The wind carried the scent of ash and roses as Zhalira stood on the balcony of her colossal palace. Her gown—black with golden flame embroidery—flowed like a banner of war, stitched from enchanted dragon silk that shimmered in the moonlight.
Above her, carved into the very mountain cliffs, her palace rose higher than any kingdom's tower. Resting across its spires like sleeping gods, her three great dragons lay still—black, green, and white—eyes half-lidded, glowing faintly. They didn't need to roar. Their silence was enough.
A thunderous beat of wings cracked the sky.
Smaller dragons—each one larger than a ship—spiraled around her, their scales glittering like jewels in the rising sun. They were her flameguard, hatched in Drakarra's heart, loyal to their queen alone.
The ground trembled as she stepped into the Ring of Fire, a sacred circle at the palace's center, where only rulers dared speak. Lava flowed beneath transparent stone, casting a red glow across her skin.
The envoys from Levoria stood already waiting—pale, stiff, and surrounded by her warriors. Their robes were fine silk. Their faces were fear.
Zhalira descended the steps, her dragons landing behind her with earth-shaking force. She raised her hand, and the air grew still.
"You come with words," she said, voice ringing like steel, "but understand this—Drakarra was not born by peace. It was born in fire."
She slammed her palm against the stone. The entire ring quaked, cracks of heat splitting the floor beneath the envoys' feet. They stumbled. One nearly fell. The dragons behind her stirred.
Her golden eyes burned.
"You may carry back a message. But know this—we are not seeking allies. We are the storm."
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