The sky raged. Torrential rain pelted the earth like thousands of arrows. The wind howled, carrying flashes of lightning that tore through the heavens. Black clouds churned, as if something were awakening from within the darkness.
In the midst of the storm, a roar shook the world. Lightning struck wildly, as if the sky itself were at war. Then, from behind the swirling clouds, colossal figures emerged.
They descended from the sky, their bodies slicing through the storm with the power possessed only by the true rulers of the air.
The first to soar forth was a purple-scaled dragon. Its body shimmered among the bolts of lightning, as if the storm itself were part of it. Each beat of its wings left behind trails of electricity dancing in the air. When it roared, the sound merged with the thunderclap, shaking the world below.
Beside it, a white dragon descended in terrifying silence. Its body was nearly invisible within the rain-filled mist, but every drop that touched its scales instantly evaporated, creating a halo of hot fog around it. Its breath burned, even as the storm's cold froze the air.
Last, from the darkest part of the clouds, emerged a dragon clad in deep green scales. Its body resembled a giant shadow lit by flashes of lightning. Its rough scales gleamed like wet stone under the rain. Each movement sent tremors through the earth, as though an ancient forest had risen to reclaim its rightful dominion.
Below them, the dwarven city was on the brink of collapse. The heavy rain could not extinguish the flames consuming their stone homes. The streets were filled with mud and blood. Buildings crumbled one after another, and the screams of the dwarves were drowned by the storm's fury and the dragons' roars.
Suddenly, from afar, another sound echoed. It wasn't the roar of an enemy dragon, but something far greater. From a mountain pass veiled by rain, a colossal silhouette began to appear—something brighter than lightning, darker than the night's shadow.
"There it is! The one we've been waiting for!" shouted a Vernisius soldier, his voice nearly lost in the storm.
From the sky, a golden flash illuminated the clouds. The dragons who had descended earlier turned their gazes, as if acknowledging the arrival of the awaited one. Through the curtain of rain, a black dragon with obsidian skin emerged. Its wings tore through the downpour, and the fire it carried shone brighter than lightning.
It dove first, its form like living darkness. It pierced the storm with terrifying speed, evading bolts of lightning that struck all around it. Behind it, the other dragons followed, each with their own flames ready to destroy the enemy.
On the ground, Vernisius troops finally breached the crumbling gates of the dwarven city. Their swords gleamed in the rain, and their war cries echoed amidst the lightning. Martial law had been declared, but nothing could stop the fate that had been set in motion.
Yet, all battles suddenly ceased.
From the storm-torn sky, a voice deeper and mightier than all the previous roars resounded. The wind paused for a moment, as if bowing. Even the rain seemed to slow.
From behind the last unsundered cloud, a being larger than all the rest descended slowly.
Its scales shimmered like falling stars, yet every movement brought with it a darkness like an endless night. Its wings were wider than the mountains themselves, and its breath was not just fire—it was light that could turn the sky to day or night at will.
With a single flap of its wings, the world-splitting storm yielded. With one breath, both fire and ice emerged at once.
The other dragons, both from Vernisius and those who came alongside it, halted and looked upon it with reverence, fear, and hope.
There was no battle between them. No hostility. They were not enemies—they were one. One force born from the same place, a land of sky rulers long forgotten by the world.
Now, they had returned.
The true war had begun...
The sky was filled with fire and lightning. The heavy rain could not quench the searing heat of battle. Amidst the raging storm, dragons clashed, casting terrifying silhouettes against the dark sky. But only one dominated them all—a figure grander, more fearsome, and more magnificent than the rest.
The dragon was called Baran, so said many from Vernisius. A black dragon as massive as a mountain, with wings stretching wider than the tallest castles. He was the true ruler of the skies, far larger than the others. His scales were as dark as the night's shadow, and his red gaze seemed capable of burning the soul. Each beat of his wings created a storm of its own, and his fire breath could reduce an entire city to ashes in moments.
Around Baran, three other dragons circled the battlefield, each only a fraction of his majesty. Righel, the white dragon, glided gracefully among lightning and the hot mist he created himself. His scales gleamed like eternal snow, but each motion brought destruction no less terrifying.
Not far off, Arae, the purple dragon, tore through the sky with blinding speed. His sleek body was cloaked in lightning, each flap of his wings leaving a trail of energy that made the air shudder.
On the other side of the battlefield, Vhegar, the deep green dragon like moss clinging to mountain stone, descended with a low growl that shook the ground. His body was bulky and rugged, like an ancient creature just awakened from a long slumber. Every roar sounded like the rumble of cracking earth.
The four dragons were not foes. They came from Vernisius, land of the sky's sovereigns. Since ancient times, Vernisius had been the birthplace of the strongest dragons ever to live, and their riders once ruled the world through firepower. But that civilization had long since fallen, leaving only the dragons, still bound by ancient pacts.
Now, they did not fight one another. They fought to destroy the enemy who dared challenge their might. The dwarven city below was their target. The rain drenched their wings, but the fire they breathed still blazed, incinerating everything without mercy.
Baran flapped his wings once more. The gale he produced swept across the troops below, flinging several soldiers into the air before slamming them to the ground. The dragon needed no words to display his dominance. His gaze alone was enough to plant terror in the hearts of his enemies.
Below them, the battle raged on. The dwarven city was nearly leveled, fires consumed the streets, and ruins were scattered everywhere. Rain mixed with blood, and the Vernisius army pressed forward.
From afar, Righel saw Baran begin to move and dive down, spewing white fire toward the city. Enemy troops fled, trying to save themselves, but there was nowhere to hide from the dragons of Vernisius.
Above, Arae and Vhegar flew in formation, diving together and unleashing their flames upon the last remaining fortress. Stones exploded under the heat, and the night sky lit up with unrelenting fire.
Meanwhile, Vernisius forces on the ground stormed the dwarves' final defenses. They were too close to be stopped, and the dragons above bore witness to the destruction of their enemies.
One Vernisius soldier looked upon the scene and shouted in triumph, "Look at them! Even the gods are fighting above us!"
"This is no mere war of men," a commander replied, drawing his sword. "This is the war of the sky's sovereigns!"
Above, Righel hovered in the air, watching the devastation below. Baran landed atop the ruins, gazing at the remaining troops with a cold stare. He didn't need to speak nor give orders. The four dragons were one—an alliance born of the same land—Vernisius.
Only those from Vernisius could comprehend the greatness of these dragons. They were not mere beasts. They were the legacy of a civilization long fallen, yet their power remained unmatched.
In the distance, some enemy forces tried to flee into the mountains. But Vhegar surged ahead, his wings creating gusts that knocked them off balance. With a single burst of flame, he incinerated them all.
The sky still roared, lightning crackled through the dark clouds surrounding the battle. But this war had ended. The dwarven city had fallen, and the Vernisius army had triumphed.
Upon the still-burning ruins, Baran flapped his wings and rose into the air. He let out a long roar that echoed through the entire valley, followed by Righel, Arae, and Vhegar. They were not just dragons—they were the kings of the sky.
They were the dragons of Vernisius, and the world now remembered who the true rulers of the heavens were.
No help came. All they could do was witness the end of their lives, drowned in fire from the earth and the storm above. The dwarves had perished, and this land now belonged wholly to Vernisius, who had launched their aggressive war amid a time of peace.
All this time, none had known the western kingdom once told in childhood tales truly existed—a realm of humans and other races allied with dragons, hidden behind the towering mountains that reached tens of thousands of kilometers into the sky.
Humans, elves, and dwarves now faced a grave threat. Their first line of defense had fallen, and they had gone to war against the gods of the skies—the great dragons, the conquerors.