Date: ——————
Cold. That was the first thing Datuk felt. But it was not the biting, painful cold of cave drafts or the icy breath of death he was used to. It was the cold of absolute freedom — the thin, pure air of the highest altitudes, where breathing itself felt like an act of divine will.
Datuk tried to open his eyes, but realized they were already open. Moreover, his vision had changed. It was terrifyingly sharp, multifaceted, capable of distinguishing the sway of a blade of grass miles away while simultaneously sensing the subtlest flows of energy running through the very fabric of space.
The world below lay spread out like an old map on a giant's table. Majestic mountain ranges, which Datuk was used to crossing over weeks, now seemed mere wrinkles on the earth's skin. Rivers looked like frozen silver threads, forests like patches of dark green moss.
He felt movement. It was not the movement of his own legs. It was a colossal, rhythmic surge that vibrated through his entire being. From the corner of his eye, Datuk noticed something enormous.
A wing.
Massive, covered in bluish‑black scales that shimmered in the sunlight with all the hues of indigo and mercury. Each scale was the size of a good shield, and the membranes between the bony protrusions seemed made of night itself. With each beat of this wing, the clouds below were torn to shreds, creating powerful air vortices.
Then realization hit him like an avalanche. He was not in his own body. He was not in the cave. His consciousness, seized by magic or ancient memory, had merged with the mind of the very creature he had just been speaking with in the dungeon's darkness.
*Zemkhal…* The name echoed in his head, a rumble like distant thunder. This was not just a dragon. This was an element clothed in flesh and blood.
Zemkhal began his descent. Datuk felt the world below rapidly grow larger. Now he could make out details. At the foot of an impregnable wall of a great kingdom, whose white stone spires pierced the sky, stretched an ocean of cloth and leather.
A tent city. A siege.
Myriads of tiny creatures scurried below. From the dragon's flight altitude, they seemed no more than insects, but Datuk, through Zemkhal's heightened senses, could hear them. He heard the clash of thousands of swords, the neighing of horses, the hum of voices — and, most of all, he felt their fear. It was thick and acrid, like smoke from bad coal.
When the dragon's enormous shadow covered the camp, movement below froze for an instant. Datuk saw soldiers crane their necks, saw archers instinctively reach for their quivers only to lower their hands. They looked at the dragon with wariness, with a reverence bordering on madness, but no one made any hostile move. They knew who was flying above them. They knew on whose side this power rested.
Zemkhal folded his wings and went into a steep dive. Wind whistled in Datuk's ears — or rather, in the sensory organs that served as the dragon's ears. The ground rushed up at terrifying speed, but at the last moment the dragon spread his membranes, creating colossal air resistance. The shockwave from landing was so strong that the nearest light tents were blown away, and heavy wagons swayed. Dust rose in a column, hiding the sun.
The dragon landed in the heart of the camp, on a plaza left open specifically for him. Before him rose something that, upon closer inspection, could not be called merely a tent.
It was a monumental structure, a wonder of engineering and magic. Made of giant blocks of special "living" stone that seemed to absorb sunlight, it had only the outer shape of a tent. Its walls were covered with runes glowing with a soft azure light, and the entrance was so wide that Zemkhal could walk inside without bending his long, graceful neck.
Inside, the space seemed even more impossible. Spatial expansion magic worked at full power here. The ceiling soared so high into the twilight it was invisible, and along the sides stood columns carved from entire crystals. Zemkhal walked deeper, his claws clicking dryly on the polished stone floor. Despite his monstrous size, the dragon did not feel cramped — there was room enough for three more like him, and space would still remain.
In the center of the hall, behind a long table of ebony, they sat.
Datuk felt his breath catch, if he had lungs at this moment. The aura of power emanating from those gathered was almost physically tangible. It pressed down, making the space around them vibrate.
They were all there. Representatives of races that, in Datuk's era, were already considered extinct or mythical. Tall, fine‑boned beings with skin the color of moonlight; massive giants covered in natural armor; humans whose eyes glowed with inner fire.
Of various ages — from youths with skin as smooth as silk to elders whose faces resembled the cracked bark of ancient oaks. But they all shared one thing: they were Spirit Lords. The pinnacle of development, beings whose inner worlds were so vast they could alter reality around them. Each of them was an army unto themselves.
But among this elite, this galaxy of demigods, Datuk noticed one. He sat slightly apart, and from him emanated none of the overwhelming waves of energy that came from the others. He looked like an ordinary man, almost vulnerable in this gathering of titans. Yet the way the others glanced at him — with a mixture of respect and hushed anticipation — spoke volumes.
All present had sworn loyalty to one man. A man whose ideals, at that moment, seemed like the dawn of a new world, salvation for the oppressed, and hope for eternal order.
Zanra.
At that time, his name did not yet inspire terror or contempt. His epithet sounded proud and pure: Inspired by Ideas. Or, as the official chronicles of that era called him: Zanra the Inspired.
He stood at the edge of the table, studying a map of the kingdom spread before him. His appearance was simple: long dark hair held by a plain circlet, clothing of coarse fabric without adornment. But in his posture was such focus, such unshakable faith in his own righteousness, that even Zemkhal, ancient and proud dragon, inclined his head in a brief, almost imperceptible greeting.
When the dragon took his place at the back of the hall, a rustle of voices ran through the ranks of the Spirit Lords.
"Oh, the great serpent has deigned to descend to us mortals," came a mocking voice from one of the elven lords, whose fingers nervously tapped the hilt of a thin rapier.
"Zemkhal is always on time," replied a female warrior with a huge scar across her face, smiling at the dragon as an old friend. "His presence is like a light that warms us."
"Or a shadow that will bury us all," muttered someone in the back, not looking up from his scrolls.
The exchange might have continued for a long time — the egos of Spirit Lords were as vast as their power. But suddenly, silence fell over the hall. It was not abrupt; it was natural, as if the air itself had decided to stop vibrating.
Zanra raised his head from the map. His gaze, deep and clear, swept over those present. Datuk, seeing through the dragon's eyes, felt a strange tingling — Zanra seemed to peer into the very essence of Zemkhal, and through him, into Datuk himself, separated by ages and space.
The Inspired One smiled faintly. In that smile there was no arrogance, only the quiet joy of a man seeing his vision take shape.
"Friends," he began, and his voice, not loud but possessing a strange penetrating power, filled every corner of the vast hall. "Now we are all assembled. Our goal is closer than ever, and each of you is a key element in what is about to happen."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over his generals, his comrades, his devoted followers.
"I propose we begin the council."
The words hung in the air, heavy with significance. Datuk felt Zemkhal's consciousness begin to cloud, and the last thing he saw was that fire in Zanra's eyes — the fire of a man who genuinely believed he was making the world better, before he turned it to ashes.