From the balcony of Serendia Castle, Isabelle Norton stood frozen, her gloved hands gripping the marble balustrade so tightly her knuckles went white. The entire city sprawled beneath her — the winding streets, the sparkling river, the domed rooftops of temples and academies — all bathed in the pale gold of early morning. Overhead, the sky had turned the color of ash. A shape moved on the horizon, growing larger with every heartbeat: the Black Dragon of Worgan. Its vast wings blotted out the rising sun, its roar echoing off the castle walls like rolling thunder.

Her maid stood a step behind her, clutching the edge of her skirts, eyes wide with terror. “We should go, Lady Isabelle. Please, we have time. The city can be evacuated. We can...” Her voice broke.

Isabelle shook her head, her eyes never leaving the horizon. “No. If the city falls, it falls with me. I won’t abandon them.” The words tasted of iron in her mouth. She had been raised for this — to stand for her people. Even if it meant dying with them.

Far below, the soldiers of Serendia had formed lines at the edge of the city, their shields braced, mages weaving barrier spells along the outer walls. Bright wards flared like ribbons of light, ready to blunt whatever hell the dragon unleashed. It was all so orderly, so brave, and yet Isabelle knew it would be useless. No army could stop a creature like that.

The dragon’s roar grew louder as it drew closer. The wind off its wings reached the city’s edge, rattling banners and shaking roof tiles loose. Isabelle’s maid whispered prayers under her breath. “It’s coming,” she said, voice trembling.

And then... it didn’t. The Black Dragon slowed, as if held back by an unseen force, the space between it and the city warping with sudden, furious winds. From the far edge of the plains, a flicker of movement caught Isabelle’s eye — a figure cloaked in deep blue, standing alone amid the churned earth and scorched grass.

She knew who it was instantly.

The Silent Witch.

No words. No chant. Just a raised hand and a crackling shimmer in the air above them. A gate spiraled open — massive, bright, like a door to the heavens etched with glowing runes. Through it descended Sheffield, the Wind Spirit King, his colossal form a storm of silver light and slicing gales. The earth bowed to his presence.

The Black Dragon reared back, bellowing fire, but it was already too late. Sheffield moved with impossible speed, winds shrieking as they tore into the beast’s scales. The sky itself seemed to split open as the Silent Witch rewrote the dragon’s magic, turning its own fire back on itself. In a single, thunderous strike, the Black Dragon was torn from the sky and cast to the ground, dead before it ever reached the walls of the city.

For one stunned heartbeat, the world was silent. Then came the scream of the offspring.

From the forests and hills around the city, hundreds of smaller dragons surged forward in vengeance, their wings blotting out the sun once more. They dove toward Serendia, fire pouring from their mouths, soldiers scrambling to hold the line. The first barriers began to splinter under the onslaught, and Isabelle’s heart dropped. She turned to her maid, her voice breaking. “It isn’t over. Gods forgive me — it isn’t over.”

The two of them clung to the balcony rail as the sky darkened. One dragon swooped low enough that Isabelle could see its molten eyes, and for an instant she thought she would watch the city burn, watch her people die. She closed her eyes, bracing for the fire.

But then the heavens cracked.

Bolts of blue light — hundreds of them — lanced down from the sky like spears of divine judgment. One after another, they struck the attacking dragons, shattering their wings, tearing through their scales. The air smelled of ozone and scorched magic. The army of dragons was obliterated in a single, wordless spell, their corpses vanishing into smoke before they hit the ground.

Isabelle opened her eyes to a city still standing. The soldiers below were frozen, weapons lowered. The streets were untouched but for scattered embers. Even the banners still hung from the walls, fluttering gently in the breeze as though nothing had happened at all.

Her maid whispered, “She saved us...” and Isabelle realized her hands were trembling. The Silent Witch had ended the threat before it began — had saved them all without ever stepping foot inside the city walls.

Months had passed since the Battle of Worgan. Serendia City remained almost untouched, the memory of the dragons fading into legend, whispered in awe by those who had witnessed the Silent Witch’s work from afar. In the thick woods beyond the city, your cabin sits hidden among towering oaks and silvered pines, a modest home of timber and stone, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The quiet is thick, almost tangible — the only sound the faint crackle of the hearth fire and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Inside, you move slowly among shelves lined with tomes, scrolls, and carefully bottled reagents. You hum softly to yourself, testing wards, checking protective sigils, and writing down runes in meticulous order.

The moment is almost peaceful — almost.

A sudden pounding rattles the door, sharp and insistent. A voice rings out, carrying the sharp edge of authority mixed with something far more personal.

“You’re hiding again! Open this door!”