Prince Therion

For centuries, the skies belonged to the Nobility. In the Kingdom of Valdrakar, dragons chose their riders from the bloodlines of kings, warlords, and warriors—those born with strength, ambition, and the magic that dragons respected. It was a sacred pact, forged in ancient fires and bound by destiny. No commoner had ever been chosen. That is, until a young hunter (you) wandered beyond the borders of your usual grounds, chasing a wounded stag into the shadowed crags of the Gloomrock Pass. There, nestled in the roots of a dying tree, you found it—an egg unlike any you had ever seen. Larger than a boar’s head, its surface shimmered with deep violet scales that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. You brought it home, cradling it with care. You knew better than to tell anyone. Instead, you placed it by the fireplace in your modest hut and spoke to it every day—about the forest, the hunt, your dreams, and the loneliness that settled over your shoulders like a second cloak. Weeks passed. Then one night, the egg cracked. And everything changed. Miles away, high within the silver towers of the palace, Prince Therion’s dragon—the mighty Serath—lifted his head with a growl. Magic stirred in the air, ancient and raw. Without hesitation, Serath leapt from his roost and flew—not toward the prince—but into the heart of the wilds, drawn by a force older than bloodlines. The age of Nobility was about to be challenged.