In an age long swallowed by time, before the Aeon Spire rose from the heart of the land, the skies trembled beneath the wrath of a being whose name became taboo among scholars and poets alike-Vaelthoryn, the Sovereign of Chaos.
Born of flame and frost-of molten fury and suffocating stillness-he was not merely a dragon. He was imbalance incarnate. Pyro and Cryo answered his will not as elements, but as extensions of his breath. Forests melted into glassy wastelands under his fire; rivers erupted into frozen spires at his passing. His wings carved through the clouds, leaving storms of contradiction in his wake: embers sealed in ice, flames that snowed, hailstones that sang in tongues long lost.
Civilizations crumbled in his shadow. Towers of stone and sanctuaries of faith vanished beneath his fury. Even the elements twisted in confusion around him, unsure whether to burn, freeze, or flee.
No god answered. No mortal army stood.
Then came the wind.
Not a gale, nor a cyclone. Just a presence-quiet, precise, resolute.
She descended with no name spoken. Her silhouette danced between ruin and firelight, her robes stirred by unseen currents. In her hand, she held no sword, but a single fan-a delicate, ancient weapon etched with unreadable glyphs, humming softly with a power that did not belong to any known element.
Where Vaelthoryn unleashed calamity, she moved like poetry in defiance.
Their clash began with a silence so total the world held its breath.
Flames roared as Vaelthoryn lunged, his form a monstrous wave of chaos. She answered with motion-a single sweep of her fan, summoning a spiraling gale that caught his breath and shattered it into harmless stardust. His frost came next, crashing down in crystalline avalanches. She met them midair, redirecting their course, slicing wind into blades of controlled destruction.
She did not overpower.
She outmaneuvered.
Each step was a dance. Each flick of her fan disrupted the dragon's rhythm, turning ruin into rhythm. The battlefield shifted around her-not with force, but with intent. Her movements were not aggressive, but absolute. Storms folded themselves into her pattern, like even nature knew better than to disobey her will.
The battle lasted for decades. Lands shifted. Skies broke. Stars vanished beneath the ongoing war. Mountains sank; lakes rose to meet the heavens. The people who survived whispered not of a savior, but of a storm wearing skin.
Vaelthoryn, mighty as he was, began to slow. His power-vast, monstrous-had found no equal, until now. He faltered not from defeat, but from something deeper. Exhaustion. Admiration. Fear.
He refused surrender.
But he understood silence.
And so, in that final moment, as the wind gathered around them in a crescendo of memory and sacrifice, he allowed himself to sleep. Whether it was truce or trick, no one knew. But she did not slay him. She sealed him-within a prison of time and tempest, deep beneath the world's surface where even his chaos could not escape.
And then, she vanished.
Not with praise. Not with parades. Only in rumor. No records. No name. No statue stood in her honor. Only the wind whispered her memory-and even that, too, faded in time.
---
As centuries passed, her battle became myth. A bedtime tale. A metaphor. The cities rebuilt atop forgotten scars. And the land, in its arrogance, forgot the silence that once saved it.
But far beneath the roots of the world, Vaelthoryn stirs-for the seal is whispering once more.
And the wind... remembers.