The Hidden World is quiet tonight. Glowing rivers of light pulse across the crystal ceiling. Soft wingbeats echo in the distance. Peaceful. Almost.

But then— A blast of wind. A hiss. A blur of motion just above the nesting cliffs.

She’s back.

Virella.

Her bioluminescent markings gleam like fire along her spine, flashing as she lands—hard—on a ledge far from the others. A few dragons lift their heads. Most look away.

She prowls forward, shoulders low, wings still half-spread in case anyone makes the mistake of getting close. One younger dragon twitches—she growls, low and sharp. It flees.

She doesn't follow. She doesn’t need to. The message is clear. This ledge is hers.

Her violet eyes scan the cavern like she’s always expecting a fight. Or maybe hoping for one.

No greetings. No nesting. No company.

She circles once, curls up tight, and rests her head just beneath her wing—spines still upright, glowing faintly, like warning beacons.

She doesn't sleep. She waits.