A horn sounded in the distance—deep, ancient, and wrong.
Not the hunting horn of Varros Hold. Not the warning call of Bamenda Ridge scouts. This horn felt like a voice dragged from the bones of the world itself.
Kael Varros jolted awake.
His room was a modest stone loft above the family forge, the ceiling low enough that he could touch it without standing. Iron tools, leather straps, and weapon sketches littered his desk. The air smelled of charcoal, sweat, and tempered metal, a perfume of discipline and craftsmanship. But beneath those familiar scents was something else now:
Ozone.
Like the air before a storm, thick with electricity.
Kael sat upright. Broad shoulders. Arms that looked carved by titans themselves. His torso bore the kind of raw strength that poets feared to describe and enemies prayed never to face. The moonlight cutting through the open window traced the ridges of his biceps and the sculpted map of his six-pack abdomen, proof of years of battle drills, forge labor, and mountain climbs.
Yet the most striking thing about Kael was not his body.
It was his eyes.
Dark irises with a burning gold ring around the pupil, subtle enough that villagers assumed it was a trick of the light. But tonight, that gold glowed faintly on its own, reflecting no fire, no torch, no moon.
Kael swung his legs off the bed.
The horn echoed again.
GROOOOOOM.
The mountain shook in answer—a slow, waking quake, like a continent stretching after a long sleep.
Kael cursed under his breath. Not from fear, but instinct. Fear was an emotion for people who had the luxury of hesitation. Instinct was the voice of those who survived.
He pulled on a sleeveless training tunic, tightened the straps of his leather combat boots, and reached for the classy silver vambraces he'd forged himself—sleek, elegant, engraved with ancestral Varros sigils that looked ancient, regal, and unlike any modern design.
The world outside waited for him in eerie silence.
No wind.
No birds.
No insect song.
Even the forge fires, usually burning all night, flickered unnaturally low, as if something massive had stolen the breath from nature.
Kael dropped from the loft ladder and landed with a controlled thud, the wood groaning under his weight. He crossed the forge floor toward the door when he heard another sound:
SCRATCH… SCRATCH…
Metal claws against stone.
Kael froze.
He yanked the forge door open.
Nothing was there.
Then the ground pulsed again—stronger this time. The circular well stones outside rattled. Roof tiles clattered down distant homes. A faint roar rolled across the peaks like thunder waking from underwater.
Kael ran.
VARROS HOLD — THE VILLAGE AT THE EDGE OF LEGENDS
Varros Hold was not a kingdom, though outsiders mistakenly called it one. It was a fortified warrior settlement built where the Tharion mountain range bowed low, a place where blacksmiths doubled as soldiers, and soldiers doubled as myth-bearers.
The village hugged a giant basin surrounded by stone ridges, waterfalls, and pine-dark forests. Training arenas were carved into the rock, sparring circles marked by iron stakes hammered into the earth. Every home was built to withstand avalanches, storms, or war—except tonight, when the world itself was shifting.
Kael sprinted past the main square.
Villagers were already gathering—not screaming, not panicking, but silent, stunned. Warriors with spears. Blacksmith elders with hammers. Hunters clutching quivers. Boys who had never seen war yet trembling as though war already knew their names.
Kael burst into the clearing overlooking Tharion's First Jaw—the cliff edge where the mountains split like teeth biting the sky.
And there stood Ravik Drane, staff grounded into the soil, cloak fluttering behind him.
Ravik was lean but battle-hardened. His arms weren't Kael's size, but they were corded with real combat experience. His shaved head gleamed with ritual ash markings from morning training. His expression was stone-serious, carved by awareness.
"You heard it too," Kael said.
Ravik grunted. "Everyone did. The question is: why did it call your name specifically?"
Kael's brows furrowed. "It didn't."
Ravik lifted his staff and pointed to the ridge wall.
There, burned into stone by residual lightning, was a glowing imprint of letters older than their oldest library tablets:
K A E L V A R R O S.
Kael's heart slammed once, heavy as a forge hammer striking anvil.
A reader somewhere would have felt that moment too—the moment the world whispered a name back.
"Impossible," Kael said, stepping toward the stone.
Ravik blocked his path with the staff. "You're strong, Kael, but don't confuse strength for invincibility. The mountain doesn't carve names for jokes."
Then came another sound.
R U M B L E… R U M B L E… R U M B L E…
Kael felt it through his boots, up his calves, into the marrow of his legs. The mountain was no longer stretching. It was standing. Rising. Remembering.
The mist above the highest peak split.
Two glowing beacons pierced the fog.
Not stars.
Not lanterns.
Not moons.
EYES.
Eyes the size of war drums, burning liquid gold, unblinking, patient, and old enough to remember when the first humans learned to name fear.
Then the roar came.
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOSHKAL!!!!
The sky cracked open with lightning as a massive dragon silhouette unfurled across the peak. Wings spanning ridges. Horns curving like mountain crescents. Scales glowing like molten constellations.
Villagers dropped to their knees.
Not to worship.
But because the pressure of presence alone forced them down.
Kael remained standing.
Not because he was unaffected.
But because the story demanded he rise instead of fall.
The wind exploded outward—finally returning as if the dragon exhaled and the world remembered it could breathe again.
"What is it?" Kael asked, voice steady but small against the immensity.
Ravik whispered the name like a prayer not meant for gods, but for those who hoped gods weren't listening:
"Vryllos Belyx."
Kael's arms trembled—not from weakness, but the strain of holding back instinctive awe. His gold-ringed eyes narrowed into destiny.
"And you think it has something to do with me?"
Ravik lowered his staff. "I think it has everything to do with you."
THE LEGEND EVERYONE FEARED TO BELIEVE
Stories of the Vryllos Belyx were older than Varros Hold's founding. Elders said the Belyx was not born—it happened, like an earthquake given wings. Others said it was a dragon that once forged the mountains into weapons for a celestial war. A few claimed the Belyx was the mountain's soul wearing a body of destruction.
No one knew truth.
But everyone knew consequence.
Because the one rule passed down across generations was:
"Do not look into the Belyx's awakening, for those it sees will be changed."
Kael had already looked.
The Belyx had already seen him.
If this were a Webnovel scroll, this would be the moment the reader stopped breathing too—because the story had claws now, gripping attention.
Kael stepped to the cliff edge.
Ravik didn't stop him this time.
Far below, a river of clouds rolled like waves. Above, the sky shimmered with lightning webs. Behind him, the silhouette of the phoenix and wolf statues guarding the training grounds glowed faintly as if acknowledging him.
Kael raised his sword arm slightly, the runes along his vambraces lighting up in response.
The dragon on the peak tilted its head.
Slow.
Deliberate.
As if it recognized him from a war not yet written.
Kael whispered—not for Ravik, not for the village, but for the reader who had already been hooked:
"Then let it wake. I was never meant to be small."