The sky above the Dominion split open at dawn.
Not with violence.
With authority.
A circular sigil, vast and ancient, burned across the clouds—etched in gold and draconic runes older than any human kingdom. The air trembled beneath its weight.
Ethan stood on the highest balcony of the Dominion fortress, frost-laced wind tugging at his coat.
Lysarra stood to his left, her white hair flowing like winter silk, wings partially unfurled in restrained agitation.
Kaelith leaned against a broken pillar on his right, dark flames curling lazily around her arms.
Behind them, Ronan knelt with head lowered.
The sigil in the sky pulsed once.
Then a voice descended—not singular.
Multiple.
Layered.
Ancient.
"Human Sovereign."
The clouds distorted.
One by one—
Massive shapes emerged within the projection.
Not full bodies.
But fragments of presence.
A golden eye the size of a warship.
A silver-scaled snout exhaling lightning.
A shadowed silhouette crowned in abyssal mist.
