The air over Arvath was heavy with the scent of ozone and scorched earth. The valley still bore the scars of Vael'tharion's clash with the Elder Wyrm: craters gaped where molten rivers had boiled into steam, forests lay flattened in tangled heaps of wood and stone, and smoke curled like living serpents from the fissures. Mortals below huddled in fear, watching the black-and-red silhouette of the Primordial Shadow-Dragon as he hovered above the devastation.
Vael'tharion's wings cut through the storm-tossed clouds, each beat sending gusts of wind that uprooted trees and shattered rocks. His scales glimmered faintly with residual Abyssal Flames, shadow tendrils rippling along his wings and tail like sentient serpents. His eyes, molten pools of shadow, scanned the horizon, catching pulses of arcane energy that betrayed approaching sects and armies.
"They come," he whispered to himself, the shadowed whispers of his bloodline curling around the edges of his voice. "And they will learn fear."
Below, the first scouts arrived. Mage-sentinels riding spectral steeds, their cloaks adorned with runes that glowed faintly even through the storm, carried the panic of the valley into their formations. When they saw Vael'tharion, fear spread like wildfire. Horses reared, beasts shrieked, and men and women alike dropped to their knees, shields and staves trembling in powerless awe.
Vael'tharion descended, shadow flowing around him, condensing into a cloak that obscured his hulking frame. With a flick of his claws, shadows extended, snaking along the ground toward the mortals, bending the terrain itself to his presence. The rivers, still swollen from the storm, shifted and writhed, responding to the subtle pulse of his power. A lightning bolt split the sky, illuminating his form for a brief instant—dragon and human fused in perfect predatory elegance.
"Identify yourselves," Vael'tharion's voice rumbled, each syllable carrying the weight of the abyss. The shadows coiled tighter around him, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
The mage-captain stumbled forward, voice shaking. "W-We are the Northern Sentinels… sworn to guard the mortal lands! You… you cannot—"
Vael'tharion laughed—a deep, resonant sound that made the mountains shiver. "Guard? I am no threat to guard. I am the reckoning. Every slight, every betrayal… every ambition that dared touch Kaelithar will be burned from this world."
At a thought, his shadows exploded outward, forming spears and whips that whipped through the air with a deafening hiss. Mortals screamed as the constructs cut down boulders and trees in perfect precision, shaping the battlefield before the soldiers could even react. One misstep, one hesitation, and a man fell into the churning river, carried away by the currents Vael'tharion manipulated with a subtle motion.
From the mountains, war horns sounded. The Northern Sentinels were no longer alone; battalions of humans, dragons, and beasts loyal to other sects converged. Arcane energy flared as spellcasters attempted ranged attacks. Fireballs collided with shadow walls that absorbed and redirected their energy, striking back with lethal accuracy. Vael'tharion's human form shifted midair, claws becoming hands that traced glowing runes in the storm, summoning Abyssal Flames that devoured magic as easily as matter.
The mortals had underestimated him. They had expected a beast, not a godlike predator capable of instantaneous transformation, time manipulation, and adaptive combat strategies that transcended mortal comprehension.
An arrow shower pierced the air, tipped with runes designed to disrupt magic. Shadows twisted around the projectiles, bending them mid-flight, and the arrows struck each other midair in showers of sparks and magic. Vael'tharion descended into humanoid form, landing atop a shattered hillock, shadow armor crawling across his body. With a sweep of his hand, tendrils lanced into the ground, wrapping around soldiers, lifting them helplessly as if gravity itself had betrayed them.
"You cannot comprehend the abyss," he growled. "Yet you fight. Foolish mortals."
The battle escalated. Vael'tharion's wings unfurled in draconic glory, black fire coiling around his body. Shadows shot outward, binding entire units of soldiers in writhing chains. Abyssal Flames licked the ground, consuming forests, melting mountainsides, and yet leaving pathways clear for those he deemed useful—or merely curious.
From the skies, lightning fractured, striking one of his constructs. The tendril dissolved and reformed instantly, reshaping into an even sharper spear that stabbed into the ground with precision. Void Resonance allowed him to sense every movement in the battlefield—the hesitation of a soldier, the pulse of a mage's spell, the trajectory of an arrow before it was loosed. Every second, every micro-moment, was a thread in the tapestry he wove with shadow and flame.
One brave—or foolish—mage attempted a teleport behind him, thinking to strike his back. Temporal Shadow Step preempted the attack, splitting Vael'tharion into three simultaneous forms: one clawed and draconic, one humanoid casting Abyssal Flames, one wreathed in shadow tendrils. They struck the mage from three angles, disarming, burning, and binding him before he could blink.
The mortals faltered. Whispers spread: the shadow obeys him. He is not of this world.
And yet, amid the chaos, Vael'tharion paused. He sensed it—a faint pulse unlike anything in the mortal realm. Deep, distant, but unmistakably potent. Another power was stirring, one that would demand more than flames and shadows. He tilted his head, molten eyes narrowing.
For now, though, the battle was his. Shadows coiled, Abyssal Flames licked higher, and mortals scattered before him. Vael'tharion leapt into the storm, wings tearing torrents of rain and wind, leaving a trail of black fire and whispers of shadow across the valley.
The Northern Sentinels would remember this day, the mortals would whisper of the black god that walked and flew among them—but Vael'tharion did not linger on their fear. The pulse he had felt called to him, promising greater challenges, other realms, and entities beyond mortal reckoning.
With a roar that shook the clouds, Vael'tharion ascended, shadows and flames blazing behind him, leaving the battlefield in ruin. The first taste of the mortal world had been acquired, but the larger game—one of realms, armies, and ancient power—was only beginning.