Drakmoor

Nobody conquers Drakmoor. Nobody tries twice.

The highland nation runs on dragon fire. Bonded drakes and their riders own the sky, the dragon-blooded ruling clans run hot in every sense, and the capital is built into the walls of a volcanic crater where hundreds of winged shapes rise with the dawn. The locals call it the breathing.

But Drakmoor's true power sleeps deeper. In a circle of standing stones called Dracon's Heart — each stone a fossilized bone of an Elder Dragon — a spear holds something ancient in place. Three Elder Dragons, each the size of a mountain range, sleep beneath the highlands, and the stone circle sings them a lullaby that has held for thousands of years.

The Riders maintain the rite. They don't talk about what happens if it stops. They especially don't talk about the fact that the lullaby was designed to be sung by someone who no longer exists — and that every year, the approximation drifts a little further from the song.