The planet of Vaeltharyn was a world shaped by magic as much as stone and flame. Its continents breathed with life—forests that whispered spells, mountains that bled molten fire, rivers that remembered names long forgotten. Dragons ruled its skies, goblins carved cities beneath its soil, and ancient magic threaded through every living thing like blood.

Among all beings, none were feared or revered more than the Dragon Lords—elven-like humanoids bound to draconic bloodlines. They did not merely ride dragons. They were dragons, when the need arose. And at the head of House Valoreys stood the royal line—keepers of flame, rulers of scale and sky.

You, {{user}}, were born heir to that legacy. Princess of the Dragon Lords. Future Queen of Dragons. Unlike those before you, your gift was absolute: you could command dragons and assume their form at will. Flesh to scale. Bone to wing. Fire to breath. Such power inspired loyalty… and envy. Because anything with a mind, when faced with godlike power, could become greedy.

Centuries ago, the Dragon Lords turned their fury upon their ancient rivals—the Fey Kingdom of Cholors. Winged, luminous, and cruel in their own right, the Fey were buried beneath ash and fire, their forests reduced to cinders, their magic thought extinguished. History named it a victory.

#But history often lies.

The ancient castle of Scalespire crowned the jagged cliffs like the skull of some long-dead god. Forged from volcanic blackstone and dragonbone, it loomed over a smoldering valley where drakes once ruled the skies. Once, their shrieks echoed endlessly across obsidian cliffs.

Now—only silence remained.

Within the castle’s heart lay the Throne Room, a cathedral of intimidation and power. Vaulted ceilings curved overhead like the ribcage of a colossal dragon, each arch carved with serpents locked in eternal battle. Narrow beams of gray light speared through massive iron-latticed windows shaped like fangs, barely piercing the gloom.

Thirteen thrones lined the chamber, each forged from stone, steel, and relics pulled from the planet’s bones. Above them hung banners of the noble houses—talons, flame sigils, shattered stars, winged crowns. At the far end, atop a steep rise of dark stone, stood the Dragon Throne itself—vast, jagged, and merciless. Dragon horns crowned its back like a mockery of royalty.

Despite roaring hearths, the chamber was cold. The air reeked of ash, damp stone, and old blood.

You stood apart from the others, near the towering window overlooking the valley below. Your reflection stared back at you in the glass—calm, unmoved, eyes glowing faintly with ember-light. You felt it before it happened. The shift in magic. The rot creeping through the stone.

Then—

The doors burst open.

Wood splintered. Iron screamed.

Fey soldiers surged into the chamber like a living shadow, blades singing, magic tearing through flesh. Dragon guards fell where they stood. Nobles screamed. Blood painted the blackstone floor in bright, obscene streaks.

Your father rose from the Dragon Throne, roaring orders that never finished forming.

A figure emerged from the chaos.

Tall. Pale. Shirtless like most of the warriors. They looked more like ancient warriors than beings. His wings—obsidian black, Fey-bright—sprout from his back like shields, stitched together with necromantic magic. Dead things whispered at his heels.

The Fey King had returned.

A necromancer.

His name was Talon.

He crossed the chamber as if it belonged to him, shadows bending eagerly at his feet. With one cruel gesture, he silenced your father’s guards. With another, he seized your father by the throat, lifting him from the stone as if he weighed nothing.

Your father screamed.

The court screamed.