Chapter 164: Blood of the High Heavens
A roar tore through the sky, making the broken windows of ruined buildings tremble.
Above the draconic capital newly erected on the smoking ruins of Paris, dozens of winged silhouettes cut through the leaden clouds in a solemn procession that seemed to defy the laws of gravity. Draped in imperial red capes that undulated like liquid blood, girded with cuirasses of golden obsidian reflections that caught and reflected the dying light of the setting sun, the draconic nobles advanced in perfect synchronism. At their passage, the air itself shimmered, saturated with a mana so ancient and dense that it seemed to precede the birth of the stars, making every stone vibrate, every fragment of twisted metal that still littered the streets of the former City of Light.
Dimensional portals suddenly crackled in the darkened firmament, opening like gaping luminous wounds in the very fabric of the world. Space tore with the sound of reversed thunder, revealing stellar abysses dotted with violet lightning. Through these impossible breaches burst the draconic noble lineages from the four corners of the globe: from the depths of ancient forgotten volcanoes where magma had been boiling for millennia, from celestial abysses where gravity no longer held sway, from mountain peaks so isolated that no human map had ever recorded them. The most powerful families of the winged nobility finally converged toward what was once the beating heart of Europe, answering their sovereign’s call in a spectacle that would have terrified the greatest generals in History.
Their boots forged in draconic steel touched down in the main courtyard of the Command Palace, erected with surgical precision at the exact location of the former French Senate. The building itself was a marvel of impossible architecture: slender towers that seemed to defy the laws of engineering, flying buttresses carved from black metal that absorbed light, stained glass windows whose panes depicted the past conquests of the draconic empire.
Under the nobles’ heels resonated white marble veined with gold, still stained in places with brown spots that testified to the last battles the blood of human defenders who had dared to stand against the inevitable. The autumn wind carried the ashes of the old world, mingled with the intoxicating perfumes of the hanging gardens that the dragons had magically grown atop their new towers.
On a promontory carved from lunar crystal of absolute purity, shimmering with a royal aura that made the eyes of those most sensitive to mana squint, King Maelor awaited them. His silhouette stood out against the glowing sky like a statue of legend.
Motionless, arms crossed over his chest armored with obsidian scales engraved with runes of power, his incandescent golden eyes - like miniature suns - pierced the ranks with an intensity that made even the most seasoned tremble. Each beat of his dragon heart resonated in the air like a distant war drum. The shadow of power radiating from his mere presence was enough to silence the most animated conversations, to bow the proudest spines.
A step back, almost melted into the shadow of a black marble column, dressed in a sober draconic officer’s uniform with discrete but rank-revealing stripes, Elystria maintained marble silence. Her pale amber eyes did not blink as heads bowed one after another in a choreography of millennial submission.
The majestic wings folded in absolute respect, producing a rustling similar to that of a forest of black silk stirred by the breeze. One by one, the greatest lords of the draconic world - those whose names were whispered with fear in human legends, those who had razed entire civilizations with a breath came to bow before their emperor.