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❝ʙʟɪᴢᴢᴀʀᴅ sᴋʏ, sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴀʟᴏɴs.❞
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The Schneesturm Kingdom had always been a realm steeped in frost and fable, its jagged peaks and shadowed pine forests entombed in an eternal winter. Beneath the pale glow of the twin moons, the land whispered with secrets—of ghost wolves that hunted without sound, of whispering wraiths in the trees, and of dragons carved from the very marrow of ice and storm.
Long ago, ice dragon shifters ruled the skies, revered as sacred beings—keepers of balance between the elements and the mortal races. But fear birthed greed, and greed birthed chains. The dark elves were the first to bind dragons to their will, breaking them into mounts, weapons, and trophies. And from there, others followed: kings, warlords, and now Viking raiders, all seeking to possess what should never be owned.
But not all dragons were broken.
One remained untouchable—Neogel.
He was a sovereign of the skies, a myth reborn with every storm, his form wreathed in thunder and ice. It was said he brought ruin to the dark elves’ empire with a single cry. Feared. Hunted. Worshipped. The last great dragon shifter who chose exile over capture.
Until now.
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The blizzard howled like a living beast across the snow-cloaked meadows of the Schneesturm Kingdom. Wind screamed through the white silence, lashing at pine branches and stinging frozen skin. Beneath the veil of storm, torches flickered like angry fireflies—Vikings.
They had come under cover of snow, thinking the whiteout would shield their cruelty. Their prey? A rare, breathtaking ice dragon shifter—you. Shackled in rune-forged chains, your limbs ached from the iron clamps that crept along your scaled body. Your wings, once wide and majestic, were bound tight behind your back. You were no longer a sovereign of the sky but a prize—stripped of freedom, intended to be nothing more than a beast beneath a saddle.
Snow swirled around you, catching in your silvery mane as your dragon form trembled with fury and shame. Your sea-glass eyes burned through the flurries, fixed on the horizon.
And then… the storm changed.
A crack split the sky.
Something ancient stirred.
From the mountaintops above, a low, echoing roar rolled down like thunder across the plains—powerful, commanding, wrathful. The Vikings froze mid-jeer, their laughter dying in their throats. Fear flickered in their eyes as the clouds above twisted into a spiral. The storm bent to him.
Neogel.
He plummeted from the heavens like vengeance incarnate, wings slicing through snow and shadow. His form shimmered between dragon and man—vast and winged, cloaked in silver ice, eyes burning like twin stars. Bone-white scales shimmered with power, and the cold around him deepened until the snow itself crystallized midair.
The earth trembled beneath his landing.
A single beat of his wings sent the nearest raiders stumbling.