Morgrar's roar split the sky. It was a god's scream, blood-chilling and bone-deep, rattling the ancient stones of Caelvoryn. Elyra's head snapped up. Through the high, arched windows of the Emberhall, she saw it—the colossal crimson beast, its obsidian horns jagged, its wings blotting out the morning sun. Prince Therain had arrived.
He stormed into the throne room, unannounced, Morgrar's guttural bellow still echoing through stone. His black armor was spattered with what looked like old gore, his blue-green eyes glittering with a frostbitten cruelty that made the hairs on Elyra's arms stand on end. Chaos, thick and palpable, simmered beneath the sudden, terrified silence as nobles instinctively shrank back from him.
Therain wasted no time. He moved with the predatory grace of his dragon, stopping before the dais where King Vaelric sat, looking frail and grey on his bone throne.
