The inside of Dragonhearth was just as disquieting as the realm it existed within.
There was no visible source of light, yet Ran could see with absolute clarity. And he wished he couldn't.
The architectural structures with the tower were abominations to the eyes. For one, there were no doors and what stood in between every threshold was a floating spiral of shadowy wing-like things that moved with the serpentine grace of tentacles.
They unfolded like a flower petal to let one through and curled up like a Boa Constrictor to close.
The ceiling, high enough to house a tower inside, made him feel like he was outside because it also wasn't an actual solid structure, it was a cloud that moved like a fog across a valley. It was the blackest cloud Ran had ever seen.
The dragon in human form led him through the tower in a brisk pace Ran had to match, passing foggy hallways choked with the smoke from the sulfur-stone walls and floor, until they reached a spiraling tendril door that was as huge as a pyramid.
The door unfolded and Ran followed the dragon knight into the largest room he'd ever seen in his life. The room was a realm unto itself.
It was endless, its ceiling could not be seen nor could its walls, save the backwall that held the doorway they'd just passed through.
'How many days would it take me to cross through a place like this?' Ran could not help but wonder at that moment.
He soon realized it was a throne room the more he looked around. It was resplendent and regal but there was also something utterly wrong with it.
Beside its vastness, within its space that stretched into eternity were pillars of radiant like that were blinding white and so tall that it was impossible to see their ends. They vanished into the bright void of the structurally invisible ceiling.
Light cascaded down from no visible source, falling in rays of silver and gold that turned black upon contact with the floor.
A throne was in the very middle of the room, where the dragon knight led him towards.
From the distance between them Ran could see that the throne sat upon a marble staircase so white it looked like oiled bone. Each step was adorned with figurines, angelic figures that'd had their faces carved out and shaped into articles of reverence for pagan idolization.
And at the top of the throne, seated in dominion, was a figure.
The mere sight of him triggered Ran's freeze and flight instincts which he had to resist the urge to obey. And resisting it triggered a cowardly instinct that urged him to fall on his knees in worship.
He had to enforce an iron-fisted grip over his will as they continued to approach.
His eyes were fixed on the figure who shone as bright as the sun and was equally as radiant and blinding. Ran knew a normal mortal would barely be able to glimpse at him without searing their vision.
But he was no mere mortal.
A corona, a golden brilliance, arched outwardly from the figure's seated form, blazing like the very surface of a star. Yet, behind it was a paradoxical contrast against that golden brilliance—wings as dark as night, six of them, half curled almost like a cocoon. Their edges possesed feathers of ashes and shadows.
The figure was perfectly still but the room throbbed with his presence, even the wings were swaying as though mourning of an unknown loss.
The being sat still, patient. He watched, he waited, and he said nothing.
He didn't have to say a word, the throne room spoke enough for him, shedding light to his history and origin.
The floor Ran walked upon vibrated beneath with the energy of millions of glowing runes, constellations of a sacred language lit up as embers.
They were more than symbols, they were arranged as runic art to tell stories. They were depictions that had been etched with agonizing detail.
They depicted battles between the Celestial Realms and Hell, angelic legions locked in wars across celestial plains. Embers of runes formed patterns of shattered halos and broken horns, of cities of light disintegrated into shards of glass.
The tale did not end there, there were more parts to it.
One tableau was a depiction of dragons soaring. They were so great, immense and ancient. Some gave wisdom, some gave flames. They chose the wrong side and an alliance of sky, storm, and blaze was created.
Another pattern of glowing runes showed a great betrayal.
Some angelic hosts turned on their brethrens and danced over to the side of sin, leaving destruction and corruption in their wake. They mated with mortals and dragons, seeding abominations across the universe.
The angelic legions, driven by divine order, fell upon the dragons and the betrayers with systematic fury.
Depictions showed dragons who were hunted, cornered, and cast down along with the betrayers, their souls broken beneath the force of sanctified spears.
Dragons burned in their nests, some crashed into the Earth slicing up continents into islands. Younglings were torn from the heavens and the clouds and dropped like stones down into the Abyss, and with them were the betrayers.
The final mosaic was one that showed the last dragon, his wings torn as he crawled toward a black sun with angelic figures surrounding it—watching in heavy silence.
Ran could feel the emotions from these imageries, they looked and felt so real, and as he observed the final one he saw the end, saw as even the last dragon was erased and cast down.
After he'd gone over the walk through primordial history, he lifted his head and gazed upon the figure on the throne again.
The radiant figure sat, motionless. His wings were folded over like a dome of stygian grace.
The runes upon the floor pulsed with every silent breath of the figure, matching an unknown rhythm.
The air was thick and Ran could hear, just below the hearing range of mortal capability, a hymn turned sour—too divine, too blissful, too soulful. It was a false harmony from the Prince of Lies.
Ran was not deceived. Regardless of the emotions that were being falsely stirred in him, he knew logically and upon his own conviction that this was not a place of worship. It was a place of dominion, a heaven for the rejected, a paradise of corpses.
And that thing upon the throne? It was not a god, it was not even a reminder of one.
What it was, was a gilded carcass—beauty without, abomination within.
So when he finally came to a halt before the throne, he made sure not to meet the eyes of Lucifer. The devil's eyes, after all, was an invite for destruction.
And when he opened his mouth and asked a question straight from his heart and what he'd observed, he was not surprised by the answer he got.
Remembering his dream, he asked, head bowed, "the last time I saw you, you were as black as sin. But now you are like a star in the heart of a void."
A voice as beautiful as the harmony of an angelic choir filled the vast room and made him feel light and at peace.
"What you saw was my spirit. I fear we are not always the same within as we are without. Not even you, little god?"
"Why did you ask that I be present before you?"
A silence stretched through the heartbeats in between the considerable distance from when he spoke and when he got a response.
The response was not one he liked. It was one he'd expected, and one he feared.
When he spoke, upon the lips of Lucifer were the words–
"To honour thy father."