Reincarnation of the strongest Draconic

The world was a blur of warmth and muffled sounds, a constant, comforting thrum that lulled him into a state of semi-awareness. He was Zarathrax, leader of the Draconics, dead on a scorched battlefield, yet here he was, inexplicably alive, confined within a pulsating warmth. He remembered the pain, the rage, the bitter defeat, and Noir's tear-streaked face.

Then, a new sound, a gentle, melodious humming. It was a woman's voice, soft and young, singing a lullaby he couldn't understand. It soothed the edges of his turmoil, making him yearn for sleep, for escape.

He fought it. He had to know. Where was he? Was this some cruel afterlife? Had his kin survived? But the voice was too strong, too comforting, pulling him into a deeper slumber. He drifted, the phantom weight of his dragon form slowly fading, replaced by a strange, formless lightness.