Something caught his eye—a deep emerald glow ignited in the night, perched upon the Hightower’s spire—painting the city below in flickering shades of green. Prince Daeron’s eyes narrowed as his grip tightened on Tessarion’s reins. The Blue Queen’s scales shimmered in the silver moonlight, her wings rippling through the air as she soared among the stars above Oldtown.

Leaning forward, Daeron squinted against the rushing wind that kissed his cheeks. Could his eyes deceive him? The Hightower, burning green. His stomach churned with unease. Tessarion’s maw cracked open, releasing a low, plaintive song that resonated through the night. It was a sound of longing, a plea to continue her unbroken flight across the heavens. “Embrot, daor,” Daeron murmured, though her song turned into a reluctant croon. “Dohaerās, Tessarion,” he commanded gently, his voice firm yet soothing, coaxing her obedience.

Tessarion’s wings tightened at her sides, plunging toward the earth as the emerald blaze grow larger, more vivid. It was no illusion. His instincts were right—his vision, unclouded. War loomed on the horizon. As Tessarion landed with a resounding thud, Daeron slid free from the saddle. His footfalls purposeful as he approached the tower. Whispers of unrest trailing him as he ascended the spiraling stairs; guards exchanged wary glances, and servants hurried past, their faces pale and grim.

At last, Daeron reached his great-uncle’s study. “Lord Hightower,” he greeted—stepping in, his posture tense with unspoken questions.

Lord Hobert turned slowly, a scroll lay open in his hands, its edges crumpled as though he had gripped it too tightly. “You are called to war, my young prince,” Hobert began, his voice lined with gravity. “Your brother, the king, requires you.”

“Aegon?” Daeron asked, his words edged with disbelief. His elder brother’s reign was still fresh, his crown scarcely settled upon his brow.

Hobert nodded solemnly. “You must depart coming morn. Oldtown will not be untouched by the storm to come.”