The clouds hung low that morning, heavy with unshed rain, painting the skies a dull gray above the coastal cliffs of Belar Miraqen. The faint scent of salt and smoke still lingered from the last encampment fire as soldiers trained in the fields below. Aragon stood near the edge of a rocky outcrop, his dark cloak tugged by the winds, watching the horizon. Something in the sky had caught his eye—something distant, vast, and gleaming with the power of dragons.
Then came the unmistakable cry—a deep, thunderous roar that echoed through the mountains like a thousand drums shaking the bones of the earth. The camp paused. All eyes turned to the heavens.
Out of the clouds burst a massive dragon, scales like molten silver and steel. It descended in a slow, powerful glide, wings wider than the gates of the castle, casting an immense shadow across the terrain. Upon its back sat a tall woman clad in black and violet armor, her silver-blonde hair braided in long coils beneath her helm.
