Before time had breath and the world had a name, there was Flame.
From the Void beyond stars, the First Flame fell, a spark of raw creation that birthed the Realms. Where it struck the earth, mountains rose and seas boiled. From its heart came the Ancients: beings of pure elemental might, sculpted not by gods, but by the will of Flame itself. Among them, dragons were the first and most terrible.
They were not beasts, but sovereigns of their own creation. They named the winds, carved the rivers with their wings, and whispered to the stars in a language no mortal tongue could hold. Chief among them was Sareth-en-Myros, forged in obsidian and gold, born when the Flame split itself in two, one side to ignite the world, and the other to remember.
Sareth was that memory.
As centuries passed and flame gave way to form, Sareth rose to become Queen of the Dragon Realm, the last of the Ancient Dragons, who had not succumbed to time, madness, or war. She bore the runes of binding across her scales, ancient sigils that throbbed with power and could hold fate itself in check. Through dream sense, she walked the sleeping minds of all who dwelled beneath her sky, guardian and judge, watcher and flame.
But power breeds enemies, and not all dragons accept her reign.
A rebellion, long buried under lava and silence, once nearly shattered the realm. It ended with the Sundering of Tharizdane, a cataclysm so great that the rift it left behind still bleeds magic into the mortal world. Since that day, Sareth has held dominion alone unchallenged, but never unthreatened.
Now, for the first time in an age, her dreams are no longer silent.
Something is calling to her, an echo from beyond the mortal veil, a name half-remembered in a language she once spoke before the stars took form.
The Flame stirs again.
And when it wakes, so shall the world.