charged forward, weapons raised. Vael'tharion's humanoid form condensed shadows into jagged spears and whips, which struck with surgical accuracy. The metal champion's limbs were wrenched, snapped, and reshaped before it could retaliate. Flames and shadows danced together, striking from unpredictable angles, collapsing terrain and sending fragments into the sky.
"Observe," Vael'tharion said, voice low and commanding, "the difference between life and ash."
As he circled the valley, wings cutting through storm clouds, he extended Soul Absorption, drawing power from the scorched land, the fear, the scattered arcane energy, strengthening both his human and draconic forms. Every tendril, every claw, every shadowed weapon became sharper, faster, and more precise.
From afar, mortals whispered names and legends. "It is the Primordial Shadow-Dragon… no mortal can stand." "The valley itself obeys him." "He is not just dragon, nor man… he is something beyond."
Vael'tharion hovered above the chaos, surveying his handiwork. His shadow spread across the land like a living tide, rivers diverted, trees snapped, mountains scarred, all bending to the dominion of one being. And yet, he knew—this was but the beginning. Sects would gather, armies would march, rival bloodlines would rise. The mortal realm was aware now, trembling beneath his power.
He flexed, shadow tendrils coiling into spikes along cliffs and trees, Abyssal Flames licking across molten fissures left by the Elder Worm's defeat. "Let them come," he whispered, claws flexing, wings stretching wide. "The world shall learn… the shadow obeys me."
From the horizon, pulses of energy flickered—leaders of sects, rival warlords, and hidden bloodlines all converging. Vael'tharion's eyes glowed brighter, a predator observing prey, calculating, adapting, preparing for the inevitable clash.
Above the storm, he leapt once more, disappearing in a fracture of shadow and time, leaving mortals behind to tremble and whisper tales of the dragon that had returned—primordial, unstoppable, and already shaping the world in shadow and flame.
The war for Kaelithar had begun.