*
Cyra opened his eyes. A forlorn wind howled down through the spire. It landed in his cave, beating against the blood brick walls until it had howled itself to nothing. The dragon stood up on his thick scaled legs and as he did so he sent a small mountain of gold and jewels tumbling down the mountain of similar items on which he sat. The gold and other precious metals which lay beneath him had melted and fused into a glassy layer, it had been some time since he'd moved.
He walked slowly down the golden mountain, into the huge vaulted tunnel which led from the spire. Outside the forever-storm raged over Fiurdein as it always did. The sand blew in sheets as he walked hitting him, cascading down and blowing past him. It was a long walk and he saw a few other dragons on the way. Pellum-Darys the Blue eye-balled him from across a wide valley, Cyra paid him no heed.
Trell-Kolumber the Red flew over him at one point. He circled once and blew fire through the air but Cyra ignored him as he had Pellum-Darys so the red dragon moved on to the next challenger. On and on he went, through all the ranges. As he went the territories became larger and his contact with other dragons more infrequent. As he neared the north pole of Fiurdein he saw the odd green or black dragon but then there were none for a long time and he knew that he was in the land of the gold.
The platinum flats went on for miles and miles until he started to ascend Mount Mirden. Cyra considered how quickly the journey would have been had he flown but he was not his dream, the silver wings on his back were bent and old. In all likelihood if he attempted to lift himself up from the sandy surface of his home he would crash back down within a few feet. So he walked, but he felt no shame in walking. His feet had touched the surfaces of hundreds of different worlds, they had never failed him, nor would they.
After almost a day of climbing, Cyra reached the top of Mount Mirden. The lake of fire at its summit burnt brightly as it ever had. He knocked one of the white tumble stones down into the liquid fire and waited. After several minutes a number of large bubbles could be seen at the surface. Then the fire erupted as a huge golden figure emerged from it. His King flew around the mountain before landing on the surface of the lake, he did not sink down into it as the rocks had done, the fire sustained him, lifted him in a way that it would no other.
“Cyra”, boomed the long deep voice of his King.
“Draxes”, said the silver dragon bowing his head low.
“What brings you to Mirden?” said the King.
Cyra hesitated. “My dream has died”, he said eventually. The King’s golden eyes burned.
“Our dreams do not die”, he said finally.
“They do when they are betrayed”, said the silver one with the broken wings.
“Betrayed?” said Draxes, the word seemed to burn as it came from his mouth. The King walked over to where Cyra sat, he towered over his silver counterpart.
“Those ones from Archaven raised their hand against me”, said Cyra.
Draxes closed his eyes to Fiurdein. He closed his mind to Cyra and the fire-world where his body lived. When he opened his eyes again he was not at the top of Mount Mirden, he stood in the nest on top of the Tower of Mirgarden. He stood at its highest point and blew a column of red fire into the sky, along with a roar of summoning. All across the south they heard him, dreams of dragons coloured within every scale rose up and flew to their King. The sky was filled with them, as they answered the call to war.