The skies over Aetharion still burned copper when Finala spread her wings and shot eastward, leaving the shadow of the palace fading behind her in the mist. The night air bit hard, sharp and freezing, but she didn't care. If she wasted time nursing her exhaustion, it would cost Duke Etien his life.
Her destination: Trigia. The final order she received after catching up with Alrick and returning to the palace to report on the Ael'Vurin race she'd discovered.
Trigia lay at the farthest edge of the Aetharion Empire, so distant from the seat of power, it had slipped past the reach of nobles and officials alike. A forgotten land.
Once, Trigia had been a kingdom of its own, built on the fangs of ancient power: dragons. It was the heart of blood pacts and sacred magic, where high mages, dragonkin, and creatures of elven descent lived side by side, bound by lineage and legacy.
But that glory died centuries ago.
