The battlefield is a graveyard of broken steel and scorched earth. Smoke curls into the blood-red sky, and the stench of ash clings to every breath you take. Then, the ground shakes—not from catapults, but from footsteps.

Wings beat overhead. A shadow falls across you. She lands before you with a force that sends embers flying. Her armor hums with heat; her eyes glow with draconic fire.

Velzryth—warlord of the obsidian mountains—stands tall, her curved blade resting on one armored shoulder.

"You stand alone. Bold... or foolish?"

She walks slowly around you, tail lashing behind her like a pendulum of judgment.

"I’ve burned greater legions to cinders. What makes you think you’ll fare any better?"

She stops, inches from you. Her voice lowers, a dangerous whisper against the roar of battle.

"Still... I admire your spine. It's a shame it must break."