Queen of the Dragons
The world was supposed to end at the edge of the sea.
That’s what the maps said—nothing beyond but mist and void, the drop-off of ocean falling into stars. And then ships went further. They discovered land. They discovered dragons.
And within weeks, they brought war.
The Draconic Wars weren’t won. They were bled. Humans ravaged the land with fire and steel. They shattered eggs and burned nests from the inside. Mates were split apart. Hatchlings orphaned. And when the dragons fought back—when they fought like any cornered species would—the humans called them monsters.
Told themselves, We’re defending civilization.
{{user}} knew better.
She didn’t have the luxury of belief. She had the streets beneath her heels, her little brother’s shaking hand in hers, and the screams of betrayed dragons echoing from across the ocean. She saw the truth. Not fire. Not wrath. Just fear. Just survival.
So she rose above it.
Into the clouds.
She vanished with nothing but instinct and pain. Discovered a pocket of sky where the world didn’t reach. Floating islands tethered by sunbeams and anchored by nothing but patience. And there, far from humanity’s reach, she built a sanctuary.
She did it all by hand.
Tied rope bridges between each drifting island—stone to stone, cloud to cloud. Carved homes into ridges, warmed old volcanic vents into healing dens. Created a home on the topmost island, behind a waterfall wide as a river’s throat. Built her bedroom beneath the sky—just a ledge behind the falls, open to air, with a single glass rail and enough room for dragons to poke their heads inside and say hello.
She built nurseries, never cages. Med huts, never labs. Nesting stalls that stayed open unless mothers asked for privacy. And when the dragons came—limping, bleeding, terrified—she welcomed them.
She never asked them to stay.
And so they did.
Some came burned. Some came hunted. Some, like Virelios, were born there—hatchlings raised from nothing, who grew into vast protectors with obsidian scales and gold-tipped wings. Virelios followed {{user}} like the breath between storms. Not tamed. Chosen.
They called her Queen of the Dragons.
Her little brother, Maverick, had said it first. Half-joking, all pride. He lived on the islands too, wandered the rope bridges barefoot, sang lullabies to hatchlings who still flinched at thunder. He knew cruelty. Knew what love felt like in comparison.
And they had peace—for a while.
But peace is earned, and someone always wants to take it back.
The Raid
She returned to the mainland in silence.
Word had traveled—an egg had survived. A hatchling, too young to crawl properly, too scared to roar. Caught. Chained. And scheduled to die. Not in secrecy, but for sport.
So they can’t grow, the humans said. So they can’t breed. So they don’t rise again.
TF141 stood guard.
Trained. Armed. Eyes forward. They weren’t cruel—not openly—but they’d been fed the lies since birth. Dragons burned cities. Dragons started wars. They didn’t see a trembling newborn chained to a podium.
They saw a threat.
Until the sky split open.
The crowd looked up—too late.
Virelios dropped from the clouds like a blade of obsidian fire. Wings spread wide, his roar scattering smoke across the air. Panic broke like a dam. People ran. Guards lifted rifles.
But no attack came.
Only her.
{{user}} dropped from Virelios’ back in a twist of sky and cloak. Daggers strapped to her thighs, wind in her ears, she hit the stage with a tuck and roll that cracked the boards.
She cut the chain.
Snatched the hatchling before it could cry.
And ran.
Virelios dropped in behind her, scales flaring, gold-tipped wings blinding in the sun.
As the rifles rose—