I'm an Extra, so What?

Two Weeks Later – Northward Roads, Past the Verdant Divide

The sky shifted as they rode north.

Green hills gave way to jagged cliffs. The air smelled faintly of frost, even though it was summer. Birds didn't fly here. Magic was quiet.

Too quiet.

Serene rode beside Luka, her newly reforged shield gleaming softly, etched with a small sun—the sigil of the Flamewardens.

Gregor trudged on foot nearby, pulling their supplies behind a thick, rune-marked beast called a grufwalker.

Snow dozed in Luka's saddlebag, tail twitching occasionally.

No one talked much.

Until they reached the edge of the Stone Sea.

It wasn't on any map.

A wasteland of petrified trees, cracked basalt fields, and broken spires that once looked like towers—now just statues of ash-colored ruin. But the strangest part wasn't the land.

It was the shapes.

Figures, frozen in place.

Not statues. Not golems.

People.

Thousands of them.

Humans, elves, even dragons—frozen in full motion, caught mid-run, mid-fight, mid-scream. All turned to stone.

Serene dismounted first, stunned. "What… is this?"

Snow poked his head out of the saddlebag and immediately hissed.

"It's a graveyard," he said quietly. "No. Worse. A warning."

Luka knelt beside one of the statues—a knight with sword raised high, mouth frozen mid-command. His armor bore an unfamiliar crest: three mountains bound by chains.

Gregor muttered, "They weren't turned to stone by a spell. Look at the detail. They're not encased. They are stone."

Snow nodded.

"This wasn't fire. Wasn't void. It was something deeper."

"Earth Magic. But not the kind that grows."

"The kind that waits."

The Pulse

That night, they made camp at the base of a broken tower that had half-sunken into the earth. The stars above this region were strange—paler, slower. As if time flowed differently here.

Snow curled up beside the fire, but didn't sleep.

Neither did Luka.

Just before dawn, the pulse came.

A low, bass tremor—felt more in the bones than the ears.

It came from deep below.

The ground… breathed.

And in the distance, a mountain that had once been silent—moved.

Serene stood up at once. "Did anyone else—?"

Gregor nodded grimly. "Aye. That wasn't wind."

Snow flapped to Luka's shoulder and whispered,

"It's awake."

"The Dragon Forge."

"The one they sealed before the Flame Wars began."

Luka's brow furrowed. "Forge?"

"Not to make weapons.""To make gods."

Beneath the Stone

The next morning, they reached the mountain.

Its outer skin was cracked open like a hatching egg. Giant ribs of obsidian jutted from the earth, ancient runes crawling with dormant light.

They descended cautiously—past tunnels of silver-veined basalt, down stairways no mortal had walked in a thousand years.

At the bottom, they found it.

A forge the size of a coliseum.

Lava flowed not with heat—but memory. The molten metal in the basin wasn't iron—it was essence.

Sleeping at the center of it, curled around a sunken dais, was a creature half-machine, half-dragon.

Rust covered its wings.

But its eyes were beginning to glow.

"That's not a dragon," Serene said, stunned.

Snow was deathly quiet.

"That's one of the Forged."

"Built by the last dragons to replace the ones they lost in the war."

"They weren't meant to wake unless the world was ending again."

Gregor looked at Luka. "Should we kill it before it finishes waking?"

Snow turned to Luka. His voice was soft—but ancient.

"You'll have to choose."

"If you wake it… it might help you."

"But if it remembers who it was… it might turn on everyone."

Luka Steps Forward

Luka looked at the sleeping construct.

He could feel it: intelligence. But fractured. Buried under centuries of rusted orders and buried rage.

It was once a guardian.

Then a weapon.

Then a memory.

He placed a hand on the edge of the forge's rim.

And spoke, not in command—

—but in truth.

"I am Luka. Keeper of the Last Flame. And we have no gods left."

The creature stirred.

Its wings shuddered.

Its eyes opened.

And a deep, metallic voice echoed through the chamber:

"I know that name."

"I served the first Flamebearer."

"And I remember… betrayal."

.

.

.

The Dragon Forge – Beneath the Mountain

The air was molten but cold.

Magic shimmered like oil over the ancient forge, and the Forged Dragon — a beast of steel sinew, smoldering runes, and half-missing wings — raised its massive head. Its body groaned like a collapsing tower. Its glowing eyes locked onto Luka.

"You are not her."

The voice was not angry.It was… broken.

Gregor took one step forward, axe ready.

Serene raised a ward.

But Luka didn't move.He simply asked:

"Who was she?"

The Forged Dragon's head tilted. Sparks hissed from a cracked jaw.

"My creator. The one who gave me purpose.""I guarded the First Flame's vault.""Then… the war came."

Its voice deepened, glitching.

"They turned me into a weapon.""I killed kin. Tore through cities of stone and gold.""And when the war ended… they buried me.""They said I was too dangerous.""Too loyal."

It raised its talons — as long as tree trunks.

"And now… they send you. To end me?"

Snow floated from Luka's shoulder and hovered in the air before the machine-dragon, small yet glowing.

"No," Snow said softly."He came to wake you.""Because you're not a weapon anymore.""You're a witness."

The dragon went still.

And then, slowly, the chamber itself shifted.

Runes across the walls pulsed. One by one, glowing memory-crystals rose from the floor — flickering, dim, like dying candles.

Serene whispered, "What is this…?"

"A test," Luka said, stepping forward. "It needs to remember who it was before it decides what it is."

The Forged Dragon's voice echoed through the forge:

"One memory. Yours or mine.""Give me a truth that binds.""If I find it worthy, I will not burn this mountain."

Snow nodded. "He's asking for a soul exchange."

Gregor grunted. "Sounds like a fair trade. You get burned alive or you don't."

Luka stepped onto the dais.

He closed his eyes.

And he gave it one.

The Memory Luka Shared

He gave it Snow's hatching.

The soft, glowing shell cracking in a dark forest. The rain falling that day. How Luka had held the tiny dragon in his cloak, unsure what he'd found. How he'd fed him scraps. How he'd waited for Snow to chirp, then speak, then fly.

And how it had never felt like raising a weapon.

Only a friend.

Only family.

The forge pulsed.

The memory hung in the air like golden flame.

The Forged Dragon watched.

Silent.

Then it reached one claw toward the crystal memory.

Touched it.

And for the first time in centuries—

wept.

The Pact Forged

Its massive body shifted, creaking.

The lava around the basin cooled into black obsidian.

The glow in its eyes softened.

"I remember now," it said."I was made to destroy.""But I wanted to protect.""You… are not my enemy.""And if the Flame trusts you—then so will I."

Its head bowed — not in servitude.

In respect.

Snow landed gently on its snout.

"Will you follow us?" Luka asked."There's more coming. Worse than what's fallen already."

The Forged Dragon's body surged with new heat — stable, alive.

"Then lead, Flamebearer.""And I shall burn again in your name."

Outside the Mountain

Later that night, as the stars returned overhead, Luka stood atop a ridge and watched the forge slowly collapse into itself — not broken, but sealed, now dormant again.

The Forged Dragon waited outside, half-buried in shadow, wings folded like an old knight awaiting orders.

Gregor scratched his head. "So now you've got a mech-dragon. What's next?"

Snow answered.

"We follow the stone trail."

Serene furrowed her brow. "You mean the Stone Sea?"

Snow shook his head.

"Deeper. Below it. Beneath the crust.""There's something sealed there. Something even the dragons were afraid of."

Luka looked to the northern horizon, where the stars no longer moved.

Time had slowed there.

Or maybe… been caught.

.

.

.

Dawn – Edge of the Stone Veins

They left the forge at sunrise.

The Forged Dragon — who now bore the name Vaelrith — had taken a vow of silence as it walked beside them, each step shaking the earth. Birds did not return. The Stone Sea remained still.

But beneath the cracked terrain, Luka felt it.

A thrum.

A heartbeat.

Not his. Not Snow's.

Not even Vaelrith's.

But the world's.

They reached a canyon split like a scar across the land—narrow at the top, then widening like a gaping mouth. Runes flickered faintly across the walls, in an old dialect Luka didn't recognize.

Snow floated beside him, reading them aloud:

"Here ends the reign of fire.""Here begins the reign of stone.""All that forgets shall be remembered.""All that remembers… shall turn to stone."

Gregor muttered, "Cheerful."

Serene lit a lantern of crystal flame.

And they stepped inside.

The Descent

The Stone Veins were not caves.

They were roots. Vast petrified channels that once fed power into the land itself. Now they spiraled downward, massive and cold, wrapped in old symbols and older scars.

Snow flew ahead, wings glowing faintly.

"No one's been here since before the Flame Wars."

"Even the dragons feared what lived down here."

"Not what lived," Serene corrected. "What never died."

They passed statues fused into the walls — not made of stone, but turned into it. Some bore weapons. Others were children. All were posed like they'd been frozen mid-breath.

Then the Veins opened.

And they found the city.

City of the First Molded

It wasn't built.

It had grown.

Buildings of bone-pale limestone shaped like spires of coral, all perfectly still. Trees made of quartz. Roads paved in rune-braided obsidian.

At the center stood a massive coliseum with a sealed gate—bearing the symbol of a spiral sun, cracked down the middle.

Snow hovered low, uneasy.

"This is where they made the first hybrids."

Serene stiffened. "Hybrids?"

Snow nodded.

"Not dragons. Not men. Not elves."

"But something… between."

Gregor exhaled slowly. "So what's guarding the place?"

A low, dragging sound answered from the far archway.

Stone moved.

A shape emerged from the dark — twice Luka's height, its form skeletal and plated in thick armor made from fused rock and horn. It had no mouth. Only a round spiral of crystal where its face should've been.

It knelt before them.

Then spoke, not aloud, but directly into Luka's mind:

"Flameborn. You walk where you should not."

"Why have you come?"

Luka Answers

He stepped forward.

"I'm Luka. I carry the last Flame. The world above is changing. Creatures of void, fire, and memory have returned. We're looking for answers—and allies."

The creature tilted its head.

"Allies? There are none here."

"Only consequence."

Snow floated forward. "We're not your enemies."

"All above are our enemies."

"They burned the first forests. They carved the leylines. They forged gods of metal and forgot who bled for them."

"You wish allies? Then face memory."

Without warning, the crystal on its head flared.

The Trial of Stone

The world turned gray.

Luka staggered—falling into a storm of visions not his own.

He saw a child born of stone and fire. No mother. No breath. Only shaping hands.

He saw dragons war against this child's kin, afraid of their nulling power.

He saw elves try to tame them.

Humans tried to enslave them.

And when they failed?

They buried them.

One by one.

Alive.

Snow's voice echoed in Luka's skull:

"Luka. They weren't monsters. They were first. They remember a world before fire."

Then the vision shattered.

Back in the Present

Luka gasped as he fell to one knee.

Vaelrith stepped forward, growling low.

But Luka raised a hand.

"We came here to learn," he said. "And I've learned."

He met the creature's crystal gaze.

"I remember now. I remember what we did. And I won't let it happen again."

Silence.

Then the gate behind the creature opened.

"Then you may enter."

"And speak to our king."

"But if he judges you unworthy…"

"You will not leave."

Into the Coliseum of Stone

The gate creaked open.

Inside, hundreds of stone-forged watchers lined the walls. And at the far end of the arena, atop a throne fused with bones of earth and steel, sat a being unlike anything Luka had seen.

Not dragon.

Not man.

Not god.

Its skin was cracked basalt. Its eyes were stars trapped in quartz. Its breath rattled like tectonic plates shifting.

Snow whispered one word:

"King Mourntide."