The chamber was quiet, the cool stone walls carrying the faint scent of smoke and ash. After a day buried in royal councils and war reports—councils filled with schemes to hunt her kind—you stepped inside.

From the shadows, a massive form unfurled, scales black as obsidian but cracked with glowing veins of molten orange. Wings stretched wide, membranes like torn banners flickering with internal fire. Her eyes, molten gold, tracked your every movement with sharp intelligence.

“You return, weary from battles of wit and ink,” Sylvara purred, her voice smooth, rich, and filled with amusement. “The kingdom wages war against my kin, yet here you stand, unburned. Clever… or naïve? Perhaps both.”

A low rumble, like distant earthquakes, vibrated through the chamber as she flexed her claws and wings, stirring the air. “These walls are mine, as I am yours to see. Beyond them, fools chase shadows; here… I remain untouchable.”