The Sun-Drenched Peaks were a jagged crown of gold and ivory, standing high above the smog-choked plains of the Empire. Here, the air was so thin it felt like drinking ice, and the sun was a constant, blinding presence that should have offered clarity. But for Lyra, there was no clarity—only a thrumming, violent heat that pulsed behind her eyes.
The Origin dragon, now the size of a war-horse and shimmering with a terrifying, pearlescent light, landed on a plateau overlooking a hidden valley of ancient cedar trees. As soon as Lyra’s feet hit the grass, she stumbled. Her skin wasn't just glowing; it was vibrating. The silver veins on her arms had darkened to a bruised, electric violet, and every time she inhaled, the scent of the Emperor’s dying magic—sweet rot and ozone—filled her lungs.
