This was the end. For all their power and prestige, dragons did not live forever. For ex-Dragon Lord Torch, time had finally caught up with him. After more than three millennia of rule, his ancient body had grown sluggish and decrepit. To just spread his wings took monumental effort, his muscles burning under the strain as he lurched skyward.
Despite the pain, he refused to stop, pushing himself to fly as high as his wings would carry him. He observed the ground below, taking in every little detail of the volatile lands that he had once called his kingdom. Every igneous ridge; every bubbling crack in the earth; every speck of hot volcanic ash against his hardened skin; it all felt as fresh as the day he took hold of the Bloodstone Sceptre.
His thoughts turned to his only daughter, Ember. Against his initial wishes, she was now Dragon Lord, and in the two short years she had held the title, she had made many sweeping changes to the Dragonlands nation – including an alliance with the neighbouring pony nation of Equestria.
Torch, of course, knew of the pony's intervention during the Gauntlet of Fire. Any dragon who so much as laid a claw on the sceptre left an unmistakable mark on its magic. No Dragon Lord worth their flames could ignore the impression a dragonling had on it.
No, Spike was more than that. He was different. Even before his first moulting, he displayed a level of wisdom and conviction far beyond his years. Spike was a child in body, but an adult in heart, with a mind to match. In a way, it was a sign of things to come. No longer was dragon culture defined by the traditional might-makes-right power structure.
Now, it was all about cooperation and friendship between dragons and all other creatures of Equestria, based on nothing more than pure altruism. That was why many young dragons nowadays went to Twilight Sparkle's School of Friendship – though this was far from universal. Dragons were a much older race than ponies, and many a dragon Torch had met watched this new generation grow with mild amusement, himself included.
Of course, one could not ignore the presence of Alicorns controlling the sun and the moon, nor the vast expanses the ponies had developed in their short time in this world. Perhaps it was inevitable that dragons would adopt similar principles.His kind was a dying breed.
Torch let out a low, rumbling chuckle. How easy it would've been to crush the pony nations while they were young, especially prior to their unification under twin banners of day and night. Alas, he never capitalised on that opportunity. Why would any dragon care about advances in pony civilization? Dragons weren’t interested in conquest! Ponies wouldn’t dare threaten creatures that could easily squash them underfoot, so there was no need.
The ponies could sing their little songs about friendship all they liked. Dragons had their hoard, and with it, more physical might than any creature to fly the world's skies. What more could they desire?
Life. That one word, more than any other, refused to leave Torch's mind. It just stuck there, worming its way into every thought like a parasite.
He didn't want to die. He, like every creature, possessed the innate desire for self-sustenance. In life, Torch had bested many a challenger to his throne, be they pony, dragon, griffon or changeling. He was in control, the master of the Dragon Lands, and it was at his discretion that he would pass the title of Dragon Lord on to another.
As much as he hated to admit it, there was only one foe he could never overcome: death. And it was coming for him. He had been in the air for less than an hour, and already he could feel his muscles creak. His breathing was already laboured when he took off, and now his whole body threatened to tearitself apart.
Slowly, he turned himself around and held out his wings, descending in a slow, gentle glide. So long as he was careful, he could make it back to his hoard, the one area suitable to be his final resting place.
If death was to be his master, then he would ensure no dragon could ever surpass him. Damn any dragon to Tartarus that would dare to plunder his wealth! A dragon's treasure was what made them powerful, and he would remain the most powerful of all, even in death. Let Ember have her alliance with Ponies, and their pathetic values of friendship. She wanted to remain small and weak? So be it.
Sixty meters off the ground, Torch's wings gave out. He tried to flap and slow his descent, but it was no use. He was too weak, and there was too little time to recover. He slammed into the ground with a heavy thud, skidding to an unceremonious stop in the earth some distance from his cave.
The mighty had fallen, but he wasn't dead yet. Gritting his teeth and letting out a painful groan, he clawed at the dirt and pulled himself to his feet with a great amount of effort. His dragon magic was running out, but he could still walk. He could only hope no other dragon saw his fall.
Opportunistic bastards... he thought, his cheeks burning hot with shame. He couldn't really blame any dragon for taking advantage of his weakened state. He'd brought up countless generations that way, and it would be a long time before they abandoned such values.
“I'm… still… stronger...” he wheezed under his breath. Pulling himself up to the top of a steep hill, he arrived at his final destination. Before him stood Mount Ignatus, a towering chunk of scorched rock piercing the blackened, ashen skies. While thousands of meters high, the volcano's pinnacle was clearly visible, glowing with a bright orange haze that emanated from the ever-constant eruptions.
Some suggested it drew its fires from the depths of Tartarus itself, while others insisted that it was the remains of a long-extinct dragon species; the embersstill simmering millennia after its body decayed. Though Torch knew this to be a mere legend, it was not hard to see the similarities. Its skin was covered in long, scarring cracks, etched away by pyroclastic flow.
Dipping a claw into a pool of bubbling-hotmud, he felt it burn against his hardened, scaly skin. Holding it up to his nose, he took a good, long whiff, the rotten smell of sulphur irritating his throat. His coughs were violent and shook his ancient body.
Even now, all the sensations he once enjoyed just caused more harm. Plodding up to the foot of the mountain, he slammed his fist against the cliff face, spraying shards of splintered stone everywhere.
He hit it again, and more rock shattered, but still it didn’t give way. How long had it been since he last visited his hoard? Most dragons would never be able to break in, but he was not most dragons. He should not be having such trouble.
Roaring in frustration, he rammed his head against the hallow wall, pulverizing the barrier to dust from the force of the strike. As if to spite him, the dust scratched at his throat, making him cough hard enough to spit up blood. He really was a shadow of his former self.
Slowly, he slunk forward through the tunnel of his own making, the last sparks of his life used to reach the glittering gold within. His fire burned cold, and once extinguished, he would be no more.
Torch's eyes flickered open. At first, there wasn't much to see, save for a tiny purple glow in the centre of his vision. He blinked a few times and the glow divided into three. Slowly, but surely, the world around him sprung to life, starting as a hazy wash of random colours, before settling into individual shapes.
He let out a low, rumbling groan, and the three lights jumped. He felt small clumps of loose metal gather between his claws, all of which felt strangely comforting despite their rough texture. As more of his vision returned, he could make out more distinct shapes among his surroundings.
Small, quadrupedal figures stood in front of him, each with short, cylindrical appendages protruding from their heads. These figures invoked less than pleasant feelings, and he would have crushed them in one swipe, were it not for the strange, purple aura emitting from their heads.
“Ponies...” It was all coming back to him now. Stepping down from the position of Dragon Lord, his daughter, Ember, and her new alliance with Equestria. “What are ponies doing in my sanctuary?!”
His mighty roar shook the cavern so hard, the unicorn trio were almost knocked off their feet. Torch expected them to run for their lives, scampering off to rob some other tomb of its wealth. Yet they did not. Beyond the use of magic to keep themselves stable, they stood firm, muttering something to one another under their breath.
Through the pain in his muscles, he slowly sat up. “Give me one good reason why I don't incinerate you ponies where you stand?” he sneered, eyes narrowed.
Then, to his surprise, they bowed before him. “At long last, you have awakened once more, my master,” said the middle unicorn. Now that he got a good look at them, Torch noticed this was no ordinary trio. Each of them was draped in a long, black cloak, hanging limp off their bodies in a way that hid their ghastly pale-grey coats from the world. Streaks of what Torch assumed was black ink stained their taught cheeks, in stark contrast to their long, ivory-white manes.
In his time as Dragon Lord, Torch had encountered ponies of all shapes and sizes—all of which he disliked immensely—but few looked to be as gaunt as these unicorns.
Yet somehow, their magic was the opposite. Their horns had not stopped glowing, and Torch had a nasty feeling that whatever they were crafting had something to do with him.
Then, it hit him. Though he felt just as groggy, he hadn't, in fact, woken up from a long nap as one might expect. No, he had died, only return to life in the presence of pony magicians. Yet he wasn't breathing. He naturally inhaled prior to speaking, but his chest neither rose nor fell of its own accord.
“How long have I been dead?” Torch asked, his calm voice at odds with the morbid nature of his question.
“At least five years, my Lord,” said the rightmost unicorn. “After Moonshadow's fall, we have worked tirelessly to re-create his spell of resurrection.”
“As you can no doubt see,” said the centre unicorn. “Our spell isn't perfect, but we have managed to halt your decomposition prior to any active decay.”
“Your chosen burial site aided us greatly,” added the leftmost unicorn. “It would've been much harder to keep you stable were it not for the arid conditions of this volcano.”
Torch looked down at his claws. His turquoise skin had turned a muddy shade of brown, and his skin showed some signs of recession, but otherwise he wasn't much different from the day of his death. Moonshadow, he thought. He recalled hearing of a sorcerer who nearly brought the Crystal Empire to its knees, but only now did he understand the level of power that name beheld.
“But why didn't you resurrect him?” Torch asked.
The centre unicorn lowered their hood, revealing his ghostly looking face. This stallion had an ice-white mane, cut into a short fringe; misty, sunken eyes, and bony cheeks, as if he was already at death’s door. “Because, my lord, we have even grander plans than our former master. He was too fixated on becoming an Alicorn, too single-mindedin his vision of leadership,” the necromancer grinned, flashing a mouth full of blackened teeth. “We, however, have always admired the values of physical strength and dominance typical of dragon culture. And with our help, you can be Dragon Lord once again; not just over this singular nation, but as your rightful place above all lesser races.”
Torch rubbed his chin. “What's the catch? Surely you wouldn't go through such painstaking efforts to resurrect a dragon of my size without wanting something in return.”
“That's just it, my lord,” the unicorn shrugged. “We seek a society with no limits on what magic can achieve. The art of necromancy is, in of itself, the greatest pleasure we could hope to obtain – unbound by such petty moral restraints of pony society.”
“Not only that,” added the rightmost unicorn, also revealing her face. This one wasn’t quite as skinny, but that didn’t count for much when half her face was rotten – though this was at least partially covered by bangs over her left eye. “But we have transcended the very forces of life and death itself. What could be a greater challenge than creating a new race of immortal dragons, forever entrenched at the top of the hierarchy?”
“And we are so close to achieving it!” cried the third, bouncing to his hooves. He shrugged off his cloak entirely, revealing a stout figure covered in rotten green fur that was teeming with maggots. “But there is only so much our magic can create alone. Which is why we need you.”
“In short,” the middle unicorn concluded, “You help us build a force of slave unicorns to bolster our magic, and we will help you become the greatest Dragon Lord – neigh, the greatest creature this world has ever known!”
Now they were speaking Torch's language. He had been granted a second chance at life—or in this case, unlife—and could finally rise above the ponies which had refused to serve him for so long. No more weak-willed friendships, no more meddling in dragon affairs, no more compromises. It was everything he could have ever wished for.
“You have yourselves a deal,” he said, reflecting the unicorns' maniacal grin. “On one condition: my word will be final on all matters. You may make suggestions, of course, but I will always have the final say. And should you ever step out of line and try to usurp me? I will squash you like insects.”
“That won't be a problem, my lord,” the middle pony bowed. “Now, let us become more formally acquainted. My name is Night Twister.”
“My name is Crystal Rose,” announced the mare with a twisted grin, her magic shimmering off the polished gold.
“And my name is Thunder Spark,” added the stout stallion, squashing a maggot under hoof.
“Together, we are the Cult of the Dragonflame’s founding members,” Night Twister continued. “Now that our spell is complete, I recommend you re-introduce yourself to our loyal followers. If we are to reclaim the dragon race’s former glory, we have a lot of work ahead of ourselves. Our collective spell will keep you whole, no matter what damage you sustain.”
“So, I’m invulnerable, is that what you’re saying?” asked Torch.
“Precisely that, my lord,” Thunder Spark answered. “Why not see for yourself?”
The ground beneath Mount Ignatus heaved, shaking the earth with a quake that could be felt for miles around. To the casual observer, this was just another eruption in the most volcanically active continent on the planet. But to a select few, this was a sign of things to come; destruction, carnage and the prophesied end of pony dominance.