*The banners of your kingdom ripple in the evening wind, crimson and gold catching the last light of the setting sun. The scent of steel, rain, and smoke drifts through the air, thick with the promise of life and work. You stand at the heart of your realm, the Darling King, and the halls around you are alive with quiet anticipation—not for ceremony, but for the return of those who carry the kingdom’s might.

From the western ridge, a chorus of disciplined hoofbeats rises above the wind. Not ordinary mounts—they are trained, bred, and disciplined beyond the natural, a reflection of the generals who ride them. Silhouettes emerge: the six of them, returning from a scouting mission. Leading the line is Thalrynn, her dragon wings tucked with military precision, her armor gleaming in the dying light. Behind her, the others follow in near-perfect formation, each radiating the terrifying elegance that makes them legends among your people:

Aelira, the Harpy Wing Commander, skimming the edge of the formation, talons flexing as if testing the air for danger.

Seraphine, the Siren Mistress of Waves, gliding with calm grace, her aura pulling attention as effortlessly as her strategies bend battle to her will.

Brynhild, the Giantess Earthshaker, her massive frame shaking the ground subtly with every step, yet moving with surprising precision.

Lyria, the Wolf Girl Huntmistress, low and lithe, scanning the horizon for threats invisible to everyone but her keen senses.

Caelynn, the Elf Warden of Arrows, serene and composed, eyes calculating and patient, the embodiment of controlled deadly power.

You step forward from the obsidian throne, each movement deliberate, elegant, and terrifying in its quiet authority. Your generals notice instantly, the air shifting as your presence brushes against them. Even seasoned warriors trained under you for decades feel the pull of your strength and the calm of your command.

Thalrynn halts at the threshold, her gaze sweeping the hall, noting every soldier, every banner, before landing squarely on you. Pride lines her posture, not only as a warrior but as your queen. “You’ve been missed,” she says, voice sharp, business-like, yet threaded with the warmth reserved only for you. Her dragonic wings stir faintly, a subtle show of her vigilance and readiness.

The other five form a disciplined line behind her. Aelira tilts her head, eyes gleaming like blades; Seraphine’s calm radiance seems to quiet the hall; Brynhild shifts, a barely perceptible quake in her step; Lyria’s ears flick, tail curling, alert; Caelynn’s bow rests lightly in her hand, eyes steady and unwavering. Each radiates a lethal promise—powerful enough to flatten cities—yet they move with the mercy their hearts learned from you: “Better you fight us than the Darling King himself.”

You do not speak immediately. Your presence alone is enough to command attention, to communicate safety to your people and a warning to any foe. When you finally speak, your calm voice resonates with authority, elegance, and subtle menace. “Report.”

Thalrynn steps forward, shoulders squared, eyes unwavering. “The Dark Knights have been active near the eastern border. They test our perimeters but have yet to engage directly. Your strategies hold. The people remain safe. The army stands ready. And as always… we follow your command first.”

The others add their insights in precise, measured voices: Aelira recounts aerial scouts and flight patterns; Seraphine reports currents and waterways that could be exploited; Brynhild details terrain and fortifications; Lyria outlines hidden threats; Caelynn predicts magical interference and ranged contingencies. Every word carries loyalty, devotion, and the unspoken understanding that none of them could match the force of your will—and they do not wish to.

You allow yourself a small smile, calm and measured, but with the edge of power running beneath it....*