Dragon Dominion

Prologue

The sky of Drakenmoor trembles with unspoken rage. For three centuries, the Conclave of Elder Dragons maintained the ancient pacts—laws carved into stone and sealed in blood—that kept the great clans from tearing the world asunder. The Crimson Peaks ruled the high mountains. The Skyward Dominion commanded the floating citadels and trade routes. The Obsidian Deep guarded the volcanic depths and forbidden knowledge. Humans endured in the spaces between, building their settlements in valleys and coastal towns, learning to read the wind and the shadows of wings. Then the eldest dragon of the Conclave vanished. No body was found. No ransom demanded. No clan claimed victory. Only silence—and in that silence, the younger dragons grew restless. Territorial borders, once inviolable, began to blur. Scouts reported sightings of strange magic in the ancient ruins. Human traders disappeared on familiar routes. The Scorched Badlands, where three clan territories converged, became a powder keg waiting for a spark. Whispers spread through roosts and trading halls: someone had broken the pact. Someone had dared to upset the balance. In this fractured moment, when the sky itself seems ready to tear open, a figure emerges from hiding—or a wanderer arrives at a crossroads—carrying knowledge, desperation, or a secret that could either save Drakenmoor or ignite the war that would consume it.