Chapter 2: The Great War of Dragons
The royal library of Pride Land was a vast and sacred hall carved into the side of Mount Nguvu,
its walls etched with ancient tales and illuminated by floating crystal flames. Scrolls spun
themselves into order, and books whispered long-forgotten truths into the silence. Here, beneath
the high dome of the Hall of Remembrance, Prince Leo found himself once again drawn to the
oldest tomes, the ones even the elders dared not open. But this day was different. Something had
been calling him — a pulse, a whisper, a tug in his spirit.
He stepped carefully between towering shelves until he found it — a book bound in the dark
scales of an extinct beast, sealed with a golden clasp that shimmered with forgotten magic. As he
placed his paw upon it, the clasp clicked open, and the air grew heavy. The book glowed faintly,
and the pages turned of their own accord. With one deep breath, Leo sat before it, and as his eyes
traced the words, the past came alive — a memory not his own but as vivid as the present.
Long before the Age of Clans, before the rise of the Pride Land and the whisper of Pathera, the
world was ruled by the oldest of creatures — the dragons.
They were not monsters nor tyrants, but majestic, wise beings — living embodiments of the
elements. Each clan of dragons possessed dominion over a natural force: the Fire Drakes of the
Ember Peaks, the Ice Serpents of Glacia Tundra, the Earth Wyrms of the Deep Roots, and the
Storm Wings that soared the eternal skies. They spoke not with mouths but with minds, their
thoughts echoing like thunder across the air. They were the guardians of the balance, keepers of
peace, protectors of the lands.
Their realm, known as Draconis Terra, was untouched by hunger or drought. The trees bore fruit
year-round, rivers flowed with crystal water, and golden clouds brought rain in perfect time.
While other kingdoms battled pests, seasons, and famine, the dragons flourished in eternal
spring.
They were generous in knowledge, teaching many of the younger species how to farm, build, and
harmonize with nature. But as time passed, and generations changed, the world beyond Draconis
Terra began to falter. Seasons became cruel. Crops withered. Rivers dried. The Great Famine
spread like a shadow.
The kingdoms of the beast realm — the horned herds of the Plain Lands, the feathered flocks of
the Skyreach Aeries, the jungle cats of the Deep Wilds, and the burrowing tribes of the Hollow
Earth — turned their desperate eyes toward Draconis Terra. They sent doves bearing messages.
They pleaded through song, oath, and offering. But the dragons, wise and cautious, refused to
share their bounty.
Not out of cruelty. They feared that sudden reliance on their power would breed dependency and
disorder. They believed the other clans must find harmony with the land on their own, as the
dragons had millennia before.
But starvation does not wait for wisdom.
When the final harvest failed and the last river turned to dust, rage consumed the desperate.
Kingdoms, once peaceful, raised their banners. Alliances formed out of hunger and fury. They
marched with sharpened tusks and war-forged claws, with firestone weapons and iron horns,
toward the blooming gates of Draconis Terra.
And the dragons, proud and now enraged, no longer held back.
Fire rained from the heavens. Ice spears fell from clouds. Quakes shattered cities, and storms
devoured entire battalions. The sky darkened with wings. The earth cracked under talons. The
war had begun — not a war for food, but a war of survival.
The beasts of the world fought back, but they were outmatched. Armies fell in days. Kingdoms
vanished in weeks. The dragons had become the very gods they once protected against. Their
fury was righteous, their wrath absolute. And in their vengeance, they sought to rule.
That was when the first Pathera arose.
He was not born of royalty or tribe. He was a lone gorilla from the eastern cliffs, a monk-warrior
who had once been a healer and scholar. His name was Makonga the Boundless, and his spirit
burned with a different fire — one of justice, not revenge. Makonga had once studied the Gem of
Life, an ancient crystal said to be formed from the tears of the stars. When the Gem called to
him, he answered.
He dared to tap into a magic no beast had touched for ages — raw, primal, unfiltered. It twisted
many who tried before. But Makonga was different. His mind was iron, his will like mountain
stone. The magic did not consume him — it obeyed.
But he knew no one creature could bear such power alone.
Makonga sought others, warriors of unmatched spirit and honor. He journeyed across burning
lands, frozen rivers, and shattered kingdoms, until he found four souls worthy of the bond.
From the shattered mountains of Mkomo Ridge came Kaela, a tigress whose steps shook the
earth. She wielded earth not as a weapon, but as a living extension of herself — forming barriers,
fists of stone, and even healing vines that coiled around the wounded. Her roars caused
landslides, and her eyes glowed with golden soil magic.
In the silent glaciers of the North, he met Seraphine, a serpent with scales like frozen silver. She
was not large, but she moved like flowing ice — silent, deadly, graceful. She conjured rivers
from mist and ice blades from dew. The cold obeyed her heart.
Across the stormy skies, he found Aurelia, an eagle with wings of firelight. Her feathers
shimmered red and gold, and she moved like a comet streaking across the heavens. Her
screeches cracked stone. With a single beat of her wings, she could ignite entire fields or sweep
enemies into flame-cyclones.
And deep in the canyons where the lightning never slept, Makonga discovered Brontar, a bull
whose horns shimmered with electric veins. His strength matched his loyalty. His rage
summoned thunder, and his hooves sparked when he walked. He carried a hammer formed from
pure storm essence — a weapon only he could lift.
Together, they became the Five — the original Pathera.
Their battles with the dragons shook the world. They struck with unity, each covering the other's
weaknesses. Kaela raised walls while Seraphine froze rivers across enemy fire. Brontar charged
with lightning behind Aurelia's blaze, while Makonga wove spells so powerful the air split.
And then came the final day.
At the Gates of Njaru, where the world met sky and flame, the last of the dragon legions
gathered. Above them stood the Dragon King — Vorakthar the Eternal Blaze, a beast of such
colossal might that clouds followed his wings and mountains bent beneath his roar.
The duel between Vorakthar and Makonga was like watching gods clash. Magic against fire,
earth against flame, storm against sky. Time slowed. The world seemed to hold its breath.
When it ended, Vorakthar fell. His severed head burned for three days before turning to ash. His
final scream was said to be heard across the oceans.
With their king fallen, the dragons scattered. But they were not slain — they were cursed.
Banished to the Nether Caves, where the sun never touches and time forgets. No one had seen a
dragon since.
But peace was not the reward the world had hoped for.
The fertile lands of Draconis Terra remained, and now that the dragons were gone, the kingdoms
once again turned on each other. War erupted anew — this time not from hunger, but from greed.
Only one kingdom chose peace.
A small nation at the edge of the dragon lands refused to fight. Instead, their ruler offered trade,
healing, and rest to the weary. He used the fertile lands not to build armies, but to nourish the
starving.
And so, the Pathera vanished — not in defeat, but in purpose. They chose this peaceful king, this
leader who sought no power, and blessed him with their gifts. His kingdom thrived and became a
sanctuary. But strangely, the name of that kingdom, and its king, vanished from all records — a
mystery even Leo could not unravel from the text.
The book trembled in his paws.
And then, on the last page — a spell, hidden at the bottom in a language long lost. As Leo read it
aloud, the air cracked. Lightning surged through his body. His vision turned white. His fur stood
on end. Something ancient stirred within him.
He slammed the book shut, gasping.
His paws trembled as he raced from the library, through the halls, past startled guards and silent
statues, toward the throne room where his father, the King, stood overlooking the kingdom.
Leo didn't hesitate. His voice echoed through the chamber.
"Father… who was the king that received the power of the Pathera? Why is his name gone?
What is this power I feel?"
The king turned slowly.
But Leo had already seen it. The faint crackle of magic around his father's eyes. The ripple of
hidden strength in the air. The spark dancing at his clawtip.
"Who are you?" Leo whispered, his heart thundering.
His father said nothing — but his silence said everything.
And behind him, the storm began to rise.