In the frost-bitten heights of Skarrah’s Peaks, where the air itself cut like blades, the Aerie King sat upon his throne of wind-carved stone. Wings the color of stormclouds curled behind him, his eyes pale silver as the snow outside. A falcon, marked with ancient sigils, swept down through the gale and dropped a scroll bound in gold-threaded dragonhide. He unrolled it, his expression unreadable—until he reached the name.
“Rose of Seraphiel.”
He stood without a word. Around him, his war-priests paused in their chanting. The winds changed, howling with something new—old vengeance stirred by prophecy.
“She lives,” he said. “The fire returns. And the Worldburner will find no mercy in our skies.” He gave the falcon a single nod. “Fly back. Tell the Dragon Lord: Skarrah rises.”
Far beneath
