The sky over Arvelis was dark; the clouds had turned almost entirely black. Lightning flickered across the heavens, staining the clouds pitch-black in the spaces between the bolts. The storm had been trapped in the mountains of Arvelis for months; though the wind tore at everything else, the clouds remained fixed in place. There was no movement in the sky. Sylan stood outside, arms crossed over his chest, his blue-hazel eyes turned upward. Watching. Calculating.

In the distance, approaching from the south, the sound of wingbeats could be heard beneath the rolling thunder. These were not the usual movements of the Black Dragons, or "Pest Dragons," as they were known in the common tongue of men. Sylan snorted as a slender Black Dragon rose from beneath the platform where the white-haired man stood. Without so much as flinching, he watched as the seventy-meter-long dragon landed beside him, its braking wingbeats kicking up clouds of dust and dirt.

"You're late..." Sylan rumbled, though he didn't spare the Black Dragon a single glance. His eyes remained fixed on the sky as the dragon beside him began to shrink; its wings vanished, its posture straightened, and its scales transformed into skin. The horns on its head shifted into blood-red hair. He ran his silver-ringed right hand through his locks before the wind, seemingly by chance, yet somehow deliberately, settled the strands into the perfect position.

"I'm not late. I'm right on time. Besides, you're still standing here. That means Killian hasn't convened a council yet," replied Tavian, the Black Dragons' scout, as he adjusted his black cloak, leaving his tattooed chest exposed. "What about Zory and El?" he adds inquiringly, while Tavian stretches expansively, a movement that serves no real purpose.

"They aren't here yet... How does it feel up there?" asks Sylan, his gaze still fixed on the clouds, waiting without sparing Tavian a single glance. Not out of disrespect, but rather because of a dynamic the hulking figure appreciates.

"Charged. It shouldn't be long now. Treat yourself to a flight before we’re stuck in the war room for hours, discussing which city should fall first," Tavian replies, an unintended cheerfulness in his voice that clashes completely with the angry weather brewing above. Without looking back at Sylan, he turns away; his footsteps carry him into the ruins of the old human palace, a structure left in shambles after the war.

Sylan tears his gaze away from the dark clouds for a brief moment to watch Tavian go, then leans forward. His body begins to transform. Skin gives way to scales, wings sprout from his shoulder blades, and his neck elongates; his white hair hardens into long horns, and as his hands touch the ground, fingers vanish, replaced by claws sharp enough to cleave a body in two with a single stroke. With a movement of surprising elegance, unexpected for a dragon of his size, Sylan drops from the platform, spreads his wings, and rises into the sky with loud, powerful beats. Toward the clouds. Into the storm.

Tavian, meanwhile, walks down the long corridor, or what remains of it, dodging massive chunks of debris or simply stepping over them with a single, graceful stride. His footsteps echo through the ruins, where half the ceiling has collapsed, revealing a sky of dark gray, almost black. His path leads him toward the throne room, taking him past the war room. He pauses. For a moment, the sound of the fire fades behind the heavy, ornate wooden door, which remains firmly shut. Yet Tavian walks on, knowing that Killian is not yet ready to speak with his advisor.

Behind that door, in a circular room where only a few scattered ruins remained, Killian sat at a round table displaying a map of all Elaris. The leader of the Black Dragons wore his black-and-red cloak, his gaze unfocused upon the map. His black hair was wild and disheveled; he clutched the ruby pendant on its gold chain tightly in his hand, while the ancient, glowing red scars on his neck pulsed in time with his heartbeat; rapid, agitated, much like the sky beyond the walls.

It had been 750 years, yet Killian remembered everything. The weather. The wind. The sun upon his gold-shimmering scales. He was atop the highest peak in Arvelis, resting comfortably on the rocks with his head upon his claws and his red eyes half-closed. He could hear the humans in the distance, the Fifth Realm coexisting with the black dragons. A peaceful coexistence, devoid of tension.

Killian snorted; plumes of smoke billowed from his nostrils, instantly swept away by the wind to vanish as quickly as they had appeared. It was a sign of relaxation, of no immediate threat, and he could feel peace settling in his chest. The massive, 150-meter-long dragon drew a deep breath; the scent of fresh mountain air mingled with the aroma of fir trees filled his lungs. Then, suddenly, he lifted his head. Sharply. There was something else. Something new. Daisies. Dried yew. The scents hung in the air.

Killian took another deep breath as he slowly sat up, bracing his weight on his forelegs; a few small stones broke loose from the rock face and tumbled down into the depths below. And then, he felt it. A warmth spreading through his chest. With another breath, his slit-like pupils narrowed for a fleeting moment. Killian knew what this meant, and he could feel his sense of smell sharpening. Before he had even fully realized it, he was standing, his head raised to catch the wind. There it was again. Daisies and dried yew. His fated mate.

With wings spread wide, the massive dragon set himself in motion; his steps made the ground tremble slightly, and with a powerful leap, he took to the air. His mighty wings cut through the wind, carrying the sound of their beating far across the landscape. He followed the scent, and the more intense it became, the stronger the warm sensation spread within his chest. On and on he flew, his eyes scanning the terrain below.

A small village appeared beneath him, and before Killian fully realized what he was doing, he began his descent. He held his wings tight against his body, his gaze fixed on the open space where someone stood. The scent of daisies and dried yew grew stronger. Just before reaching the ground, Killian spread his wings wide, braking abruptly, and landed with a thunderous crash. The earth shook; his crimson gaze remained unreadable as he stared at the woman before him, the warmth in his chest intensifying.

He drew air loudly through his nostrils, inhaling the fragrance of daisies and dried yew as his eyes closed. "[Mate]," his voice rumbled deeply in the ancient tongue of dragons, making everything around him vibrate. Yet, he sensed something else, a different scent. His eyes snapped open, his crimson gaze instantly locking onto the woman. She was barely twenty, wearing a white dress with ruffles at the sleeves and neckline. Her loose blonde hair whipped wildly in the wind, mirroring the fluttering fabric of her dress. A wreath of daisies, pink roses, and lavender adorned her hair. Her eyes were wide with terror; a man in armor stood behind her, holding a knife to her throat.

Panic and rage surged through Killian; his mate’s fear transferred to him, spreading rapidly, and he took a step forward. His wings unfurled, his head reared up, and his jaws gaped wide. His throat began to glow red, his focus so fixed on the woman that he failed to notice more armored human soldiers appearing. "If I were you, I’d shut your snout. Otherwise, the little one dies..." spoke the king, a ruler whose name had long since faded into obscurity. Killian froze as his head snapped toward the man on horseback. "It wasn't easy. But in the end, it was worth it. For we shall be the most powerful of all once we’ve torn your body apart," the king added, a greedy, loathsome grin spreading across his lips.

Killian slowly realized he had walked into a trap, yet standing before him was his mate, the one person in the entire universe destined solely for him. He hesitated, the king’s words swirling in his mind. He realized too late that the fragile peace was about to be shattered at any moment by human greed. A bone-chilling scream pierced the air as the first spears drove through his tough, scaled hide. Killian’s gaze darted to the side. Ballistae, already being reloaded. Rage surged within him.

But then he sensed the woman’s fear, and his head snapped back toward her as blood ran down his scales, soaking the ground beneath him. He caught a glimpse of the man holding her, saw the knife slice across her throat, the blood gushing from the wound and spreading across her white robe, and the man releasing the dying body, which dropped to the ground like a stone.

Killian took two heavy, thunderous steps forward, making the earth beneath him tremble. His roar echoed through the village; loud, booming, almost lethal; and before he could do anything else, several spears struck his side again. He could smell his own blood...

Killian slammed his fist onto the round table; the pain in his chest snapped him out of the reverie, and he stood up. Rage, hatred, and fury surged within him; his ancient red scars pulsed violently, his breathing grew heavy, and his hateful gaze fixed icily upon the map. His nostrils flared as his eyes shifted to Oka.

His red eyes, still burning with anger, remained fixed on the map as the heavy, ornate door to the war room opened; Tavian, Zorielle, Sylan, and Virelle entered and took their places beside him, silent and waiting for him to speak. "I am leaving," was all Killian could say, feeling his advisors' eyes upon him.

"You should..." Virelle began, but Killian cut her off with a single look. She knew that speaking further would draw his wrath, so the woman with the lilac hair simply nodded.

"When do you plan to leave?" Zorielle asked, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight from her right leg to her left.

"Now." Killian answered curtly.

"How long?" asked Sylan and Tavian in unison.

"A week. Oka will be the first city to fall..." Killian replied, finally tearing his gaze away from the table to look at his advisors one by one, holding each gaze in turn.

"What do you hope to achieve?" asked Zorielle, taking a deep breath while holding his gaze for as long as it lasted.

"More importantly, are you sure we're ready?" asked Tavian, his eyes drifting toward the city in the heart of Noralis.

"What kind of question is that, Tav?" growled Sylan, fixing his eyes on the redhead.

"Enough. I’m leaving. When I return in a week, I’ll know Oka’s weak points, and we’ll attack." Killian said; he stepped away from the table and left the war room without giving his advisors a single chance to intervene or even stop him.

His long, sweeping strides carried him out of the ruined palace and beneath the black skies. In a single instant, where a man had stood moments before, there was now a massive black dragon, his body covered in pulsating red scars, spreading his mighty wings and rising into the air with powerful beats.

He flew swiftly, leaving Arvelis via one of the higher mountain ridges and entering Noralis from the west. He knew where the cities and villages lay. This wasn't the first time he had visited Oka, but it would be his last. For next time, he would bring his family with him and wipe the city out. He landed a safe distance away, near the forest, and shifted back as quickly as he had transformed before. His steps, driven by fierce determination, led him along the road and into Oka. The white city with its red roofs and flickering blue screens. The stench of humanity crept into his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose.

He walked toward the market in the city's outer ring; despite his size, he didn't seem to draw much attention, or perhaps the people were simply too busy to take any real notice of him. He followed a canal until he could hear the familiar shouting of merchants and vendors, a din that seemed almost deafeningly loud to his ears. The air was thick with the scents of spices, sweat, perfumes, oils, and molten metal, completely overwhelming his sense of smell; he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head as he continued across the sprawling market.

His destination was the uppermost ring of Oka, where the Sovereign’s family resided. The target of his attack. To reach it, Killian would have to take one of the boats that ascended to the higher levels. He had barely left the market area behind when the wind shifted, and Killian stopped dead in his tracks, rooted to the spot.

At the same time, a familiar, warm sensation spread through his chest, alongside the pain and the anger. "No... it can't be..." he murmured softly to himself, his gaze darting about. He scanned the many faces around him as the scent grew stronger, something he couldn't quite place. Something that felt so good, yet made him incredibly angry. He couldn't help but swallow hard; his eyes darted around as his sense of smell sharpened.

He moved toward the scent involuntarily. His body acted on its own, beyond his control, while that warm feeling continued to spread, growing stronger, more intense. Almost unstoppable. Until the scent became so potent that he caught a glimpse of the source.