The Forging Dragon [Book 1]

21 ⚔️ Flight of Fear

He thought it would be a small journey to the mountains. It wasn't. Even though the maps he had seen, showed that the mountain range was just beside Shenezwa, it was quite far away. It took Diato around two hours to reach there.

It was pretty large. Larger than he thought. The entrance was covered by dead and dry black trees on both sides. The different-coloured grass path led straight to the unknown cave in the middle. He forgot to read about the cave. He had thought that it was like a distraction structure from the final selection. And the main powerful structure was in the corner, he could barely see. Dragon Ruins. He thought. He could see the unknown cave which looked the size of a car from this distance. Diato knew he wasn't far away, yet too far. He knew the cave was massive and its massiveness wasn't visible from this distance yet. But the cave itself was visible. This created the illusion that it seemed like he was just there, yet far away.

He twisted the race again and braked near a dry brown tree. It was just beside the edge of a mountain. The trees were on the perfect edges of the mountains which made it seem like the trees were planted there in purpose and didn't grow naturally. Another weird thing he noticed was that the peaks of the mountains weren't cold. They didn't have snow. He wondered if there was even cold on the top.

The mountains seemed to pulsate an illuminating glow under the bright purple moonlight. He decided he'd walk across the plains in the corner near the trees so the noise of the bike would wake the dragons up. Although he wasn't afraid of the dragons anymore he didn't want to include them, because it would take a lot of explaining and he'd have to think of a fake story for why he needed to use the spell on the dragon ruins.

His head ducked on his shoulders and he silently made his way along the trees. He checked the time, to make sure he wasn't going to be interrupted until morning. 2:00 AM, the hands on the clock displayed.

In the eerie silence of the Dragonspine Mountains, Diato crept cautiously, his steps like whispers on the brittle ground. His back hunched low, he moved along the row of withered trees, their gnarled branches reaching out like crooked fingers against the starlit sky.

It was the middle of the night, but the darkness was broken by the silvery glow of the moon, casting an otherworldly shimmer on the desolate landscape. Diato's feet padded lightly, his every movement a dance between stealth and determination. He knew the dragons slumbered here, their heavy breaths echoing through the craggy peaks.

His enthusiasm faded with time and patches of wear, hugged his frame, shielding him from the chilly mountain air. His worn boots, silent against the cracked earth, carried him forward with careful precision, avoiding loose rocks that could betray his presence.

Every few steps, Diato halted, his breath held captive in the stillness of the night. He scanned the horizon, his eyes sharp but wary, searching for any sign of disturbance. The dried-up trees stood sentinel, their twisted forms a testament to the harshness of this unforgiving terrain.

His gait was deliberate, a blend of fluidity and caution. Diato moved with a sort of grace, as though he had mastered the art of blending into the shadows. Each crouch, each shift of weight, was a calculated manoeuvre, a testament to his respect for the dormant dragons that roamed these lands.

As he traversed the desolate landscape, Diato's determination was evident in the set of his jaw and the steady rhythm of his steps. His movements were slow, deliberate, a silent plea to the night to keep its secrets hidden. He knew the consequences of disturbing the dragons from their slumber, and he dared not risk awakening their fury.

The mountains whispered tales of ancient beasts, their legends woven into the very fabric of the land. Yet, Diato pressed on, a lone figure navigating the treacherous terrain with a quiet resolve that spoke volumes.