The skies above the lands were painted in shades of deep orange and crimson as the sun neared the horizon. The winds carried the distant cries of the desperate and the displaced—refugees who had fled the burning ruins of their homeland, now seeking shelter in the last standing bastion of their once-great kingdom.
Aragon soared through the sky atop Eliviraa, his mighty dragon. Her obsidian scales gleamed under the dimming sunlight, and her massive wings cut through the thick air like blades. From above, he could see the sprawling fiefdom below, its fields now turned into makeshift camps for the wounded and weary. The people of the kingdom, those who had managed to survive the massacre, were gathered here, waiting, hoping, grieving.
