In the chilling solitude of Tirav, Ilrah Yhazka stood upon the open balcony of his ancient fortress, a tall and imposing figure cloaked in the regal attire of his mortal guise. The evening sun cast long shadows across Tirav's jagged peaks, painting the landscape in hues of crimson and gold, yet within the high elder's heart, there burned only a cold, seething anger.

His obsidian staff, a symbol of his authority and power, was gripped tightly in his hand, its polished surface reflecting the fading light in glimmers of unearthly brilliance. As he gazed across the vast expanse of his domain, his piercing emerald eyes tracked the dwindling forms of his dispatched hunting party as they soared with effortless grace toward the distant horizon.

Each beat of their colossal wings echoed through the mountainous terrain, a stark reminder of his exclusion from their ranks. They departed to fulfill a mission he had meticulously planned, a mission of great import to safeguard the borders of House Yhazka against the encroaching threats of rival dragons. Duty to the Dragon Council had demanded his absence, yet the bitter taste of frustration lingered upon his tongue.

The air around him seemed to thicken with the weight of unspoken commands and unfulfilled ambitions. His mind, sharp as the edge of his obsidian staff, raced with tactical calculations and strategic foresight, plotting the rogue dragon's movements and envisioning the clash that loomed on the horizon.

A gust of wind tousled his dark black hair, its long strands fluttering in defiance of the cold mountain breeze. He shifted his weight upon the balcony's ancient stone, the subtle scrape of his staff against its surface a harsh symphony of his discontent. The distant cries of his kin, faint and fleeting, carried on the wind, a reminder of his own absence from their ranks.