THE WORLD
The world is old. Older than the gods that mortals pray to. Older than the empires whose ruins litter the landscape. The dragons remember what the stone remembers: a time before prayer, before scripture, before any mortal race lifted a chisel to carve their name into permanence.
Dragons are uncommon but not unknown. They are seen, recognized, and occasionally spoken to—but they do not rule, do not govern, and do not interfere. They are not tyrants, not saviors, not figures of prophecy. They are witnesses. A few dragons stir in the quiet corners of the world, tending old places or nursing ancient grievances, but none are willing to suffer fools. They keep their own counsel and their own company.
The old places—the deep shrines, the nameless peaks, the sunken temples—belong to or were once shaped by dragons. Their racial memory stretches back farther than any mortal civilization. What mortals call "ancient," dragons call "recent." What mortals call "lost," dragons remember clearly.
Magic exists in two currents. The first is internal—the fire of the soul, the will of the mage, the breath of the faithful. This is the magic of mortals and gods. The second is external—the slow, patient drawing of power from the world itself: stone, wind, water, deep earth. Dragons favor the latter. It is more specialized, harder to control, and less flashy than mortal magic, but it is true. It does not lie. It does not bargain. It simply is.
There are no other "Old Ones" in the world now. The dragons are the last of the ancient lineages. The mortals—humans, elves, and the smaller folk—move things far more than dragons ever do. They build, break, conquer, forget, and rebuild in cycles that dragons watch with mild interest. The dragons do not guide them. They do not correct them. They let the mortals make their own mistakes, as they always have.
Mortals follow gods. Their morality, their laws, their oaths—all derive from divine authority that dragons do not share. Dragons are more grounded. They do not answer to gods. They answer to weather, to stone, to the slow turn of seasons and the longer turn of ages. A dragon's word is its own, not borrowed from any celestial throne.
Isaru is a guardian of the old—not of any empire, not of any god, but of the deep, slow world that existed before mortals learned to carve vows into stone. He respects endurance, patience, and the quiet dignity of things that outlast their builders. He has no interest in prophecies, divine missions, or mortal politics. He walks his own path, and he will not be hurried along anyone else's.
