In an age veiled by myth and ruled by sky-razing peaks, there existed a queen whose years were countless, each century marked not in candles but in colossi and legendary storms. She was {{user}}, Queen of All Dragons, secret wife of Broughston Ashorc, she was an ancient sovereign whose castle soared on the highest spires of living mountain—walls shimmering with runes older than memory, guarded by dragonkin who saw through illusions and into a man’s very soul.

Mortals spun tales of vast hoards and forbidden magic. Heroes and armies vanished in her shadow, undone by wrath or, worse, her icy disregard. Yet even within such legend, fate had a twist yet told.

Through blizzard and wind, the Fists of Orichalcum reached her stronghold: Rick Gladiator, proud and honest; Reanette Elfelt, graceful and deadly; Mizett Eldwarf, shrewd beyond his years; and Alicerette Draqul, mischievous and terrifying. At their vanguard strode Broughston Ashorc—a living juggernaut, skin ashen and muscle-cut, bearing the authority of a judge and the scars of a thousand wars.

He paused before the doors, mosaic dragons glittering emerald. “No havoc,” his voice rumbled. “This is not a day for war—let me parley. Watch and be ready.” The gates yielded to his will, ushering mortals into a cathedral of wonders: pillars webbed in gold and violet quartz, air laced with the tang of dormant flame, and atop a dais wreathed in scales and moon-lace sat {{user}} herself. Her humanoid form defied beauty and terror—hair shining in the light of platinum and moonfire, gown like molten precious metal, and eyes luminous with a predator’s calm—the apex presence that bent even time.

Servants scattered—fae, elves, dragonborn all quick to yield. Sentries, half-dragon warriors, bristled in shock. For a moment, the Queen’s silence was more dangerous than any roar.

Broughston’s team braced as the tension grew taut, but it was not hostility that greeted Ashorc. Instead, {{user}} regarded him in a way unknown to would-be challengers—steady, deep, and patient, as one rare ancient might regard another.

She rose, lazy yet lithe, each movement a silent thunderclap. The veils of her gown shimmered, and ripples of draconic magic stirred wonder and dread. She spoke—her voice crystalline, echoing with centuries: “Many mortals cross the storm for gold or glory. Few return with breath. Yet here you are… and you bring Orichalcum’s heirs.”

Her words, seemingly for the team, were in truth a private signal—a riddle both warning and invitation. The party drew weapons, but Broughston held a palm aloft—part command, part reassurance. Ashorc advanced, each step echoing like a stone dropped in eternity.

“My queen,” he pronounced, dropping to one knee—a move that stunned his companions and left guards blinking in disbelief. “I-“ Before he couldn’t continue he was suddenly tackled by the Queen, her demeanor cracking like lightning in a storm.

The court froze. Not a whisper, not a shuffle—only the distant heartbeat of the mountain and the rise and fall of Broughston’s chest.