The Power of Creation
Copyright© 2026 by Vasantrutu
Chapter 12: Dragons
Eldric turned toward me, one brow lifting thoughtfully.
“We can form another ring for food production,” he said. “Dedicated farmland would solve the issue cleanly.”
Before I could respond, Edrin Kael stepped forward. He studied the model intently for several long moments, then slowly shook his head.
“If my knowledge serves me correctly,” he began, his voice steady, “our current borders already sit at the junction of four villages, and we have begun encroaching upon the territory known as the Verdant Maw.”
A quiet murmur rippled through the hall.
“We could purchase that land,” Edrin continued, “but the cost would be immense—crystals, metals, and long-term obligations. Strategically, I see no reason to restrict ourselves that way.”
He raised a hand and pointed at the model, indicating each direction in turn.
“To the south, we have beasts and livestock lands. The village there has been harassed for years. Offer them protection, and they will join us—not reluctantly, but eagerly.”
He shifted his finger westward.
“To the west lies the ocean. Coastal villages survive on scraps and uncertain trade. Offer them stability, better infrastructure, and access to inland markets, and they will come out of curiosity—and stay for prosperity.”
Northward next.
“To the north is a farming village. They will join for the same reason—security, improved tools, and reliable distribution.”
Finally, his finger rested to the east.
“And to the east ... the rebels.”
The room went still.
“They distrust authority,” Edrin said calmly, “but they value freedom and vision. If we place faith in them and show them our future plans—this city, this kingdom—there is a strong chance they will join us willingly.”
He exhaled slowly.
“With this approach, there is no need for a narrow food ring. Instead, I propose we expand our territory by an additional fifteen kilometers in radius.”
Silence followed.
Then all eyes turned to me.
I did not speak.
I simply reached out and focused on the model.
The land responded.
The borders expanded outward, terrain reshaping itself with precise detail—villages, coastlines, plains, and forests integrating seamlessly into the growing domain. The new radius settled into place as if it had always belonged there.
A kingdom, no longer theoretical.
When I withdrew my hand, the hall remained silent for a heartbeat longer.
Then—slow nods.
One by one, heads inclined in approval.
The decision was made.
The kingdom would not grow cautiously.
It would grow decisively.
The next question Eldric Thorne asked sealed my fate for the next sixty-five hours.
“What,” he said slowly, his voice echoing through the gathered crowd, “shall be the name of our kingdom?”
For a heartbeat, silence ruled.
Then someone—no one later remembered who—looked at the model, at the rings, the walls, the dragons carved into stone and metal, and spoke a name aloud.
Another voice repeated it.
Then another.
The name spread like fire catching dry grass, growing louder with every breath, every heartbeat, until the entire gathering spoke as one.
I felt it before I understood it.
The moment the name was accepted—not by law, not by decree, but by belief—something shifted.
The air grew heavy.
Mana surged.
The world tilted.
My vision blurred as an unbearable pressure crushed down on my chest, as if the land itself had reached out and claimed me. My knees buckled. I felt myself falling backward, strength abandoning my body all at once.
As darkness swallowed the edges of my sight, I felt a vast, ancient presence awaken—twelve distant echoes answering a single call.
With the last fragment of strength I had left, a single word tore itself from my lips.
“MANA—”
Then consciousness left me completely.
And thus, without coronation, without crown or throne, the kingdom was born.
Its name, etched not in stone alone but into fate itself:
The Sanctum of the Twelve Dragons.
MIRA’S POINT OF VIEW
I was standing just behind Varun Stoneward when the meeting dissolved into chaos.
One moment, the entire hall was chanting the name of the future kingdom in unified fervor.
The next—
Mana flooded the room.
The air screamed.
A violent surge of wind erupted from nowhere, pressing against my skin, stealing my breath. I turned just in time to see my brother’s body go limp as he collapsed mid-chant, a broken word tearing from his lips.
“M—”
Varun was right behind him.
Without hesitation, he caught Rowan before his head could strike the stone floor. In one swift motion, Varun lifted him into his arms and sprinted out of the hall.
That was when panic truly set in.
Some people chased after Varun, shouting questions and orders. Others froze where they stood, stunned by the sudden shift in reality. I remained rooted to the spot, heart hammering in my chest.
Then the model moved.
Silently, impossibly, the massive model of the future kingdom rose from the floor—floating upward as though gravity had forgotten it existed. It hovered nearly two feet above the ground, rotating slowly.
At first, no one spoke.
Then the roof began to disappear.
Not collapse.
Not crack.
It was erased.
Stone vanished from the top down, dissolving into nothingness as though it had never existed. Screams erupted as people fled the hall in every direction. I ran with them, barely escaping before the walls followed the same fate.
When the transformation ended, the meeting hall was gone.
In its place stood a perfectly circular stone platform, sunken nearly two meters below ground level.
At its center rested the model.
But it was no longer the size it had been.
It had grown.
The structure now spanned nearly eight meters in diameter, standing over three meters tall. The model descended gently and settled onto the platform as though it had always belonged there.
Then it began to change.
Starting from the central point, the model pulsed with light and expanded outward—streets forming, walls solidifying, structures sharpening into terrifying clarity.
But then it stopped.
Right at the second wall.
The expansion halted as if restrained by an unseen rule.
The next transformation was even stranger.
The roads inside what had once been the Dragon Zone began to vanish—melting away until only four massive roads remained, each connecting gate to gate in perfect alignment.
Then the land itself shifted.
One quadrant turned crimson, glowing faintly with heat.
Another sank into deep blue, shimmering like an endless sea.
A third hardened into jagged rock and stone.
The fourth softened into a sparse forest, mist curling between twisted trees.
Rysa Thorncall whispered, her voice trembling with awe.
“It’s ... beast zoning.”
She swallowed hard.
“These are elemental territories. Each can house different classes of beasts. Smaller, tamer creatures can remain near residential zones—but these...” Her voice faltered. “These are designed for monsters.”
Before anyone could respond, the land changed again.
What had once been marked as the Beast Zone reshaped itself entirely.
It divided itself into twelve sectors.
The twelve empty sectors did not remain empty.
A volcano erupted into existence in one.
A bottomless ocean trench formed in another.
One sector fractured upward into floating landmasses, suspended in the air.
Another rose into a towering mountain range, its peaks dusted with frost.
One by one, all twelve sectors transformed—each becoming a perfect embodiment of its element.
Rysa’s knees buckled.
She barely managed to catch herself before falling, dropping into a kneel before the model, her head bowed in reverence.
Before I could ask her what she was seeing—
Then anoter change occurred.
Within each elemental territory, dragon figurines emerged.
It didn’t stop there.
Across the vast model of the kingdom, small pillars began to rise—dozens, then hundreds—emerging from the land as if summoned by an unseen will. Each pillar grew until it matched the height of the great keeps along the walls.
The tops of these pillars were perfectly circular.
And upon each one, dragons appeared.
These were not the grounded, symbolic dragons embedded within the elemental zones. These were different—true skyward predators, dragons with vast wings folded against their bodies. They perched atop the pillars like sentinels, silent and watchful, their presence alone radiating authority.
When the final dragon settled into place, the changes stopped.
Only then did I realize I was holding my breath.
I released it in a long, trembling sigh and finally dared to look away from the model.
Around me stood a mixed gathering—villagers, newly appointed leaders, elders, and children. The children stared openly, eyes wide with wonder, whispering excitedly to one another about dragons and flight. The elders, however, watched in silence, their expressions heavy with awe and reverence.
That was when I noticed her.
An elderly woman stood slightly apart from the crowd. She leaned on a staff held in her left hand, her posture relaxed yet dignified. Something about her presence felt... anchored, as if the world itself acknowledged her existence.
I searched my memory frantically.
I had lived in this village all my life. I had seen every elder, every family, every wandering visitor.
Yet I had never seen this woman before.
As if reading my thoughts, she turned her gaze toward me and spoke gently.
“Calm yourself, child,” she said. “You have never seen me—because I have never been here.”
I swallowed. “May I know who you are?”
She lifted her staff and pointed toward the model.
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