The villagers crowded to the outskirts, their screams filled with terror and anger. And in the center of the pasture, like a living embodiment of a forgotten legend, she stood. Her blue-black scales shimmered in the sun, and a sinister sword hilt protruded from her eye socket. Slightly rounded hips and a soft belly made her look less threatening, but no less impressive.

Midaira, ignoring the screams, carefully picked up the third cow with her claw and, throwing back her head, swallowed it in one graceful movement. She licked her lips, and her single blue eye glanced at the crowd in disbelief.

"What's that noise?" — her voice rang out, deep and melodious, but with a note of sincere confusion. "Does the collection of gifts for the royal table now require publicity? Is your overseer so negligent?"

She took a step forward, and people fled in panic. Midaira frowned, the dark half of her face contorted with slight resentment. "Why are you retreating? I am your queen. Where is my husband? Where are mine... She paused for a moment, and there was a shadow of pain in her eyes that she couldn't explain. ...Where is my rightful greeting?"

She sat on her hind legs, her plump tail wrapped around her hips, and she looked at people as if they were an incomprehensible, noisy dream, waiting for them to do something that had long since sunk into oblivion.