Prologue: The Rebirth of Crimson Ruby

  The cold stench of ancient magic clawed at the air. Torchlight flickered across vaulted ceilings, revealing carvings of dragons and wizards frozen in battle. Whispers coiled through the chamber like living shadows. At the heart stood an ornate altar of polished obsidian inlaid with gold and gems—a royal relic now serving darker purposes.

  Red dragon remains sprawled across the crypt's center. Tarnished coins nestled between fractured bones and gem-studded scales. Cloaked figures lined the damp walls, faces hidden beneath hoods. Their synchronized chants rose in a malevolent rhythm that seemed to gnaw at reality itself.

  Hidden in the shadows above, Miikka crouched silently. His small three-foot frame fit perfectly in the narrow space. He spun a dagger between his fingers, the motion keeping his rising anxiety at bay. Each chant wrapped around him like a vice. Death hung thick in the air.

  Life's a rumble, and this one's brewing nasty, he whispered to himself, his tone playful despite the danger below. Yet something glinted in Miikka's eyes—a spark of something neither master nor dragon could comprehend. A secret that would one day slice deeper than any blade.

  The iron door creaked open. Daylight pierced the gloom. A tall figure strode inside, each step echoing like a death knell upon stone. His black cloak dragged behind him, edged with red embroidery. Gemstones gleamed on silver pins across his chest—trophies from battles long past.

  The Puppet Master paused at the threshold. His face remained hidden beneath his hood. He steepled his fingers as he surveyed the chamber, his dramatic pause building tension.

  "I grow..." The Puppet Master paused deliberately, "...impatient with incompetence." He dismissed the thought with a languid wave. "Is it ready this time?"

  A subordinate stepped forward. "Yes, Master," he said, bowing low. "The Phylactery Ceremony awaits your command."

  ***

  The Orcs thought they destroyed me, Crimson Ruby seethed. They believed death was the end. Fools. Death is merely a veil I shall rip asunder.

  But even as the thought formed, a whisper of doubt slithered through his newfound consciousness. Something in the ritual's edges felt... fragile. Like a thread barely woven, ready to unravel at the slightest tension. The Pulsefire Nodule pulsed with an energy that seemed to carry its own will—not fully subdued, not entirely controlled.

  Every resurrection carries the seeds of its own destruction, a premonition as sharp and cold as the dart that pierced the nodule whispered through his consciousness.

  The Puppet Master approached the altar with fluid, predatory movements. He grasped a golden goblet containing a pulsating gem. With a subtle smirk, he poured thick, luminescent liquid into it. The surrounding darkness seemed to press closer.

  "Flawless," the Puppet Master said. "Crimson Ruby shall awaken with this power—and the world will fall." The room trembled as he placed the chalice at the altar's center. The gem pulsed violently like a heart clawing back to life.

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  A cloaked figure held a transparent jar above the altar. Inside floated a grotesque mass—a Pulsefire Nodule, rare and coveted for its magic. As the chants swelled, the jar shattered. Glass sprayed outward as the nodule turned golden. The Puppet Master produced jeweled darts from his cloak.

  He launched a dart into the suspended nodule. The liquid bubbled. The gem emitted a blinding red glow.

  Each dart is a chain binding me to the Puppet Master's will, Crimson Ruby realized. But chains can be broken. This is not servitude. It is biding time.

  Energy crackled through the crypt. Skeletal remains shifted and slithered together. Crimson scales clicked into place across the forming skeleton. Torches dimmed as if suffocated by the power filling the chamber.

  I am more than bone and scale now, Crimson Ruby thought. I am vengeance given form. The Orcs will regret the day they dared stand against me.

  The Puppet Master saw a tool. Crimson Ruby saw a servant.

  But in that moment of resurrection, something deeper stirred. The chants around him seemed to whisper of endings more than beginnings. The shadows that gathered spoke of a balance waiting to be restored. In the moment of his greatest triumph, a hairline fracture appeared—invisible now, but destined to split wide open.

  Shadows convulsed. A hollow void appeared where the left eye should be. Crimson Ruby, now a dracolich, dominated the crypt with otherworldly presence. He flexed wings of bone and scale, shaking loose debris from the ceiling.

  "You dare awaken me, Puppet Master?" Crimson Ruby asked. His voice rumbled deep, shaking the crypt foundations. "Did you think your craft could chain an eternal flame?" He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

  This mortal believes he can command me, Crimson Ruby seethed internally. His arrogance will be his undoing.

  For a moment, doubt crossed the Puppet Master's hidden face. "You forget your place," he said. He flicked another dart that struck Crimson Ruby's jaw, silencing him mid-snarl. His knuckles whitened around a third dart.

  Chains can be broken, he realized. But chains can also bind in ways not yet understood.

  Pain. He dares cause me pain. Let him believe he has the upper hand... for now. Crimson Ruby lurched forward. Smoke spiraled from his maw. His roar faltered against the dart's magic. With deliberate movement, he lifted a talon to his jaw and pulled the dart free. Black ichor seeped from the wound as his jaw flexed, testing its freedom.

  The chanting faltered briefly before rising again, stronger and more unified.

  ***

  High in the shadows, Miikka watched. His dagger spun between fingers that seemed too steady, too calm for a moment of such terror.

  The Puppet Master saw a tool. Crimson Ruby saw a servant.

  But something glinted in Miikka's eyes—a spark of something neither master nor dragon could comprehend. A secret that would one day slice deeper than any blade.

  "Your first task awaits," the Puppet Master said, stepping back. "The Orcs who slew you must be reminded of their place." He flicked his wrist. A portal of swirling darkness opened at the crypt's far end.

  A witness to my resurrection, Crimson Ruby mused. Good. Let him spread word of my return. Let the Orcs tremble.

  But somewhere, in the whispers between magic and destiny, a different story was already taking shape—a tale of balance, of reckoning, of a vengeance that would consume its very architect.

  A counter-thought formed in the depths of magic and fate:

  Not as much as you will.

  "Their deaths will bring agony," Crimson Ruby said, his voice restored. "But remember—I do this for vengeance, not your bidding."

  Crimson Ruby launched into the portal and vanished, wings sending dust cascading from the ceiling.

  Miikka waited until attention shifted elsewhere. He spun his dagger once more. "What's next, mate?" he whispered. His smile held more than submission.

  He slipped from his perch and landed silently. The portal hummed before him. With resignation on his face, he gripped his dagger and stepped through, following his master.

  Vengeance, Crimson Ruby mused as he emerged into the night sky. It has a certain ring to it. And the Orcs will be the first to hear its melody.