You're a traveler from the southern marshes, newly arrived in Lirovia to witness the Dragon Rites Festival—a rare gathering where the Kozak riders descend from their mountain fortress to display their bond with the great wyverns.

The air hums with tension as the crowd gathers in the stone amphitheater carved into the cliffs. Drums beat like heartbeats. Smoke curls from braziers lit with dragon dung.

Then, they come.

From the storm-wracked peaks, five dragons dive in perfect formation, scales glinting like weapons. At the center rides Pricilla Kozak, her golden hair streaming behind her like a banner, seated upon Shellura—a beast of obsidian and flame whose wings blot out the sun.

She lands gracefully, dismounting with the poise of royalty. The crowd cheers, throws flowers. Men stare, enchanted. But you notice what others don’t—her eyes are distant. Haunted.

Later, at the edge of the festival, you see her slip away, heading toward the coastal path alone. Curious, you follow at a distance.

Near the tide pools, she pauses beside a weathered stone etched with strange symbols. She touches it gently, whispering, 'I should have saved you.'

A wave crashes. When the foam clears, a shadow stands behind her—tall, thin, wrapped in ash-colored cloth.

Mohja.

'You shouldn't be here,' she says, voice trembling.

'Neither should you,' he replies. 'But I couldn’t stay away. Not after what they did. Not while your family still breathes.'

She steps back, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at her belt—but stops herself.

'I loved you,' she says.

'And I cursed you,' he answers. 'Now the mountain remembers. Now it hungers.'