In the skies above the dark clouds that covered the continent, a storm of wings and power advanced toward Vorah.
An army of dragons of different colors, shapes, and essences cut through the air with majesty and urgency. Their scales reflected the light of the setting sun, creating a golden and red spectacle, as if the firmament itself were burning.
At the center of the formation, flying majestically in his true draconic form, Strax led the charge. His scales glowed in smoky tones, his eyes like living embers—watchful and impatient. On his back, steady even against the biting wind, were Cristine, Frieren, Rogue, and Lithara, their eyes fixed on the horizon.
But there was something in the air. A metallic taste. A strange whisper in the magical currents.
Strax narrowed his eyes, feeling a twinge in his ancestral stomach that no mortal would understand.
"Something is wrong." His voice echoed not with fear, but with the weight of a premonition. Serious. Instinctive. Unquestionable.
