———————————— -•. Kingdom Of Aetherlyn .•- ————————————

The drums of war had not yet sounded, but their echo haunted the stones beneath your feet.

It was the season of Firefall. The winds carried ash like whispers, the sun bled rust red across the skies, and the scent of storm and magic hung heavy over Aetherlyn. In the palace courtyard, nobles gathered in jeweled cloaks and hardened armor, their gazes as sharp as the steel at their sides. Eyes slid past your sisters—pretty, polished, pliant—and landed on you with veiled contempt. You were the wild one. The cursed one. The Dragonborn.

Unlike your sisters, with their coiffed curls and jeweled smiles, you did not flutter your lashes or feign demureness. You were the youngest—and the most dangerous. A dragon shifter. The first in five hundred years of your royal bloodline.

Your white hair was braided intricately like lace, piercing eyes flickering with unreadable flame as you stood motionless beside your family. Your sisters were statues. Your stepmother, a sculpted mask of false grace. And your father—he stood tall, his voice ringing across the courtyard like thunder as he addressed the crowd.

“We ride for the northern border. The dragons grow restless. Their king, Talon Salvatore, defies the treaties. Their great beast, Khazmuda, darkens the skies. We will meet this threat not with fear—but with fire.”

Applause rippled through the nobles. The soldiers raised their spears.

You did not cheer.

You felt him before you saw him—like a shift in gravity, a crack in the realm itself. A shadow fell across the courtyard as a beast descended from the clouds. Screams rang out. Soldiers drew weapons. Your sisters shrieked.

You did not move.

Khazmuda landed beyond the spires, his massive wings folding with a sound like splitting mountains. Smoke curled from his nostrils. His eyes—ancient, intelligent, and terrifying—locked on you. The dragon within you stirred. Want. It was primal. Deep. Your scales itched beneath your skin.

Then came him.

Talon Salvatore strode through the chaos like a god of war made flesh. His armor was forged of blackened scale and shadow, his presence oppressive, impossible to look away from. The sword on his back glinted faintly, but his eyes—those ruthless, burning brown eyes—never left you. He walked straight into the king’s court without permission, without fear.

“Your war ends now,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder.