Deep in the Underworld, beneath ceilings of living obsidian and rivers of molten sulfur that never cooled, the new crowned king Valthar Drakenscale sat motionless on his throne.
The crown still smelled of scorched pride and the blood of the previous ruler.
The throne itself was carved from the petrified spine of an abyssal leviathan — cold, unyielding, and far too large for comfort.
Valthar didn't care about comfort.
He cared about power.
And right now, power was mocking him.
He wore the Demon King Ring on his right index finger — a band of blackened adamantite etched with spiraling runes that had once pulsed with crimson light.
The ring was supposed to summon Deathwing of the North.
The legends were clear: only the True Legend Demon King could call the dragon.
Valthar had won the tournament, broken Gruk's spine in front of the entire court, took the crown, took the ring… and the dragon had not answered.
Not even a whisper.
Until three hours ago.
The ring had burned.
Not hot enough to scar flesh — just enough to remind him it still existed.
A single, sharp pulse of ancient power had surged through the metal, through his bone, straight into his heart.
For one heartbeat, Valthar had felt what true dominion might taste like.
Then it was gone.
Now the ring sat cold and silent again — mocking.
He stared at it.
The throne room doors groaned open.
Nine figures entered — one from each of the nine kingdoms of the Underworld.
They were not subordinates.
They were predators who had agreed — temporarily — to kneel.
They gathered in a half-circle before the throne.
None bowed.
Valthar didn't expect them to.
He lifted his hand — the ring catching torchlight — and spoke.
"You felt it."
It wasn't a question.
Veyrissa the Bloodweaver stepped forward first, her blood-red hair cascading like spilled wine.
"I felt it in my marrow," she said, voice low and velvet. "Deathwing stirred. Someone called him."
Murmurs rippled through the nine — sharp, edged with suspicion.
Nyxthar the Hollow Sovereign spoke next, voice like stones scraping together.
"Impossible. The dragon answers only the True Legend. The ring has not sung for centuries."
Ferrak the Forgemaw reshaped his arm into a blade, then back to a hand — a casual flex of power.
"Then why did it stop? Perhaps the ring is defective… or the king is."
A low hiss escaped Sylvara the Chill Sovereign, frost curling from her lips.
"Careful, Forgemaw. The throne is still warm from the last fool who questioned the crown."
Ferrak's grin was all teeth.
"I'm only saying what we're all thinking. If the ring chose Valthar, why is Deathwing flying for someone else?"
Morbelith the Blighted Rose tilted her head, black roses dripping venom onto the floor.
"Perhaps the ring is waiting for someone better."
Ignarath the Cinderlord laughed — a sound like breaking stone — but it was edged with warning.
"Better than Valthar? Watch your tongue, Rose-bitch. The last time someone spoke treason in this room, the throne drank their spine."
Veyrissa's smile was slow and dangerous.
"Enough. Let us not waste strength on each other. Not yet."
She looked at Valthar.
"We need to know who called the dragon. If he is worthy, we recruit him. If not… we kill him. Then only it will be possible to go against Heaven, and eventually rule the world."
Umbralis the Light Devourer — the quiet one — spoke softly.
"And if the summoner refuses?"
Nyxthar laughed — cold, grinding.
"Then we take the ring by force. Valthar has had his chance. Perhaps it's time for a new tournament."
The air in the throne room thickened.
Ferrak took one step forward — blade arm half-formed again.
Veyrissa's hand snapped out, stopping him with a single look.
Ignarath cracked his knuckles, sparks flying.
"You want the ring, Hollow Sovereign? Come take it."
Nyxthar turned to face Ignarath — faceless head tilting.
"I'm not the only one thinking it. The ring burned for a second — and then nothing. If it won't answer him, why keep it on a throne that can't wield it?"
Sylvara exhaled frost that hissed against the heat.
"You're bold for someone who just regenerated his skull."
Nyxthar's voice dropped.
"I'm bold because I'm tired of pretending this crown still means something when the dragon ignores it."
Morbelith's roses bloomed wider — venom dripping faster.
"Careful. The ring might be listening."
Ferrak laughed — metallic, grating.
"Let it listen. I say we test it. Right here. Right now."
He took another step toward the throne.
Valthar moved.
One second he was seated.
The next, his hand was buried wrist-deep in Ferrak's chest — metal flesh crumpling like tin around his fingers.
Ferrak gasped — a sound like tearing steel.
Valthar twisted.
Ferrak's torso split open — ribs of living metal peeling back like broken armor, sparks and molten slag pouring out.
The body dropped.
It twitched once.
Then regenerated — metal plates sliding back into place, flesh reforming over the wound.
Ferrak stood again, breathing hard.
Valthar pulled his hand free, ichor and molten metal dripping from his fingers.
"Speak of taking the ring again," he said softly, "and next time I will melt you down and forge you into a chamber pot for the throne room."
Veyrissa placed a hand on her brother's shoulder.
"Peace," she murmured. "Let us not waste strength on each other."
She looked at Valthar.
"We need to find this summoner. If he is worthy, we recruit him. If not… we kill him. Then only it will be possible to go against Heaven, and eventually rule the world."
Ignarath laughed again — lower this time, more dangerous.
"Surface scouts say the dragon flew south. Lightning followed. That's all we know. The summoner's identity is still buried in mortal rumors."
He slapped his thigh, sparks flying.
"But whoever it is… they did what Valthar could not."
The laughter died quickly when Valthar's eyes met his.
Valthar lifted his hand.
The ring gleamed.
Ignarath's laughter choked off.
Valthar spoke — voice low, calm, deadly.
"Find the summoner."
Ignarath swallowed, grin fading.
"My king—"
"Find him," Valthar repeated. "Bring me his head. I want to know who dared to call what belongs to me."
He leaned forward.
"Or perhaps I'll tear the answer from their corpse myself."
The nine inclined their heads — not bows, but acknowledgment.
They turned and left — shadows and fire and frost and plague and void and metal and bone and blood and silence.
Valthar remained alone.
He stared at the ring.
It was cold again.
But he could still feel the echo of that single heartbeat — the moment he had almost been worthy.
He closed his fist.
In the capital, the air still tasted of ozone and dread.
The southern gate had barely closed behind them when the column settled into a grim, silent rhythm.
High Commander Darius Kaelthorn rode at the front crimson cloak snapping in the wind like a warning flag, black dragon-hide sword resting across his saddle pommel. His scarred face was set in the expression he wore when he knew violence was coming but did not yet know where it would strike.
Behind him, Raymond kept pace on a tall gray stallion. His golden hair was tied back tightly; the usual earnest light in his eyes had dimmed to something colder. Every few minutes he glanced at the southern horizon as though he could see the black dragon still cutting across the sky.
Elara rode a white mare two horse-lengths behind him close enough to watch, far enough to give him space. She had traded her healer's robes for practical riding leathers dyed pale silver, but the soft white cloak still fluttered behind her like a ghost. Her staff was strapped across her back, but her hands never strayed far from the small satchel of salves and mana crystals at her hip.
She watched Raymond.
He had been quiet since the aura passed quieter than usual.
She had seen him tense before battles, seen him carry guilt after losses, seen him smile through exhaustion for the sake of the team.
But this was different.
His shoulders were rigid.
His grip on the reins was too tight knuckles pale.
Every time the wind shifted or a distant bird called, his head turned sharply, as though expecting an attack that never came.
Elara urged her mare forward until she was riding parallel to him not touching, not crowding, just close enough that he would know she was there.
"Raymond," she said softly.
He didn't look at her.
She waited...
"You've barely spoken since we left the tower."
"I'm fine," he said too quickly.
"You're not."
She kept her voice low so the others wouldn't hear.
"You've been glancing south every few minutes like something is chasing you."
Raymond's jaw tightened.
"I'm watching the horizon. That's all."
Elara studied his profile the faint tremor in his lower lip, the way his eyes flicked not just to the sky but to the empty space beside him, as though expecting words to appear there.
She lowered her voice further.
"Is it the dragon?"
Raymond's fingers flexed on the reins.
"Among other things."
She waited.
He didn't elaborate.
Elara let the silence stretch not pressing, but not retreating.
Finally she spoke again gentle, but firm.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
Raymond's shoulders rose and fell in a single, sharp breath.
"I know."
But he didn't say more.
Ahead, Darius raised a fist.
The column slowed.
A scout from Roland's team galloped back from the forward position.
"Commander! Tracks massive claw marks on stone. Lightning burns on the hilltops. The dragon landed less than two hours ago. It did not stay long."
Darius nodded once.
"Direction?"
"South-southwest. Toward the old borderlands. The place the miners call Shadowmoon Valley."
Darius's scarred cheek twitched.
"Then that is where we go."
He turned in the saddle to address the full column.
"We ride until dusk. No fires tonight. No songs. We move as though the enemy can hear us breathing."
Thirty-two riders nodded in silence.
Hooves resumed their rhythm — faster now.
The sun slid lower.
The southern horizon darkened.
Elara fell back a little, giving Raymond space again.
But she never took her eyes off him.
She saw the way he kept one hand near his side — not reaching for a weapon, but as though bracing for a blow that hadn't landed yet.
She saw the way his gaze sometimes drifted inward — not to the road, not to the sky, but to something only he could see.
And she felt — with the quiet certainty of someone who had healed him before — that whatever was chasing Raymond was not behind them.
It was inside him.
The column pressed south.
Hooves drummed on packed earth.
The wind carried the faint scent of lightning and distant smoke.
And somewhere ahead, two paths — one from the heroes of the surface, one from the predators of the depths — were drawing closer to the same cursed valley, each unaware of the other.
To be Continued.