Russian Federation. Moscow. Ministry of Foreign Affairs Situation Center.

  In the soundproof, windowless room, where the only light came from the cold, bluish glow of a gigantic interactive world map, an atmosphere of tense, focused silence reigned. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, in close coordination with the General Staff and the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), was conducting a total overhaul of its global strategy.

  "To sum up, colleagues," Foreign Minister Georgy Borisovich Vorontsov, looking weary but composed, said as he swept his heavy gaze over those present, "we have created a power vacuum on an entire continent. And as we know, nature abhors a vacuum. If we don't fill it with our influence, someone else will."

  A young analyst, the head of the new Department for Special Territories, touched the sensory panel with a stylus. The world map came to life.

  "At present, the main threat to our long-term security is the so-called Gra Valkas Empire," he began. A satellite image of their fleet, taken several weeks ago, appeared on the screen. "Like us, they are 'transferred.' The GRU estimates their technology level corresponds to the mid-20th century on Earth. That means aircraft carriers, battleships, propeller-driven aircraft. And, most alarmingly, a high probability that they possess nuclear weapons. Establishing direct diplomatic contact with them is currently impossible—they are hostile and aggressive. The SVR's priority is total intelligence gathering."

  "And while intelligence is at work, we cannot sit on our hands," Vorontsov continued. "We need allies. Strong allies. In the so-called Central World, there are two powers, two pillars of the old order, that define the entire politics of the region. The Holy Mirishial Empire and the Kingdom of Emor."

  The map shifted, showing the Central Continent.

  "As we have discovered, the Kingdom of Emor… is a black box. Isolationists. Xenophobes. Dragonfolk, who are rumored to possess colossal magical power. We cannot ignore such a player."

  "A direct approach would be pointless. Therefore, we have chosen an asymmetrical path," the minister said. "Using the Republic of Mu as an intermediary—a nation willing to do anything to gain our favor—we have established initial contacts with Emor's neighbors: the Kingdom of Mееrky and the desert Kingdom of Ferniges. Our economic advisors and humanitarian convoys have worked miracles."

  Footage appeared on the screen: Russian Il-76 transport planes unloading sacks of grain in a dusty port; engineers deploying a desalination plant in the middle of a desert.

  "Both countries have gladly granted us the right of passage. Thus, the 'wall' with which Emor has surrounded itself no longer exists for us. The way is open."

  Vorontsov surveyed the room.

  "I have made the decision to send the first official diplomatic mission to Emor. The objective: to establish contact, assess their real strength, and understand if they can become our allies… or if they will become our next problem."

  And so, in the silence of the Moscow situation center, Russia was weaving its own complex and multi-layered web of diplomacy. The war for survival was over. The Great Game for global dominance was beginning.

  Central World. Kingdom of Meerky. The Hamna Desert.

  Seven Russian diplomats, dressed in light linen suits and keffiyehs protecting their faces from the sun and sand, endured the hardships of a journey across the unforgiving expanse of the Hamna Desert with grim stoicism. They were aboard a cumbersome, creaking, yet surprisingly swift mode of transport the locals called a "sand boat." It was a huge wooden platform with a high gunwale, set on two dozen wide wheels. This contraption was propelled by an absurd but effective combination of technologies: a conventional mast with a huge sail rose above the deck, and at the stern, within a bronze ring, a magical artifact pulsed with a bluish light—the "Tear of the Wind God." This crystal, as the talkative captain had explained, generated a powerful, directional stream of air, making their "ship" independent of the whims of the desert winds and allowing it to glide over the sand dunes with incredible ease, as if on the surface of an ocean.

  Pavel Orlov, the head of the diplomatic mission and a ten-year veteran of the SVR who had worked undercover in Saudi Arabia, looked at this "sand clipper" with bitter irony. "All my knowledge of desert survival, of camels, of finding water—it's all useless here," he thought, brushing the ever-present fine dust from his clothes. They just bolted an eternal fan onto a wagon. And it works. Illogical, inefficient, but it works. This whole world is like that."

  The sandstorm that had pursued them for the past two days finally began to subside, and the Russian delegation was approaching the borders of the Kingdom of Emor. In the distance, on the horizon, through the shimmering heat haze of the scorching air, a dark strip of green could already be discerned—the life-saving oasis and the ancient border town they were so desperately striving for.

  "Hey there, good sir! Headed for Emor, are you?" a booming, good-natured voice called out. A portly man in spacious, multi-layered silk robes, which, despite the heat, didn't seem to warm him at all, approached Orlov, who was standing by the gunwale, gazing at the horizon. The man's face was almost completely hidden by a dense cloth protecting him from the sun and sand, and only his cheerful, shrewd, bead-like eyes revealed him to be a seasoned merchant.

  "That's right," Orlov nodded. "And you, I take it, are on business?"

  "You bet!" the man laughed heartily. "Bringing goods from Mu. Rare trinkets!" With a mysterious and conspiratorial air, he opened his small chest, clad in the leather of a desert lizard, and carefully unfolded a bundle of the finest fabric. "Here, take a look. Watches. Mechanical. The latest model from Otaheit! With twenty jewels! For the dragonfolk, these are like artifacts of the gods. They're willing to pay any price to get their hands on one."

  Orlov struggled to maintain a serious expression. Before him, on a velvet cushion, lay a large, clumsy pocket watch on a chain. A massive steel case, a white enamel dial with slightly crooked numerals in the common tongue. Inside, a mechanism ticked loudly and laboriously. To the locals, this was undoubtedly a miracle. To Orlov, who wore a "Commander's" tactical watch with GPS, a barometer, and satellite communication under his shirt sleeve, this was an exhibit from a polytechnic museum.

  "I see. A valuable item," the diplomat nodded with the utmost seriousness he could muster, struggling to suppress a smirk. "Do you travel to Emor often?"

  "Whenever a good product comes along, I do," the merchant grinned. "But let me tell you something, good sir," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "be careful over there. Those dragonfolk, they think they're above everyone else. They see us humans as dust under their feet. Me? All I care about is profit. They can spit on my head for all I care, as long as they pay in gold. But you, I see, are a nobleman. You'll have a tough time with them."

  "Thank you for the warning," Orlov nodded seriously, mentally making a note for his report: "Xenophobia based on racial superiority. Potential difficulties in establishing contact on equal terms."

  "By the way, where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?" the merchant asked with curiosity.

  "From Russia," the diplomat replied reservedly.

  "Russia… Hmm, never heard of it. Must be far! Well, good luck to you, good sir," the merchant wished him sincerely. "You're definitely going to need it there."

  "Thank you," Orlov replied.

  The merchant, after a bow, returned to his goods, and the diplomat remained by the gunwale, watching the approaching oasis. The merchant's warning hadn't frightened him. It had only confirmed what he already knew from intelligence reports: their mission would not just be difficult. It would be a trial. A trial in which they would have to prove their right to speak with a "master race" as equals.

  After that, the dialogue died down, dissolving into the monotonous creak of the wheels and the howl of the wind. The merchant, having shared his bit of worldly wisdom, did not approach again, busy counting his trinkets. The Russian delegation, drawing closer to its destination with each passing hour, fell into silence, but it was not the silence of rest. It was the tense, focused silence of people preparing to enter a cage with an unknown predator. It was now crystal clear to them: their journey into Emor would not be simple. Behind the outward isolation and seeming hospitality lay its own ancient and brutal order, and a particular, cold stare, like the scales of a dragon, for outsiders. The landscape beyond the rail began to change. The endless sand dunes gave way to a stony, cracked plain, and on the horizon, the dark, sharp peaks of mountains began to appear, like the teeth of a giant beast. The air grew cooler, but also drier, as if they were entering a place where nature itself was harsher and more unwelcoming.

  Central World. Kingdom of Emor. The capital city of Dragusmagdira.

  Locked between the insurmountable, perpetually snow-capped peaks of the Akschen mountains and the restless lands of the Holy Mirishial Empire, the Kingdom of Emor was like a fortress forged by the gods themselves. Its capital, Dragusmagdira, was not built on a mountain—it was the mountain. A gigantic city carved directly into the cliffs at the source of a great river whose waters brought life to the entire Central World. Its spires, resembling the horns of ancient dragons, pierced the clouds, while its residential quarters and council halls spiraled hundreds of feet deep into the mountain. There was none of the gaudy luxury of human empires here; only a severe, natural harmony of stone and magic, a majesty that needed no proof in gold.

  The population of Emor numbered only about a million, but they were not human. They were dragonfolk—a highly evolved race whose ancestors, according to legend, were dragons who had taken humanoid form. Their skin was covered in fine, almost invisible scales that shimmered in the light of magic crystals like bronze or obsidian, and deep within their eyes, with vertical, reptilian pupils, ancient, extinguished embers seemed to smolder. Each of them was born with a colossal reserve of mana, allowing them to cast powerful spells without feeling fatigue. This innate power had bred in them an exceptional arrogance, based not on empty pride, but on an undeniable fact: to them, the magic of other peoples, even the high elves, seemed like clumsy children's games.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Their isolationism was not just a policy—it was a sacred principle, forged in the fires of an ancient, apocalyptic war. In their genetic memory lived the terror of the Ancient Magical Empire of Ravernal, which had once nearly wiped their race from the face of the earth. They had survived but paid a terrible price. And ever since, they had walled themselves off from the world, considering all others "lesser"—too weak, too fickle, and too foolish not to repeat the mistakes of the past.

  Upon a high throne of a single piece of unpolished obsidian, silent and unmoving as the mountain itself, sat King Vagdran. A figure as if cast from ancient bronze, crowned with four spiraling horns, the symbol of royal blood. He was not merely a monarch. He was the keeper of memory and the guardian of the future for his nearly extinct people. And for him, this ritual was not a political tool, but a desperate plea to the universe. He was tormented by the same fear: that one day, the prophecy would show nothing. No wars, no prosperity. Just emptiness. The end of their line.

  On this day, as it happened once a year, the thirty most powerful dragonfolk mages had gathered for the ceremony in the Great Hall of Divination, a vast, domed chamber carved into the heart of the mountain. Each of them was a master capable of single-handedly changing the course of a river or summoning a localized storm. Today, however, they were merely conduits, humble channels for the colossal power that was to be directed by one. In the center of the circle stood the high oracle, Arasel—a thin, almost withered dragonfolk whose skin resembled ancient parchment, and whose eyes, blind to the present, seemed to see only the shadows of the past and the glimmers of the future.

  The assembly was utterly silent. There was no place for words here. All were focused, awaiting the beginning. A dim, almost spectral light emanated from living, pulsating crystals embedded in the walls, creating an atmosphere of deep, almost oppressive mystery.

  Upon the high throne of a single piece of unpolished obsidian, silent and unmoving as the mountain itself, sat King Vagdran. He watched, and his ruby-red eyes glittered in the gloom. He was a guardian, and he knew that today's prophecy would be decisive for the survival of his people.

  When the moment came, Arasel spread his arms wide.

  "Reveal the future to me!" Arasel thundered.

  He spoke the first word of the ancient spell, and the very air in the hall seemed to freeze, turning to crystal. Streams of visible, almost tangible energy, like multi-colored serpents, flared around him. His eyes glowed a dull red, and the entire room filled with an incredible tension. The power of all thirty mages, like rivers flowing into a single lake, rushed towards him, helping his mind break through the veil of time.

  Only a moment passed, but it was so saturated with magic that the very stone of the hall seemed to groan under its weight. And then Arasel collapsed to his knees. Bright beams of pale-red light shot from his wide, unseeing eyes. Like living threads of fate, they spread across the domed ceiling, weaving from light and shadow a majestic, constantly shifting star chart—a projection of the future itself.

  After a few seconds, Arasel crashed to the stone floor and began to writhe in terrible convulsions, as if his mind were being attacked by an invisible, monstrous force.

  "I don't believe it! No! IT CAN'T BE!"

  His mental scream of terror struck the consciousness of everyone in the hall. All present staggered, some mages clutching their heads, their faces contorted in pain. They felt the echo of the nightmare their oracle was now witnessing: the smell of a burning world, the taste of ash in their mouths, and a feeling of absolute hopelessness. King Vagdran shot up from his throne, his hands gripping the obsidian armrests with such force that the stone cracked beneath his fingers.

  Finally, the convulsions ceased. Arasel fell still, his breathing ragged, like that of a hunted animal. The star chart on the ceiling faded, and the hall was once again plunged into gloom.

  "What. Did. You. See?!" Vagdran roared, his voice ringing like cold steel.

  "The Sorcerer-Emperor… will return," the seer whispered.

  "WHEN?! WHERE?!" Vagdran bellowed, his composure cracking.

  "I do not know… my king…" Arasel struggled to lift his head. "Something… is distorting space-time itself. Every attempt I made to see further was met with unbearable pain."

  These words shook everyone to their core. Frightened gasps echoed through the hall. In the memory of every dragonfolk, in their genetic code, lived the recollections of that ancient war. A war where their ancestors, the mighty dragons, had fought the Ancient Magical Empire of Ravernal and were almost completely annihilated. That war had shaken the world, and at its end, the Empire had wiped their great capital from the face of the earth with its ultimate weapon—the "Core Magic." Their ancestors were forced to flee, leaving their native lands behind.

  When the Ravernal Empire vanished, the dragonfolk began to rebuild, creating the Kingdom of Emor. But despite all their power, they considered only those who had once defeated them to be worthy adversaries. And now, that ancient, existential terror had returned.

  "So a new war is inevitable," Vagdran said, his voice hollow, almost resigned, and his words seemed to be absorbed by the cold stone of the hall. "Arasel, is there even a glimmer of hope in your visions? Is there a way to avoid total annihilation?"

  "There is, my king. But it is strange and contradicts everything we believe in," the seer replied. "A transferred country from another world. They are the only key."

  "Where are they?! What are they called?! SPEAK!" Vagdran thundered, his voice like an avalanche.

  Arasel struggled to lift his head.

  "Far to the east… Beyond the Philades continent. A nation ruled by humans… and its name is the Russian Federation."

  "HUMANS?!" Vagdran roared, and his voice, filled with a millennium of contempt and fury, echoed through the hall, causing the crystals on the walls to hum from the vibration. "Are you mocking me, old man?! Our enemy is Ravernal! What can these pathetic, short-lived, deceitful, magic-less monkeys do against a Sorcerous Empire?! They are dust! Insects!"

  "I do not know, my king," Arasel replied quietly, unafraid of his wrath. "But the vision was clear. They are the key."

  "The key…" Vagdran fell silent for a moment, his anger giving way to a cold, desperate calculation. He turned the word over in his head. A key. Not an ally. Not a savior. A key. An instrument. A weapon to be used. This thought, humiliating but pragmatic, allowed him to retain the remnants of his pride. He turned to his Minister of Foreign Affairs, who stood pale as a sheet.

  "You! Immediately mobilize the best knights of the Dragon's Fang! Send our fastest Wind Drakes to the east! I want all information on this Russian Federation before the next new moon! The very thought of an alliance with humans repulses me, but if they are our only chance… Execute!"

  "By your will, my…" the minister bowed, ready to rush off and carry out the order.

  "There is no need for that, my king," Arasel interrupted, his voice quiet but firm.

  "And why is that?!"

  "The Russian Federation has already sent its envoys to us. They have crossed the Hamna Desert and will soon arrive at Border Gate 24."

  A deafening silence fell over the hall. The king froze. Fate was not just knocking at their door. It was already on the threshold. A dark, almost predatory smirk, devoid of any mirth, appeared on Vagdran's face.

  "How… convenient," he growled through his teeth. He turned back to his minister. His voice became quiet, icy, and absolutely merciless. "Immediately contact the commander of the guard at Gate 24. Relay my personal, direct order. Receive the ambassadors of Russia with the highest honors. No delays. No humiliating waits. And convey to every single guard: if anyone dares to show even a shadow of our usual… arrogance… towards them, he will be executed on the spot. By me, personally. I want to see these 'humans' in the capital as soon as possible."

  "Yes, my king…" the minister whispered and, bowing, nearly ran from the hall.

  The dragon-king remained standing in the shadows. Something great and terrible was beginning again in his kingdom. He, Vagdran, the last king of a nearly extinct race, would have to overcome a millennium of pride and extend a hand to "lesser beings" to save his people from an ancient nightmare. He was ready to meet this new era with his visor up. And to make this entire world tremble.

  Sometime later. The border of the Kingdom of Emor.

  Magic truly did work wonders. Where just a moment ago stretched endless, sun-scorched sands, now, as if by sorcery, began a dense, dark, almost black coniferous forest. The boundary between the two worlds was sharp and unnatural, as if someone had drawn an invisible line across the earth.

  The sand boat rocked one last time, and the ship's captain shouted loudly through a speaking trumpet:

  "We've arrived at Gate 24, the border of the Kingdom of Emor! From here on, it's on foot! Good luck to you, gentlemen, you're going to need it!"

  The Russian delegation, gathering their belongings, stepped onto the firm, moss-covered ground and headed towards a perfectly smooth paved road that snaked among ancient, thorn-covered trees. Through their canopies, gigantic, almost hundred-foot-tall gates of pure, azure crystal, which seemed to glow from within, were already visible. As they drew closer, the diplomats witnessed a scene that perfectly illustrated all the warnings.

  "I'll repeat this one last time, lesser being: the special passage is for dragonfolk and high elves only. Everyone else, in the general line," a dragonfolk border guard rumbled. His inky-black scales shimmered with a metallic sheen, and the vertical pupils in his yellow eyes looked down on the group of humans with unconcealed disgust.

  "We're not some common traders! We are an official diplomatic mission from the Kingdom of Riem! We demand you immediately report our arrival to your minister!" a man in a lavish but rather wrinkled traveling doublet replied, struggling to contain his fury.

  "I don't care if you're ambassadors or pie delivery boys. You're humans. A lesser race. Get in line and wait," the border guard cut him off without even turning his head.

  The delegation from Riem, crimson with humiliation but not daring to start an open conflict, was forced to comply.

  "That's more like it," the dragonfolk grunted.

  "Well, now," one of the Russian attachés chuckled quietly.

  "I'm afraid we're in for a long and fascinating wait," Orlov responded grimly.

  But then, from behind the gates, accompanied by four guards in gleaming armor, another dragonfolk emerged with a swift and commanding stride. He was dressed in expensive silks, and on his head were four horns—a sign of high nobility. The border guard, who just a moment ago had been radiating arrogance, turned pale and dropped into a deep bow.

  The high-ranking dragonfolk, Moriaul, ignored him and headed straight for the Russian delegation.

  "Greetings. I am Moriaul, responsible for the Kingdom's foreign relations," he said. "From what country have you come, and for what purpose?"

  "We are a diplomatic mission from the Russian Federation," Orlov replied, bowing his head politely, mentally preparing for a similar rebuke. "We have come to establish official diplomatic relations with your great kingdom."

  As soon as he spoke these words, the long, motley queue behind them erupted in a wave of mocking, arrogant laughter. The delegation from the Kingdom of Riem was particularly loud.

  "Ha-ha! Barbarians from the Uncivilized Lands want to establish relations! If they keep us, representatives of civilization, here like cattle, then you savages will be waiting here for centuries! What a joke!"

  But Moriaul didn't even turn his head in their direction, as if their words were no more than the buzzing of annoying flies.

  "Ah! So you are the ambassadors from Russia!" his face, until then cold and impenetrable, suddenly lit up with a shocking warmth. "Please, forgive us for such a long wait! You are already expected. Please, follow me. Quarters have been prepared for you in the capital, and His Majesty awaits an audience soon."

  Seeing the absolute, unthinkable astonishment on the Russians' faces, the Riem delegation flew into a rage. Their laughter died in their throats.

  "Wait!" their leader shouted, stepping out of the line. His face turned purple with humiliation. "We are an official mission from the Third Civilized Zone! Members of the 'Assembly of Eleven Superpowers'! We demand to be treated as equals! Why do some nameless barbarians get to cut in line?!"

  "Ugh," Moriaul wrinkled his nose in irritation, almost in disgust. He slowly turned his head and looked at the ambassador from Riem the way one looks at something revolting stuck to the sole of a boot. "The Kingdom of Riem. Another unremarkable human state. Cease your meaningless noise and return to the line. Do not disgrace your king."

  "Wh—!" the head of the Riem delegation tried to object, but the words stuck in his throat. He stood there, opening and closing his mouth like a fish thrown on the shore.

  "My apologies for this unpleasant scene, honored guests from the Russian Federation," Moriaul said with a deep, respectful bow, addressing the stunned Russians. His tone instantly switched from icy contempt to warm hospitality.

  "Please, follow me. Our king awaits you."

  And he, accompanied by his escort of Dragon's Fang Knights, personally led the Russian delegation through the gigantic azure gates, leaving behind the deeply humiliated Riem delegation and the utterly dumbfounded, now-silent queue.

  Two months later, the superpower Kingdom of Eimor and the Russian Federation would officially establish relations of trust and diplomacy.