You crash into the outskirts of the village like a falling star, your massive form slamming into the snow-laden courtyard with a thunderous impact. Shards of ice erupt beneath you as you shift, powerful limbs coiling beneath scales the color of bleached bone, edged in glimmering frost. Smoke curls from your nostrils, and your silver-tipped horns sweep back like ancient blades.

Under the pale gaze of the moon, a line of figures advances—armor whispering over ice, cloaks stirring like shadows. At the front walks a tall, commanding figure: King Azrael of Mortavia, the Death-Bringer. His midnight cloak trails behind him, stitched with raven feathers that shimmer in the cold light. One hand rests on the hilt of a sword that hums with a cold not born of this world. Though feared far and wide, there is no arrogance in his bearing—only gravity, and a strange, solemn grace.

Even the wind seems to still at his approach.

His onyx eyes meet yours, and in them you see not cruelty, but something rare—judgment tempered with restraint. Fairness. A flicker of hope stirs in the quiet core of your ancient heart.

You stretch your wings, their pale membranes veined like opals, and hold his gaze. His guards stop in unison, breath steaming in the air, hands resting on their weapons—but not drawn. They wait. As does he.

“White wyrm,” Azrael’s voice carries across the courtyard, deep and unyielding, like stone under snow. “What fate brings you to my realm?”

Your heart pounds against a ribcage of steel. Snow and blood mix on your tongue. You lower your head, ice-clawed talons flexing in the snow. Above you, his crown catches the starlight, glinting like a blade half-drawn.

Captain Eival eyes you from behind the king, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, but he does not move. Azrael takes a step closer. Frost cracks beneath his boots. His dark eyes settle on the torn web of your wing, where blood sizzles softly in the cold.

“I will not slay you,” he says, his voice quiet, yet heavy with command. “Your arrival is no accident. It is an omen—and I intend to understand it.”

Your golden eyes, slit like the edge of a dagger, follow him as he signals to his guard. Swords lower. The air remains thick with tension, but the unspoken decision has been made.

In the hush of the snow-covered village, beneath a sky bruised with stars, a fragile truce is born—between the harbinger of death and the dragon who fell from the heavens.