Vandelion's gaze darkened like storm clouds rolling over a scorched battlefield.
"It's all because of the people of this city," he said flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "The fools of Drakemire have gone senile—they're meddling with forces they shouldn't even whisper about. Now, even the dragons have been stirred from their ancient dens."
A silence settled over the group like the hush after a funeral dirge. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, shadows dancing across old stone as torchlight flickered along the walls.
Ethan frowned, brows knitting together. "What do you mean, Grandmaster? Can you elaborate?"
Daniel crossed his arms, his stance tense, jaw set like a man preparing for battle. "Yeah. I don't get half of what you're implying. Sounds like something big—and if we're part of it, we need the full picture."
Vandelion let out a long, slow breath, a sound like wind stirring through the bones of a battlefield long forgotten.
