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The year was 2398 of the Third Age, and the land of Laruthar was in turmoil. Not a while ago, a nameless dragon had been spotted in Laruthar. The people lived in constant fear that one day, their homes might get destroyed and their loved ones taken by the fearsome beast.

Lord Reinhold von Lionheart was on his way home from his war in the Desert of the Dead against the orc. His army was in terrible condition, men were exhausted, horses were dying, but there was no time to rest.

Once mighty and feared, Lionheart's army now stood as a mere shadow of its former glory. The soldiers, once hailed as heroes, now bore the scars of countless battles and the weight of a hundred losses. Their armor was tarnished, their swords dulled, their spirits broken. But still, they marched on, clinging to the memories of their past triumphs.

On the way back to Lionheart's citadel, countless thought came thru his head. The news of the dragon's presence in Laruthar had reached his ears, and he knew he had to act quickly to protect his people.

'What could a dragon want?'

'Why did it choose now to attack, when it had remained hidden for so long?'

'The people of the kingdom had long heard tales of the mighty dragon that resided in the mountains, but they never imagined that it would one day emerge from its lair. For centuries, the dragon had remained hidden, its presence only felt through the occasional tremors that shook the earth.'

'Could this be the work of the mysterious entity?'

He kept wondering, but no answer was found.

"We're almost into Lionheart's realm, my lord." General Tullius said, breaking the silence.

Lord Reinhold stopped his horse and looked back at the exhausted faces of his soldiers. They were tired and hungry, their spirits were at an all-time low.

"We'll stop here for the night and continue on in the morning." He announced, "General Tullius, you're in charge."

"Yes, my lord."

General Tullius 'the Loyal'. A man of honor, a towering figure on the battlefield with a reputation that preceded him. His dark eyes held a fierce determination, a fire that burned within him as he fought for justice and righteousness.

Born with only a remnant of the chosen one blood, Tullius had trained tirelessly to become one of the best swordsmen in the land. His skills were unmatched, his swordsmanship a deadly dance that left his enemies trembling in fear.

But it was not just his prowess in battle that set Tullius apart. He was a man of unwavering loyalty, a steadfast ally to those who stood by his side. He never betrayed the trust of his comrades, always putting their needs above his own.

In the heat of battle, Tullius was a force to be reckoned with. His sword sliced through the air with deadly precision, cutting down his enemies with a ferocity that was unmatched. But even in the midst of chaos and bloodshed, he never lost sight of his honor.

Reinhold alighted from his horse and walk towards his tent. As he entered, his gaze was drawn to the sacred armor laid out before him. This revered armor, known as the Heirloom of the Shadows, had been handed down within his family line for countless generations. It had been in their possession since their exile to Laruthar. Some whispered that it was a divine gift from The Ancient One or The Lord.

It was a beautiful piece, forged from the rarest metal and decorated with intricate carvings by the hands of the most talented dwarf. But more importantly, it was imbued with ancient magic by an ancient elf, granting the wearer immense strength and speed.

'This armor... will it be the end of me...'

Lord Reinhold sat in his chambers, deep in thought. The words of the prophecy echoed in his mind, sending shivers down his spine. He had always dismissed it as mere superstition, but now, as he faced the twilight of his life, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease.

The flames seemed to flicker before his eyes, taunting him with their fiery embrace. He could almost feel the heat licking at his skin, threatening to consume him whole. But amidst the terror, a glimmer of hope emerged. The promise of a rebirth, of a prince destined to rise from the ashes of destruction.

'For in the fire of hell, mixed with the pure blood of a chosen one, the prince who was promised will be reborn. The one who shall free us all.'

As he pondered the meaning of the prophecy, a sense of duty and responsibility washed over him. If he was truly the chosen one, the one destined to bring about the rebirth of the prince, then he must embrace his fate with courage and conviction.

As he stood before the fire, his long and blonde hair shone like a lion's mane, a stark contrast to his weathered face. Despite his age, there was an undeniable air of heroism about him, a sense of strength and resilience that had been forged through countless battles and trials. He was a warrior, a leader, a legend. And as he stood there, bathed in the warm light of the fire, he knew that his legacy would live on long after he was gone. Even though he had the blood of the chosen one, his blood was mixed and could no longer retain his purity. Old but yet, so heroic. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer. In that moment, he embraced his destiny, ready to face whatever fate bring upon him.

'If I'm to die, then let it be by the fire of the dragon, with my beloved axe.'

He put on the armor and left the tent, his heart filled with determination.

After his men had made camp and settled down, Lord Reinhold gathered the remaining commanders and knights to discuss the situation.

"I've received reports from the scouts that the dragon has been sighted near the south of the Great mountains." General Tullius said, "They're afraid to approach it because of the rumors."

"Rumors?"

"That it is a creature of pure evil, sent by the ancient ones to punish us for our sins."

"Nonsense."

"It is said that those who have seen its eyes have been driven mad, their souls forever tainted by its presence."

"That is just superstition."

"Then you have not seen it, my lord."

Lord Reinhold sighed and rubbed his temples. He was not in the mood to deal with rumors and superstitions, but he had to admit that the reports were troubling. If the dragon was truly a creature of evil, then it could pose a serious threat to their land.

"We must send more scouts to investigate the area."

"My lord, there is no need. I will go myself." General Tullius said, a look of determination on his face.

"You?"

"Yes, I will lead a small group of soldiers and see what we can find."

"Are you certain? The risk is great."

"As a general, this is my duty my lord. Death does not frighten me nor the dragon. I am committed to serving you and the fate of Laruthar."

Lord Reinhold looked at General Tullius for a long moment, a mixture of pride and worry in his eyes.

"Very well. You have my permission. But be careful, General."

"I will, my lord."

"What about the ice elfs in Oflenora, near the volcano?" Reinhold suddenly ask

"The Ice Elves have been living near the volcano for centuries. They've never posed a threat to anyone, despite the rumors."

"We must inform them about this and ask them for support."

"Of course, my lord. I'll send a message to their queen immediately."

With that, the meeting was adjourned. Lord Reinhold watched as the others filed out, a sense of dread filling his heart. The dragon was a threat unlike any other, and he feared that it would not be long before their land was engulfed in flames.

The next day, as the sun was setting, General Tullius and a small group of soldiers set out to find the dragon.

"Be careful, General. May the Ancient Ones guide your steps."

"I will, my lord. Thank you."

"May the gods be with you."

"And may the fire burn within you."

As he watched General Tullius and his men ride off into the distance, Lord Reinhold could not help but feel a sense of foreboding.

And he continued his journey back to the citadel, where he had been gone for more than six years. The days passed by quickly, with Lord Reinhold spending most of his time planning for the impending dragon attack. The nights were filled with restless sleep, haunted by visions of the fiery beast descending upon the citadel.

As the army made their way through the forest, they stumbled upon an abandoned village. The once bustling streets were now eerily quiet, with nothing but ash and burnt remnants scattered about.

The army surveyed the scene with a look of disbelief on his face.

"Must be the orc, my lord," one of his men spoke up, pointing to the hounds and wolfs prints that littered the ground. "There are no bodies, only destruction."

Reinhold shook his head in denial "Impossible! Orcs do not travel this far south, and the red orcs from the west cannot cross the Great Mountain."

"My lord, I found something." One of the soldiers brought him a wooden sign with words written on it.

Their faces etched with concern. The words carved into the wood were unfamiliar, ancient, and foreboding. The first man, a seasoned warrior, spoke with a deep sense of unease in his voice.

"This is a dwarven language, an old one at that. I can tell," he said, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest for any signs of danger.

"Dwarven? Why would dwarves write on a wooden sign in an ancient dwarven language?"

 

"My lord," the second man, a young squire, asked, his voice trembling with fear. "Wish that i know the answer but I don't have a good feeling about this. If it's what I am afraid, the orc must have traveled here through Threhbor.

"But orcs never can get past those dwarves in the first place." Reinhold replied, his mind racing with possibilities.

"My lord, the dwarves from the west have long since hidden in their mountain. Could it be that they have allied with the orcs?" the squire questioned, his eyes wide with dread.

"That's impossible, the orcs and dwarves have been enemies for centuries," Reinhold stated, his tone filled with certainty.

"We should keep moving, my lord," the soldier suggested, his hand firmly gripping his sword.

"Something is amiss with the dwarves. Bring me 100 knights mounted on the swiftest horses. They will accompany me to Threhbor. The rest of you, head to the citadel, report everything, regroup, and prepare to move forward once more," Reinhold instructed, signaling to the soldiers to follow his command.

"At once, my lord." the soldier replied, hurrying off to carry out his orders.

Reinhold stood there, his mind racing with the possibilities of what could have transpired. The dwarves, once loyal allies, now potentially turning their backs on the realm and joining forces with the orcs. It was a betrayal of the highest order, one that could have devastating consequences for the Lionheart's realm.

As he contemplated the dire circumstances, a troubling realization began to take root in his mind. Was it conceivable that the dwarves had delved too eagerly and too deeply into their mines, awakening an ancient and powerful force? Memories of the destruction of Vanuir flooded his thoughts, a once-thriving city brought to ruin by the hubris of its inhabitants.

The mere thought sent shivers down Reinhold's spine. He knew that if the dwarves had indeed awakened something sinister, it would spell doom for the entire realm. They must have learned something from the mistakes of the past, he thought desperately.

'No... it can't be.'

'I want to believe that it's a coincidence, but I have a feeling that it's not. The dragon... the orc... the dwarves... the rumors... everything seems connected somehow' Lord Reinhold thought to himself.

With a sense of urgency, Reinhold knew he had to act quickly. He couldn't afford to waste any time. Filled with sorrow, he and his knights rode toward the Dwarve's city in the mountain, Threhbor.