The Primordial Record

Death was acceptable, but it was foolish not to try to prevent it. Lyra knew danger was ahead, but if there were a chance to win, she would take it. This was the reason she went ahead to cross this dimension, but this dragon was beyond all of them.

Before Lyra could give the order to retreat, a wave of palpable heat washed over them, a stark and welcome contrast from the consuming chill emanating from the dragon.

Standing on a lower outcrop, seemingly unconcerned by the mile-long dragon above him or the armed warriors below, was a man.

Or something wearing the shape of one.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in simple, dark travel leathers that seemed to drink the light. His hair was a wild, unruly mane of living flame, flickering through shades of crimson, gold, and orange, casting dancing shadows across a face that was both handsome and ageless.

His eyes, when they turned to the Elythrii, held a nine colored glow like a rainbow. He radiated an aura of immense, contained power, as miniature phoenixes danced around his body, all holding powers that would be equal to an Old One.

The Elythrii had learned of the tentative distribution of power in this realm. They were aware that Primordials were at the peak of existence, and below them were Old Ones.

However, there were specific groups that were just below Primordials and above Old Ones, those whose power could crush any Old Ones but could not stand up to a Primordial, and they believed they had just come across two of those.

The three parties regarded each other in a silence broken only by the moaning wind. The dragon lowered its colossal head, its breath frosting the air into a blizzard.

"Little saplings," the dragon's voice was the sound of continents of ice grinding together, a low rumble that vibrated in their bones. "You trespass in my contemplation."

The man with fiery hair snorted, a sound like a spark catching tinder. "Contemplation? Is that what you call brooding over your hoard of frozen tears and stolen memories, Vraegar? Don't be so dramatic. The path is free for all. Mostly." Looking around at the bodies of the frozen Old Ones who had been drained of everything they had, the man chuckled, "I see that you have been eating quite well."

The dragon's glacial eyes narrowed. "You are far from the halls of Trion, Phoenix Lord. Do not mistake my patience over our shared bloodline for indulgence. Your very presence is a stain upon the pristine silence that I crave."

"A stain? I'm the only bit of color in this desolate, monochrome eyesore you call a home." The man looked down at the Elythrii, a smirk playing on his lips. "And it seems we have an audience. Well, don't just stand there shivering. Who are you, and what brings the children of the Verdant Tree to this cheerless place? I always thought the Primordial Domain knew well to keep their bloodline close, especially in times like these, when many hunts your kind for the many years of suppression they have suffered."

Lyra knew there were many nuances in politics that she was not aware of when it came to the affairs of this realm. They had taken the shape of the Eldars, from the Primordial Domain, the Land of Miracles, and it seemed she would have to chance it if their bluff could keep holding.

There was no way she would allow these powerful immortals to know about Elython, and she would rather perish before allowing that to happen.

Lyra stepped forward, her glaive held not in threat, but in readiness. Her people's discipline overrode their fear. "I am Lyra, First Blade of the Eldarah. We are on patrol, away from our main group. We felt the… Echo, calling all to attend to it, and we are merely scouts."

"The Echo," the dragon mused, a hint of something like amusement in its world-ending voice. "A quaint name for the glorious call of the Arena. You feel the preamble to the symphony, little sapling. You cannot yet conceive of the crescendo."

"We are aware that there would be a battle," Lyra said, making sure she put a spot of pride in her voice that appeared to be stung by the condescension in the dragon's voice, in order to maintain the facade of a member of a Primordial Domain. "We seek only to ensure it brings no harm to our lands."

The fiery-haired man laughed, a rich, warm sound that made the very air feel warmer. "Harm? Oh, it'll bring harm. It'll bring a fundamental rewriting of the local laws of reality, which is what it'll bring. But your little forests might be okay. Might be a bit… ashier. Or frozen. Depends on who wins, really." He shrugged as if discussing the weather.

"You speak of it so lightly," Lyra said, a note of accusation in her voice.

The man's fiery gaze fell upon her, and Lyra took an involuntary step back. "Lightly? No. I speak of it from the perspective of someone who has seen dimensions bloom and die like flowers in a field and understands that there are forces beyond our control or understanding. Your concern is your forest. My concern is to survive and thrive in a realm that would take everything from you except that you are strong. It's a matter of scale, Eldar."

"Do not presume to educate them on scale, Fury," the dragon rumbled. "Your perspective is as warped and volatile as your essence. You see only the burning, not the enduring stillness that follows."

So the man was called Fury. Lyra filed the name away. It fit.

Fury rolled his eyes, the flames of his hair flaring slightly. "And you see only the stillness, Vraegar, and call it peace. It's not peace. It's just… dead. Now," he said, turning back to Lyra. "You're heading towards the source of the Echo. So are we. An unlikely trio we make, but it seems we share a destination. Safety in numbers and all that."

Lyra blinked. "You propose we travel together?" The idea was absurd. A patrol of Elythrii warriors, an Elder Dragon? And… whatever Fury was.

"The proposition has merit," Vraegar the dragon said, to her immense surprise. "The paths ahead are… unstable. The battle that is about to take place has drawn all manner of scavengers and spectators. My power is vast, but singular. His…" the dragon almost seemed to shudder, "…is noisy. Your kind possesses a harmony, a connection to the living world that can sense dissonance we might overlook."

Fury grinned. "He means you can be canaries in the coal mine. But yes, what the walking leech said. Plus, I'm bored. You look like you might be marginally less tedious company than he is."

Lyra looked at her squad. Their expressions were a mix of terror and awe. To travel with such beings was unprecedented. It was also incredibly dangerous. But Fury was right about the paths being unstable. They had already encountered mutated beasts and reality fractures on their patrol. The protection of an Elder Dragon and a being who seemed its equal… it was not an offer to be lightly refused.

"Very well," Lyra said, her voice steady. "We will accompany you. But this is not an alliance. Merely a shared path."

Fury clapped his hands together, a small shower of sparks falling to the ground and sizzling on the rock. "Excellent! A shared path it is. Let's go. The main event won't wait forever, and I've got a significant wager riding on the outcome."

"Your penchant for gambling on the cosmic order is beneath you," Vraegar intoned, unfurling his wings with a sound like a thousand sails catching the wind. He did not take to the sky, but began to move along the pass, his colossal body scraping against the mountain sides, sending showers of rock and ice tumbling down.

"Says the being who hoards everything in his heart," Fury retorted, falling into step beside Lyra and her warriors. "I'd rather create a future to bet on than preserve a past that's already done."

And so it began—the journey of the Elythrii, Vraegar, and Fury.

Lyra understood that these two had not told them the entire reason they wanted to accompany them to this Arena. She feared they must have known there was something different about the Elythrii, but if they were choosing to play along, then Lyra had no reason to cause any conflict.

The dragon glanced at the Elythrii, his thoughts unknown, yet internally, Vraegar was sighing,

'I can sense a fragment of your soul, Diane, but I can't feel your spirit. What has Father done to you?'