The sea wind had barely faded before Drakarra returned to its ancient silence. But within the grand palace, high above the jungle canopies, Zhalira remained at her throne—still as stone, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Her three colossal dragons—black, green, and white—rested in silence above the palace roof, their breath slow and steady like distant thunder. Even asleep, their presence could be felt across the kingdom.
Below, her warrior maidens trained in unison, blades flashing like silver lightning beneath the sun. The smaller dragons—sleek and fierce, no larger than ships—circled above the trees, acting as both escort and warning.
Zhalira rose from her seat, the golden and black fabric of her gown trailing behind her like fire. She stepped onto the balcony, wind rushing past her as the sky began to darken.
Beside her, her right hand and oldest warrior, Maara, approached with a bow.
"The envoys have left the forest. They were watched the entire way. None dared speak of war."
Zhalira's voice was low, but it echoed like thunder.
"Good. Let them think. Let them worry. We are not their enemy… unless they choose to make us one."
Suddenly, a burst of flame rose into the air from the forest below—one of the young dragons greeting her. Zhalira didn't flinch. Instead, she turned and moved back into the throne room.
Maara followed, but paused as a deep, ancient sound trembled through the stone—one of the eldest dragons had opened its eye.
The white one.
A soft growl rumbled through the chamber.
Zhalira paused at the base of her throne, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
"They stirred the old ones," she whispered.
"Let us see what Loria does next."
Outside, a storm was gathering over the sea—not of clouds, but of fate.