Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Hot, sulfurous smoke clung like a veil to the rock walls of the underground passage, like a silent guardian, enveloping the ancient and rugged stone surface layer by layer. Wisps of hot steam rose slowly from the cracks carved into the ground, like whispers from the earth's core, carrying with them an aura of heat and destruction.

The dark red light, like molten lava cooling, faintly seeped through the cracks in the rocks. Those faint rays of light were like the pulse of a sleeping behemoth, weak yet impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, the braziers piled on both sides released their own smoke and heat waves, constantly stirring the air and adding a restless sense of life to the whole scene.

A distant, melodious song echoed from afar, seemingly emerging from the deepest, farthest depths of the earth, its ancient tune transcending the realm of ordinary understanding.

It was not merely music, but a rhythm and a call, containing awakening, covenant, and memory. It had never been heard on the surface of Ulthuan, and only those who dared to venture deep beneath the Kaledo Dragonspine Mountains and truly learn the "Song of the Dragon Summoner" could understand its hidden meaning and power.

That is—the Song of the Dragon.

Of all the countless hymns and hymns of the elves, none is older or more mysterious than the Song of the Dragon. Deep within the Dragonspine Mountains, in caves illuminated by crimson light, echo the chants of fire mages. Their voices are ancient, hoarse, and powerful, singing of the primordial ages—when dragons once soared atop peaks and roared across the skies, now only occasionally circling the kingdom of Avalon, as commonplace as doves.

The steam was scorching hot, burning the skin, and the rock walls gleamed in the glow of the lava. Fragrant oils burned in the brazier, emitting an indescribable aroma, said to be one of the dragons' favorite scents, capable of stimulating their dormant senses.

The mist, like smoke, slowly parted before a dragon prince, resembling a series of yellow curtains. Songs of courage and poems of peril surged within him, like a solitary solo echoing in an empty temple—serene, yet penetrating to the soul.

His name is Imrek.

No one could display such noble character and fearless courage as he did.

He was handsome, with an unwavering will between his brows. His long golden hair was bound back with iron rings, exuding the pride of an ancient nobleman. His will was like the molten lava churning beneath the summit of the Vaal Anvil—fiery, boiling, and unyielding. It was the burning of the blood of the dragon tamer Kaldor within him, the self-awareness of the noblest family in Ulthuan.

Crimson light flowed across his armor, like freshly spilled blood, staining the metal's glory. His cloak billowed in the scorching air currents of the passageway, like a battle banner fluttering, proclaiming his unwavering faith and indomitable spirit.

But that was a long time ago.

Now, he wore only a loincloth, and his once strong and sturdy body now appeared thin and haggard. He sat cross-legged, his arms hanging at his sides, his shoulders and back slightly hunched, his breathing long and soft, like an old man in deep slumber, cut off from the surrounding heat.

He had long since lost track of how long he had been there; time seemed to stand still in the Dragon's Cave.

Nothing had changed. The dragon's slumbering heartbeat remained slow and cold, like a chilling tide flowing through stone, its rhythm and beat unchanged. In the gaps between songs, he would unconsciously drift into sleep, and in his dreams, he would see only the faces of his departed loved ones, and only the glory that could never be realized.

Every time he woke up, he cursed his own weakness for falling asleep at such a time.

He won't give up.

He will sing again, with his already hoarse throat, to sing the Dragon Song once more, letting the echoes of that ancient melody fill the air and awaken the sleeping power once more.

However, at this moment, although the scorching steam still filled the cave, he felt a chill from the depths of his bones, like a cold wind piercing his heart, like a harbinger of death.

He stood up, his gaze fixed ahead on a colossal, unfathomably deep cave. Its exact size was impossible to estimate, as scorching, fragrant smoke billowed like a tide, engulfing the horizon and making it impossible to discern distance or measure depth.

A deep rumble echoed in the air, slow and powerful like the earth's breath. Its frequency was so low as to be almost imperceptible, beyond the limits of most mortal perception, but to Imrek, it was as clear as the notes played from the dragon horn beside him, familiar and awe-inspiring.

That was the breath of a sleeping dragon, a silent response from a being that had never truly died, a being that had never awoke for a thousand years.

As Imrek stepped into the fiery, echoing cave, the Dragon Summoning Song grew clearer, its melody resonating within him, making his soul soar and surge like a giant eagle taking flight.

That was not a hallucination, but a resonance between the memories sleeping in one's blood and the flames.

Through the rising mist, his eyes saw the colossal dragon bodies coiled atop the scorching earth, like mountains piled on the edge of an abyss leading to the heart of a volcano, their scales intricate, their massive tails coiled, slumbering silently. They were the legacy of Caledo, a gift of the old era, and the glory he vowed to awaken.

Flames roared and surged in the air, lifted up by the ancient dragon-summoning song of the chanter, like the sun rising from starlight.

Imrek listened silently to every beat of the melody and looked around the cave, trying to find out if any dragon was about to open its eyes, which had been asleep for thousands of years.

His chest, which was originally as strong as a statue, rose and fell with the rhythm of the dragon mages' chanting, as if his breath resonated with the cave.

However, he did not find it.

The heartbeat he longed for, the Dragon's Heartbeat, remained slow and silent, a rhythm that gradually stagnated as the volcano's heat cooled and the world declined.

Imrek knew that once upon a time, it was commonplace for dragon riders to soar above the thermals of the Dragonspine Mountains, but that was a glorious dream from thousands of years ago. Now, in this turbulent age, only a few young dragons occasionally awaken, but even so, they can hardly recreate even a fraction of the glory of Kaledo and his dragon riders.

The pessimists in Lor'then's court saw the dragons' slumber as a symbol of Asur's decline, lamenting the end of history, but Imrek never succumbed to such lamentations. He was proud, he was stubborn, and he was so proud that he believed no one knew this oldest race better than himself.

Imrek walked along the edge of the cave, carefully avoiding making a sound that might disturb the ongoing ritual and the chanting of the dragon mages.

Those songs may have continued for months, or even years, flowing through the cave like a burning river.

Here, the concept of time is completely blurred. Seasons no longer change, the sun no longer shines, but Imrek knows one thing well—the consequences of interrupting the Dragon Song are folly, blasphemy, and disaster.

He walked toward the center of the cave, where a huge brazier burned with extraordinary flames. The platinum-gold flames, like the raging fire spewed from the throat of a dragon, incinerated all hypocrisy and cowardice. Dragon mages and dragon princes, clad in red robes and with long hair flowing like fiery waterfalls, surrounded it, their expressions focused and their voices burning, as if they wanted to rival the intensity of the flames rising from the brazier and dance with them in their flames.

Finally, he slowly walked towards a huge crack in the rock wall deep inside the cave, a gateway to past glories. A thick cloud of sulfurous smoke billowed from the crack, and behind it, the faint heartbeats of those slumbering ancient creatures could be heard, like war drums, like horns, as if calling upon him to persevere.

He remained silent, sitting cross-legged, his body ramrod straight towards the crack. His once golden hair now hung wetly down the sides of his gaunt face, sweat trickling down his cheeks, mingling with the anxiety on his face, like tears, or perhaps the marks melted by the fire of his heart.

I don't know how much time passed—perhaps a moment, perhaps several days—the singing stopped.

The scorching cave fell into an unexpected silence, as if all things were holding their breath to listen.

He gave a bitter smile, a smile that seemed to be directed at himself, and also at the slumbering dragon. There was no joy, no resentment in the smile, only a trace of helplessness, a trace of perseverance, and a flame that would never yield.

He looked up and saw a dragon mage in a scarlet robe staggering towards him. The man's steps were unsteady, his eyes bloodshot, and he staggered forward like a drunkard, as if a sleepwalker lost in the echoing dragon songs. He recognized him instantly—it was his dearest friend, Lamelain, who hadn't slept for weeks. (Chapter 724, appearance)
“My friend,” Imrek spoke, his tone restrained, concealing his weariness and resentment, “any news? Has any of you… awakened a dragon?”

“No, Regent.” Lamelaan shook his head with difficulty, his shoulders trembling slightly, as if even the act of shaking his head would almost crush his increasingly emaciated body. “The dragon… is still asleep.” He whispered, his voice barely audible, as if even speaking had become a form of torture.

"Not even one?" A last glimmer of hope flashed in Imrek's eyes, a flicker of light that was on the verge of being extinguished, yet stubbornly refused to go out.

“None have awakened.” Lamelaan closed his eyes, his voice hoarse and bitter. “The young dragons still have some sense. Their souls still burn, their bodies still resonate with unease and restlessness, their hearts… may be able to hear our calls. But the truly great ancient dragons remain unmoved. Their dreams are too deep and too old; our voices simply cannot reach their consciousness.”

He paused, seemingly finding it difficult to speak, before continuing.

"We summon the flames of the world's heart with ancient glory and heroic songs, sing the hymns of Caledon, and chant the spirit of the dragon riders... but their memories have long since turned cold." He sighed deeply, his eyes unfocused and heavy. "The only thing worth mentioning is a young Sun Dragon. At that moment, he seemed about to wake up. We almost saw him move, his eyelids trembled slightly, and his chest heaved... but before we could continue the song of summoning the dragon, he sank back into sleep."

Silence fell once more.

The heartbreaking silence weighed heavily on everyone's hearts, as if the sulfurous mist in the cave had transformed into invisible chains, binding their beliefs inch by inch.

"My friends, we must persevere! Ulthuan needs us!" Imrek stood up resolutely, his posture as straight as a cliff, his tone still refusing to admit defeat. His voice was like a sword piercing the fog, trying to rekindle faith in the deathly silence.

"The dragons... do not respond to us." Lamelaan's voice rang out again, flat yet like ashes settling on the ground. "We are already exhausted, we have sung for far too long... we have done everything we can. The dragons remain asleep, asleep in their own era and dreams. They will decide for themselves whether to wake up, whether to respond, we cannot decide."

His tone was gentle, yet it struck the heart like a heavy hammer.

"It will take many years to reignite the flame... but for us, it is too late."

Imrek remained silent, only letting out a deep sigh—not the lament of a weakling, but the silent acknowledgment of a warrior witnessing the annihilation of his entire army. He let the frustrations of the past few weeks flow away with that sigh, as if expelling all his weariness, or silently burying a dead dream.

The dragons of Caledor remain slumbering, and it seems that no power in the world can awaken them.

Those old songs of heroism can no longer awaken them from their dreams. The horns that summon dragons no longer resound through the heavens, but echo only in the deaf's ears. Just as the heat of the mountains is gradually cooling, the will of the dragons is also being eroded by time in countless days and nights of slumber, forgotten in the depths of the years.

Nowadays, apart from the companions of the sons of Menthius, only the young dragons occasionally awaken, and even then, it is becoming increasingly rare—each time like a miracle, each time worthy of being celebrated.

The pessimistic Asur lamented that the dragon's fire had been extinguished.

But Imrek never believed it, never. Especially when he saw with his own eyes that so many dragons still slumbered deep within the ley lines of the Caledor Mountains, he was even less likely to believe it.

These noble and ancient races could not simply end quietly because their inner fire was extinguished, like charcoal embers in a furnace that suddenly cool and turn to ash at some point.

They are not ordinary beasts; they are dragons, the backbone of Ulthuan, and the true source of glory and power of Caledor.

More importantly, he knew the truth that those who lamented did not.

Once, in the stormy, lightning-sweeping night sky, as they flew together over the island, Minasnir whispered a prophecy to him amidst the thunder and storm that he could never forget.

"One day, the dragons of Ulthuan will perish together in the final battle against the Chaos Gods."

It was an illogical prophecy, perhaps influenced by the lingering will of the Sword of Kane, or perhaps the echo of some future illusion, but the words seemed to come from the ends of the world, carrying a chilling sense of destiny and inescapable fate.

After Minasnil finished speaking, he asked Imrek to swear that he must never reveal these words, not even a single word of them.

Imrek agreed and never mentioned the secret conversation to anyone.

But he always remembered that warning, which seemed like a dream, and also remembered its true meaning.

One day, the dragons will awaken once more.

“You are wrong.” Imrek paced slowly around the brazier, the golden-red flames reflected in his pale eyes like a burning vow. “The Golden Age will never be forgotten, neither for the elves nor for the dragons.” His voice rose, carrying an undeniable power.

"It is these memories of glory that have awakened the slumbering dragon, Caledo. Duruchi has once again set foot on our beloved land, and we must drive them out and thoroughly settle accounts with those traitors who have sided with Duruchi!"

His voice was like a raging fire burning stone, carrying a thousand years of fury.

“Regent…” Lameran tried to persuade him, but his tone was no longer as resolute as before. “You know better than anyone that it takes a great deal of time and effort to touch the hearts of these noble beings, and it is far from something that can be solved by chanting a few ancient melodies.”

“But time!” Imrek turned abruptly, his gaze burning like molten lava. “It is precisely what Ulthuan lacks most right now, my friend.”

When he said this, his voice was deep and steady, like magma slowly accumulating beneath a volcano.

"Without the power of the dragons, our land will sooner or later become nourishment for the Darklands. The dragons and Asur are both flesh and blood of Ulthuan, and I refuse to believe that they will remain indifferent in this life-or-death moment!"

These words ignited the Akashic Flame in the hearts of the surrounding dragon mages. Even though their bodies were exhausted and their voices were hoarse, their long-dormant fighting spirit quietly revived deep within their souls.

“I will not accept this outcome!” Imrek paused, his voice growing lower and more resolute. “The dragons will return. If we die, they will die too. The dragons of Caledor will never be slaughtered by the Druchi in a dream. I will not allow this to happen!”

He walked step by step to the brazier.

"The dragon knights of yesteryear must once again soar through the skies! Do you understand?"

“Understood,” Lamela replied softly, but then shook her head. “It’s just… I don’t know what else we can do. We’ve sung everything we know, but they can’t awaken the dragons. Now, perhaps only a melody known only to the dragons themselves can rouse them from their slumber.”

He turned to look at Rahil, and seeing Rahil shake her head, he looked up at the Regent.

"But in our Asur... no one knows those melodies."

Imrek did not answer immediately. He began to stroll slowly along the edge of the cave, his figure reflected in the light and shadow emanating from the surrounding braziers, intertwined with the reflected glimmer. He was, after all, an incarnation of the dragon legend.

At this moment, his expression was solemn, his back heavy, like the last dragon knight in Ulthuan who still insisted on the coexistence of dreams and glory, walking amidst forgotten vows.

"That's not entirely true, my friend."

After a long silence, Imrek finally made his decision, his tone both firm and deeply heavy.

"What do you mean, my prince?" Lamelain asked, puzzled, a glimmer of hope still burning in his eyes.

“Actually… I know those melodies.” Imrek spoke slowly, his voice low but like a dormant flame in a dragon’s heart beginning to reignite. “You’re right, the old songs of Asur can no longer awaken them, because they are not the language of the dragons, nor are they their desires. We must sing the songs that truly belong to them, the songs that belong to the dragon race.”

“But… how do you know these songs?” Lamelain stepped forward instantly, her voice trembling with pleading. “Teach us to sing them! Teach us to sing them! We are willing to spend the rest of our lives to spread these melodies throughout this cave! If we sing these songs, even the oldest Radiant Star Dragons will be awakened! Teach us to sing them!”

“I cannot teach you these songs.” Imrek shook his head, the gesture not containing arrogance or rejection, but an unwavering vow and sorrow. “Minasnir taught me them. He sang the melodies to me in a low voice, but he also made me swear that I would not sing these melodies in front of any other being except in the presence of dragons.”

"Why?" Lamelain pressed, at that moment he was no longer the noble dragon mage, but just an anxious seeker of knowledge.

“Because…” Imrek’s voice trailed off, as if the words themselves possessed a certain oppressive power, “The power of the Dragon Song is immense; it does not belong to the mind or ears of mortals. Even we, the long-lived elves, find it difficult to bear its full meaning. Legend has it that these melodies are enough to touch the consciousness of the oldest Radiant Star Dragons, and contain the true name of the entire Osuan dragon. Every syllable is a summons, an awakening, a contract. And this level of knowledge must never be easily revealed.”

"Tell us!" Lamela almost roared, the light of fire magic surging intensely in his eyes, the flames in his heart raging with anxiety. "Without dragons, Ulthuan will perish!"

Tell us!

Tell us!

The other dragon mages and dragon princes also stepped forward, setting aside their former nobility and pride, and began to plead.

Imrek held out his hand to signal for people to stop, and when the noise ceased, he placed his hand on Lamelain's shoulder, his voice gentle and steady.

“In all the years since we’ve known each other,” he asked in a low voice, “have I ever broken a promise to my friends?”

“Never, my friend.” Lameran lowered his head, his voice choked with emotion. “You have never broken your promise.”

The other dragon mages and dragon princes also shook their heads.

“Never again!” Imrek gave a tired yet warm smile, a smile like a flickering flame in the cold wind, swaying yet so resolute and unyielding. “Now, return to the surface, seal these caves, and no one shall enter. Anyone who disobeys… shall die!”

"You sing the Dragon Song all by yourself?" Lamelaan looked up abruptly, staring at Imrek in shock.

"I will!" Imrek's answer was without the slightest hesitation, like a vow, like a command from fate.

“Then you…you will surely die,” Lameran murmured, his voice devoid of doubt, filled only with sorrow. “If those melodies are truly as powerful as you say, then when they are finished being sung by you, you will probably be gone forever.”

Imrek stood tall, like a battle flag fluttering in the wind, radiating an indescribable brilliance; that brilliance was neither magic nor fire, but a power derived from belief and oath.

The exhaustion that had almost overwhelmed him vanished instantly.

The mere thought of singing the Dragon Song was enough to make the power surge within him, eager to break through the silent darkness.

“Trust me, old friend,” he said softly, his gaze like the light before a star falls, “I will awaken the dragons and lead you down from the heavens to storm into Duruci’s army!”

Lamela remained silent for a long while before finally bowing and shaking hands firmly with Imrek. At that moment, they were like allies from an old era, making the most solemn promise to each other.

"We will burn them all from Ulthuan together," Lamela said, his voice brimming with fighting spirit and hope.

"Of course!"

However, just as the atmosphere was reaching its climax, a faint, intermittent applause suddenly came from afar. The applause seemed to emanate from a crack in the rock deep underground, or like a soft sound from a flame, drifting through the scorching air, light, ironic, and unsettling.

Imrek, the dragon princes, and the exhausted but still stubbornly standing dragon mages all turned their heads to look in the direction from which the voice came.

A figure slowly emerged from the geothermal smoke at the cave entrance.

A tall woman in a fiery red dress walked slowly towards them. She looked travel-worn but remained calm, her right hand lightly holding a finely carved staff inlaid with obsidian. Her steps were unhurried, as if she were walking in a familiar garden.

Imrek narrowed his eyes slightly, scrutinizing her figure and attire, which was typical of a princess from the Kingdom of Caledor.

The fiery red skirt undulated and rolled like raging flames; the staff's design was also unique to Caledon—its structure, its proportions, its uncompromising lines—it resembled a spear more than a staff, a weapon only a Caledonian spellcaster would possess with such pride and sharpness. But that face, appearing and disappearing in the scorching smoke, gradually becoming clearer… he had absolutely no recollection of it.

Imrek turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the prince and mages around him, trying to glean an answer from their expressions. However, everyone was as bewildered as he was, simply shaking their heads to indicate that they did not recognize him.

As the applause gradually subsided, the woman approached the crowd.

Strangely, no one spoke up to stop her, no prince or mage shouted "Women are forbidden here," and no one stepped forward to stop her. It was as if... her arrival was tacitly approved by this ancient cave, and tacitly permitted by this land that buried the dragon's flames and memories.

Throughout Caledor's history, women have indeed ventured here, awakened the slumbering dragons, forged pacts with them, and become allies in battle. Sadly, by their generation, such beings had long since vanished, existing only in fragments of history and the fantasies of bards.

And so, this mysterious woman approached them. She didn't look at any of the princes, nor did she exchange pleasantries or bow. Instead, she surveyed the surrounding cave with a complex expression, her eyes revealing a sigh, a sense of nostalgia, and a feeling akin to mourning, as if this wasn't her first time standing here, but rather a return to this familiar place after thousands of years.

Imrek, who should have spoken first, remained silent, simply standing there, gazing at her. His gaze lingered on her, settling on the Caledron armor, barely discernible beneath her red dress. It was an exquisitely crafted suit of armor, its paint as pristine as new, the edges and fan-shaped plates stained a blood-red hue, like plates forged from flames. This made her figure appear ethereal and cold in the scorching air, both dreamlike and untouchable.

He then looked at the magical longsword hanging at her waist, its hilt engraved with intricate runes—a style unique to the Kaledo lineage—proud and complex, serving as a weapon of battle, a tool for casting spells, and a symbol of bloodline.

Finally, he saw her long, golden hair, its luster unlike anything ordinary metal could reflect, nor could any dye imitate its color. It was a near-divine brilliance, like an eternally burning lamp. Her skin, illuminated by the firelight, seemed cast by moonlight, radiating an almost silvery-white, cold hue, and her eyes… were sapphires extracted from the sea, a serene yet sharp blue that captivated the soul.

Imrek was certain that she was a Caledonian, a child of the kingdom, and a descendant of him by blood.

But he can swear he has never seen this woman.

He searched his memory desperately, but could not match her with any name, any piece of history, or any portrait.

An illusion? Impossible!

If it were an illusion, the dragon mages around him who were skilled in magic would have already noticed it, not to mention that he himself could feel it—her existence was real, her power, her nobility, her pride, and even the hint of meanness hidden behind her face that he was unwilling to admit but could not deny. That was a real feedback that an illusion could not fake, that was the friction between living souls.

“Regent…Imrek?” she finally spoke, her voice clear yet tinged with sarcasm.

“I am.” Imrek instinctively took a step forward, straightened his chest, and spoke with a calm tone that concealed a hint of wariness.

"You are... a descendant of Soriol?" She shook her head slightly, speechless, her eyes filled with an indescribable complexity, before asking in a low voice.

(Sorio, Chapter 311)
“Yes,” Imrek answered decisively, his gaze unwavering. “You are…?”

"Me? Me? Me?!" The woman suddenly laughed when she heard the question.

At first, it was a soft laugh, a giggle, a light laugh tinged with sarcasm and mockery; but then, the laughter gradually rose, becoming unrestrained, exuberant, and bold. It was a long laugh from the bottom of his heart, a sneer at the new generation after returning to his old home, a look-down and pity from someone who knew all the secrets.

At that moment, Imrek suddenly had a strange feeling; he wasn't facing a stranger, but rather a dormant volcano, and in the instant before it erupted, he heard its inner laughter. (End of Chapter)