STORMSCALE
The jagged peaks and frozen slopes of Stormscale cradle a bowl of rock and glacial ice.
High on one of the weathered stones within this natural fortress, Adrissa sits, a silent sentinel.
Below, the massive chrysalis pulse with a faint inner light, a stark contrast to the tiny, winged creatures that stitch patterns across the inky canvas of the night sky.
She crosses her legs over each other while her thick red scaly tail drapes over the stony sharp edge.
Her gaze is steady, almost vacant, fixed on the chrysalis. Then, a ripple in the air below catches her attention.
A vortex tears open the fabric of the night, spitting out two figures onto the icy ground.
One is cloaked in shadows, a black hood over his features while the other gleams, silver hair stark against the polished obsidian of his armour.
Anarchy and Zarek materialise into the biting cold. Their eyes are immediately drawn to the colossal cocoon dominating the enclosed space.
An energy, raw and untamed, thrums through its pearlescent membrane.
"Looks like we've found the dragon, master," Anarchy says while Zarek's gaze intensifies on the sight before him.
His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
"This fucking lizard. It has begun assimilating the piece. Get it!", he commands and Anarchy charges forward only to be halted by flames from above.
A figure descends on leathery, crimson wings, landing gracefully between Anarchy and chrysalis. Her eyes flat, devoid of any discernible emotion, mirroring the cold indifference of the surrounding ice.
A ball of flame floats, contained yet potent, in her outstretched hand.
"Dragon-kin, get out of the way or die" Zarek's voice is a low growl, his silver hair catching the faint starlight.
"Two men against a lady, that seems unfair", Adrissa says with a cold stare, "Let me handle her master," Anarchy glances at Zarek, a silent question in his eyes.
A curt nod from the silver-haired man grants his request.
"I meant for you," Adrissa's words are a prelude to violence.
Without another breath, she unleashes a torrent of fire, a roaring inferno that plunges towards Anarchy.
Flames erupt from Anarchy's arm, a desperate countermeasure, but the sheer force of Adrissa's attack slams into him, pushing him backward.
He dives, a swift, fluid motion, narrowly escaping the brunt of the fiery blast.
"Taking on a dragon-kin with fire," Adrissa's voice drips with mockery, "You must not be very smart,".
In a sudden shift, Anarchy becomes a blur. He dashes forward, a pace much like the winds'.
Adrissa turns sharply in response to brace his arrival before her but he's already past her, an illusion of movement, reappearing to her right, where she least expects.
Two brutal blows land against her ribs, a sickening thud echoing in the cold air.
Adrissa's tail lashes out, a swift, deadly whip, but Anarchy is gone again, leaping into the air with an unnatural agility.
Two spheres of invisible force materialise in his hands, hurtling towards the dragon-kin's chest, hitting their mark and sending her staggering backwards.
Before she can regain her footing, the very earth beneath her buckles and heaves, throwing her off balance. Another jagged piece of rock rises abruptly, slamming into her back, propelling her upwards.
Anarchy is there, waiting, a silent predator descending.
His boot connects with brutal force, slamming her back down onto the unforgiving stony grounds.
She groans and hurries to her feet. Wings twitching, she glares.
She dodges a few jabs and grabs Anarchy, wrapping her arms around him, "Now I've got you," she snarls, "And I, you", he retorts, his grip tightening around her.
Lightning erupts from his body, striking her hard, forcing her voice to rise in a scream of agony.
Anarchy hauls her into the air, muscles straining and then slams her back down onto the hard surface of Stormscale.
"You are not my equal," he declares and kicks her belly, sending her body gliding across the floors.
Zarek, who has been a silent observer, his gaze fixed on the struggling dragon-kin, finally speaks.
"Since you seem to be handling this quite well, I'll just go ahead and retrieve the godspark," he begins to float toward the pulsating cocoon.
His cape gliding effortlessly through the air.
"No!", Adrissa spits blood, her wings snapping open, a desperate surge of defiance. She lunges towards the floating sorcerer, but Zarek merely flicks his wrist.
An invisible force slams into her, freezing her mid-charge, suspended in the air like a broken puppet.
In a deliberate motion, Zarek raises his hand and then sweeps in downwards.
Adrissa's body, still under his control, is slammed against the icy ground, the impact cracking her ribs. He then flicks his hand again, sending her hurtling towards Anarchy.
The hooded disciple stands alert, flames swirling around his clenched fists.
He charges and delivers his hard fists to Adrissa's body, sending her crashing into the cocoon.
Zarek extends his hand towards the chrysalis, intent on claiming the divine relic.
But his brow furrows in surprise as the cracks in the cocoon widen rapidly, spreading like a network of spider woven threads.
With a final, explosive burst, the cocoon shatters, revealing the creature within.
Golden scales, the colour of a thousand sunsets, reflect the faint lights of the heavenly bodies.
It roars, so deep and resonant it seems to shake the very foundations of Stormscale.
Three hundred-foot wingspan spread wide as she reveals her new glorious form, "I am Astrid Goldbane," the dragon announces in its majesty.
Her gaze comes down to the tiny specks of life around her.
Adrissa lying in pieces of her shattered cocoon with blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
The dragon's gaze shifts to the other two, a silvered hair man and a hooded figure.
She feels a strange magic pull at her chest, a touch her body remembers yet her nascent memory cannot place.
"The dragon-kin was protecting me in my vulnerable state," Astrid mumbles, a frown creasing her golden snout.
"Scoundrels. You dare," a snarl rumbles in her chest.
Anarchy turns to Zarek, his own gaze fixed on the colossal dragon.
"Master, she is dangerous", he tilts his head, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he notices a slow smile spreading across Zarek's lips.
"Show me what you can do with that relic, fool!" Zarek screams out.
"One so eager to die," the dragon mumbles and unclenches her jaw, a dance of flame extending to bury the two men in its flesh searing heat.
Anarchy sinks into the earth, disappearing as if swallowed by Stormscale's floor, and a moment later he erupts elsewhere, a good distant away from the dragon's reach.
But the flames engulfs Zarek.
"Fool. You dare speak while you hold no power," Astrid laughs.
"Really? Is that it?" Zarek says from the safety of a forcefield encircling him. Red writings, ever changing, appear on his forehead.
He stretches his hand and red bolts of lightning strike at Astrid's chest.
The dragon barely flinches, "Hmpf," she scoffs, a plume of smoke escaping her nostrils.
"Laughable," she unleashes another torrent of fire, an even more intense blast, directed at the sorcerer still shielded by his barrier.
A silent battle ensues, a contest of wills and raw power.
The shield shimmers and strains against the dragon's searing breath, while Astrid's golden scales gleam defiantly against the shield's crackling energy.
The question hangs heavy in the frigid air; which will break first, the shield or the dragon's fury?
HIGH TOWN
Alaric walks fast, heart beating like a drum at the news that greeted him under the morning's sun. His brows furrow and his jaw stiffens.
He arrives at the heavy oak doors of the Rolandian delegation's chambers to find a familiar, unwelcome figure already planted beside the stoic guards.
Lord Jaxriel Goodmouse, his very presence radiating an air of eager anticipation.
A silent groan escapes Alaric's lips, "Not now," he mutters under his breath, a weary dismissal of unfolding drama.
With a wave of his hand, a voiceless order, he signals the guards to stand aside.
The doors swing inward, granting him entry, but the scene within snags his breath, a tableau guaranteed to ignite the already volatile tensions within his court.
"By the gods, the Rolandians…" Lord Jaxriel begins, his voice a scandalised whisper, only to snap his mouth shut under the Prince's immediate glare.
"Word of this stays within these walls. Understood?" Alaric's voice, though low, carries the weight of command.
The guards exchange uneasy glances, then nod sharply.
"Yes, Your Highness", their bows are swift, their eyes downcast.
"Leave," he orders, his gaze never leaving the disturbing sight before him.
Shock leaches the colour from Alaric's face.
Lord Grimshaw lies sprawled on the bed, eyes wide and vacant, his mouth a silent scream. His throat is visibly swollen, his skin a sickly pallor.
On the floor, the Rolandian grand sorcerer, Tanix, is a crumpled heap.
An overturned goblet rests beside his still form, a dark stain spreading on the nearby rug. A fly, oblivious, lands on the pale expanse of his exposed chest.
"My Prince," Jaxriel ventures, his usual eagerness tempered with a nervous edge, "their men will soon come looking for their lords. What shall we do?".
Alaric finally tears his gaze away from the grim scene, his eyes locking onto Jaxriel's pale blue eyes, his expression deadly serious.
"First, you will hold your tongue and reveal this to no one.
Secondly," he pivots, his command sharp and decisive, "fetch the royal physician. Now,".