Onyx and Flame

Belacor

In the ancient world, we were not beasts. We were sovereigns—dragons, lords of air and flame, forged from the bones of stars and the breath of the first dawn. I remember what it was to fly—not merely to move through the sky, but to own it. We painted the heavens with our wings, our scales reflecting constellations long extinguished. When I roared, mountains trembled. When I breathed, I did not simply burn; I shaped. My fire carved rivers, awakened volcanoes, tempered metal deep beneath the earth.

Mortals did not fear us then. They worshiped us. We were the balance that was given form. Flame and wisdom. Destruction and rebirth.

And among us all, I was first.

I was Belacor.

My name was spoken in reverent awe and trembling dread. I ruled the skies not out of cruelty, but because none could challenge me. I held dominion because the world itself bowed to me. My fire was the judgment of the gods and the mercy of creation. I did what others feared—I kept order when the lesser beings, the mortals, lost themselves in greed and war and chaos.

At first, I watched them—curious, perhaps even amused. But their rot spread fast. Kingdoms rose like weeds, choking the wild lands, burning forests to feed their endless hunger. They tore down the temples built in our honor and crowned themselves rulers of all. No reverence. No balance. Only conquest.

I warned them. Gave them fire to rebuild. Light to remember. But mortals never learn through mercy.

So I taught them through fear.

I descended upon their cities in storms of ash and flame. I shattered thrones, chained kings, scorched gold until it flowed like rivers. I was not cruel. I was necessary. A purging flame. A reckoning.

But the gods—the Primordials, those wretched architects of balance—they disagreed. They saw my fury, not my purpose. They heard my roars and called it hubris. They saw a tyrant where once they had anointed a guardian.

And so, they punished me.

They did not kill me. No—death would have been a mercy. Instead, they tore me from the world I once ruled, shackled my wings in chains woven from starlight and silence, and cast me into this place.

A prison. A grave without death.

Here, there is no sky. Only grey, endless mist and dead stone. No fire takes hold. No wind whispers. Time doesn’t flow—it stagnates, heavy and unmarked. The silence here is not peace. It is suffocation.

I raged, at first.

My screams cracked the cliffs. I hurled myself against the boundaries of this realm until my bones splintered and the chains bit deep. I cursed the Primordials, swore to return, to raze the world and grind their temples into dust. I roared until even echoes abandoned me.

But rage is a flame, and even the fiercest blaze burns low in isolation.

In time, fury gave way to silence.

I became still.

Not broken, no. But hollowed.

I sat, day after day—if such things can be measured here—listening to the emptiness. Watching nothing. My eyes, once golden and blazing, dimmed to ash. I no longer dreamt of conquest. I no longer longed for vengeance. What use is wrath when the world you once knew has forgotten your name?

I remembered. That’s all I had. Memories. Glorious, agonizing memories. Of fire, of wind, of flight. Of a time when my shadow darkened valleys and my wings kissed the clouds. I replayed every moment—every battle, every scream, every betrayal—until they faded into silence too.

And yet…

Even now, beneath the weight of this cursed eternity, a spark remains.

Not rage. Not pride.

Something smaller.

A longing.

Not to rule. Not to burn. Not even to be feared.

But to fly.

To feel the wind once more. To rise above the clouds and look down—not as a god, not as a tyrant—but simply as a dragon, as I was meant to be. Unbound. Vast. Alive.

I know I will never leave this place.

But still, the spark lingers.

And sometimes, when the silence grows thin, I close my eyes and remember the sky