As Petunia walked toward the village, the air shifted—warmer, heavier, full of life and the scent of smoke, sweat, and iron.
The sound of metal being forged rang through the valley like war drums in peacetime. Clang! Clang! Sparks flew from anvils where blacksmiths with soot-blackened arms hammered glowing blades into shape. Nearby, the raucous laughter of Vikings echoed over the rooftops, guttural and hearty, mingling with the deep timbre of men arguing over hunts, games of strength, and old glory.
It was, in its own way, a wholesome village—brutal, loud, and wild, but brimming with life. Homes were carved from timber and stone, roofs thatched with woven reeds. Children chased each other barefoot through muddy paths, while women stirred pots or repaired nets. The village had carved itself into the land like a defiant scar, protected by two jagged mountains on either side, as if nature itself stood guard.
Petunia strode forward with calm purpose, yet she stood out like a phoenix among ravens.
Her Hogwarts robes, though travel-worn, The hem was embroidered with sigils, and the deep midnight blue of the cloak caught the sunlight like woven silk. Her pale skin, silky dark hair, and fine posture marked her as foreign—not just foreign, but noble. At least, that's what the villagers thought.
All eyes turned to her.
A towering man stepped into her path, casting a long shadow. His beard was thick and braided, slung over his shoulder like a warrior's trophy. He wore a chainmail shirt stretched taut over muscle and bore the scent of smoke and salt.
He spoke in the harsh rhythm of Old Norse, his tongue heavy and proud:
> "Hver ert þú, ungr mær? Þú virðist ekki af þessum slóðum."
("Who are you, young girl? You do not seem to be from these lands.")
He squinted, eyes narrowing at the detail of her robes—the fine stitching, the absence of wear, the boldness of her stride. In his eyes, she was no peasant. Perhaps a chieftain's daughter from across the sea?
The system had thankfully granted her the language. Her reply came with the lilt of a soft, practiced accent—innocent and mournful:
> "My village… it was destroyed by dragons. When I awoke, I was alone in the forest. I came here to seek food."
The man's face twisted in immediate hatred.
> "Þeir djöfullegu skrímsli!"
("Those wicked beasts!")
Then, suspicion clouded his gaze.
> "Do you know someone here? You're not thinking of staying, are you?"
He gestured to the jagged peaks rising around them.
> "This village is hidden between the mountains—closed off. We have barely space to house our own, let alone strangers. Not a hand's width more!"
Petunia lowered her gaze politely, voice calm:
> "I am but a traveler. I will trade for a few things and leave."
He looked her over once more.
No armor. No visible weapon. Her skin bore no scars. Clearly a girl protected all her life—too pristine for battle. Still… she wore wealth. And wealth meant trade. His pride would not allow him to beg nor to extort, especially not from a child.
With a grunt, he turned and walked away, his heavy boots sinking into the earth.
> "Keep your head low, girl. These people bite when hungry."
Petunia offered a shallow nod and followed the scent of dried meat and salt toward the market square.
---
The village's open market was a wide clearing lined with simple wooden stalls. Traders displayed their goods on tables or thick hides rolled across the dirt. The air was filled with the mingling scents of fish, pine smoke, and old leather.
She passed weapons first—rows of iron axes, worn but sharp, each blade shaped slightly different depending on the smith's hand. Next were tanned hides stretched out like trophies, some unmistakably from wild beasts… and one stall displayed dragon skin, rough and faintly scaled, charred at the edges.
But she didn't linger.
Her hunger was real, and she spotted an elderly woman beneath a sagging tarp, her stall stacked with strings of dried fish and a battered basket of apples—dented, bruised, but still red as rubies.
Petunia approached.
> "How much for the string of fish?" she asked, clear and unafraid.
The old woman squinted, eyes sharp as flint.
> "What do you have, girl?"
Her tone was thick, skeptical. She was used to trades in kind—fish for milk, bread for wool—not coins from foreign lands.
Without a word, Petunia drew a single Gringotts gold coin from her storage.
The old woman's eyes widened as the sunlight struck the coin, sending a warm golden glow over her wrinkled face. Her lips parted in awe. True gold was rare here—found only in the far peninsulas, where mines were carved deep into dragon- infested cliffs.
Her breath hitched.
> "Hmm! Not enough! Not enough!" she snapped, feigning disinterest, but her eyes gleamed greedily.
Petunia's gaze sharpened. Her voice cooled, sharp as a dagger hidden in silk.
> "Hmm, well… that's a shame. I suppose I'll go ask that woman over there. She seemed far more interested."
She turned slightly, coin still held between two fingers, as if she might truly walk away.
Panic flashed in the woman's eyes.
> "N-no! No, no! I—I can make an exception! For you! I'll take it!"
Petunia smiled, lowering the coin—then snatched it back just before it touched the old woman's palm.
> "I'll take that basket of apples too. Or no deal."
> "What?! You greedy little—"
> "Okay, goodbye then."
> "Wait! Wait! Fine, fine! Take it all, you little imp!"
Petunia placed the coin with regal grace into the woman's outstretched, trembling palm.
> "Thank you, Grandma!"
> "Grandma my foot! Get lost!"
She scooped the string of fish and basket of apples into her storage in a fluid motion, only biting into one of the apples as she turned away.
Its flesh was crisp. Sour-sweet. Fresh enough.
---
She walked slowly through the market, nibbling her apple, watching.
Men bartered, children played near the fire pits, and a few guards leaned on their spears by the inner palisade. Everyone had their routines.
As the village's rough-hewn rooftops faded behind her, Petunia walked toward the open clearing nestled between the trees, where Zephros could land without drawing the eyes of frightened or greedy villagers. The shadows of the dense forest stretched across the dirt path like warning fingers, yet her stride remained even—measured. Calm.
But she was not alone.
Her sharp senses, detected the presence of others. Footsteps muffled by caution, breath held by lust or greed. Two men. Maybe three. They kept their distance at first, hiding behind the veil of rustling leaves and soft footfall, but as she approached the clearing, their pace quickened.
Petunia didn't flinch.
In a time like this—when morality was a luxury only the rich or pious could afford—encountering predators of the two-legged kind was no surprise. In a world shaped by battle and blood, men such as these feasted on the weak and hunted the vulnerable. She had seen their kind before. Greed in their eyes. Cruelty in their hearts. Entitlement in their bones.
They had seen her gold, after all. Just one glimpse of that Gringotts coin had filled their minds with visions of wine, women, and power. She was small, they thought. Young. Alone. An easy mark.
Their mistake.
Just as Petunia calculated the exact intensity of lightning she'd use to roast their bones from the inside out, a familiar sound broke her reverie.
[Ding!]
[Side Quest Activated!]
Rescue the village from its impending doom.
Casualty limit: Less than 30%
Rewards:
<30% Casualties: Dragon Journal – a comprehensive bestiary detailing every dragon species in this scenario.
<20% Casualties: All the above + -9.5% reduced restriction on weather manipulation ability.
<10% Casualties: All the above + Axemanship Mastery + Strength Upgrade.
Her gaze narrowed slightly. "So it's one of those quests..." she muttered under her breath.
But there was no time to mull over the system's cruel irony—saving people who wouldn't even spare a scrap of bread.
The clearing opened before her. The sunlight pierced through the trees, casting dappled golden light on the open grass. She stopped at the very center.
The men behind her thought she had reached her end. Smirks twisted their scarred faces, and weapons gleamed in hand—rusted blades, crude clubs, iron hunger. One had a missing tooth and the other a half-healed burn running down his cheek. Their clothing was patchwork leather and blood-stained fur. Their gait told stories of raids, ambushes, and no regrets.
But as they stepped closer, a low hum cut through the air.
Swock.
A sudden wind stirred the clearing. The leaves rustled with unnatural rhythm. The air thickened, heavy with presence. One of the men looked up first, and the color drained from his face.
Descending silently above them was a great silver form, scales gleaming like polished moonstone. His wings barely moved, yet his presence shattered the silence like thunder.
Zephros.
His head lowered slowly, casting a long shadow over the intruders. His eyes, fierce and knowing, locked onto the men below. Then, with a breath drawn from deep within his chest, he roared—a sound that shattered branches, sent birds scattering, and froze the hearts of the unworthy.
The men fell backward, scrambling in the dirt. One dropped his sword. Another wet himself. All stared wide-eyed as the beast of the skies curled his lip and grinned. Yes, grinned. Dragons had expressions if you knew how to read them—and Zephros was positively smug.
His silver eyes flicked to Petunia, thoughts unspoken but loud in their bond:
> "I warned you. These humans reek of rot."
Petunia rolled her eyes. Her expression was one of amused exasperation. Her voice was cool and dry:
> "Cocky, aren't we?"
She raised her hand. A current of pressurized air gathered beneath her fingertips, and with a graceful flick, she released it in a controlled wave. It struck the men , launching them backwards into the trees. The sound of bones hitting bark, of bodies tumbling through underbrush, echoed like justice.
Zephros's wings trembled with a quiet chuckle, impressed.
She didn't need to look to know they wouldn't return. Not quickly. Not whole.
> "No time to dawdle," she said, turning to her companion. "Take me up. I need a better view of the village."
He lowered his head, and she stepped onto it. A gust of air coiled under her boots, lifting her lightly onto his back. She moved with a dancer's balance, settling onto his spine without the faintest sway.
With a single beat of his wings, Zephros surged upward. The ground fell away. The trees became a sea of green. The village appeared once more, nestled between mountains like a guarded secret.
From above, it looked peaceful. Deceptively so.
But Petunia's eyes scanned the perimeter, searching for whatever doom the system had foreseen. Her thoughts sharpened. Her aura grew still.
-----
Zephros circled the village slowly, his wide silver wings slicing the misty sky with an audible whoosh—whoosh. Below them, smoke curled from chimneys and the clamor of iron on anvil rang faintly upward. His massive head swiveled, silver eyes narrowed, and with a low gurgling rumble in his throat, he cast a deadpan glance at Petunia—his scaly brow furrowed in mild annoyance, if a dragon could wear such a look. The message was clear without words: "Why are we still here?"
Petunia glanced sideways at him, wind tugging at her dark, silky hair like playful fingers. Her expression was thoughtful, then resolute. In a tongue older than most living languages, she replied in Old Valyrian, her voice low but firm—almost melodic in the storm-laced air.
"I have my reasons to protect this village. You may not understand them, Zephros… but know that doing so will benefit us. I'd appreciate your help—but if you wish to leave, I won't bind you. I don't command your wings."
For a long moment, Zephros held still, hovering with powerful wingbeats. Then he gave a mighty roar—SKRAAAH!—his body vibrating with the sound as storm clouds gathered around them. It was a declaration, not of protest, but of allegiance. She had helped him once. He would fly with her now.
As if summoned by ancient tension, the air shifted.
Thunder rumbled deep in the belly of the heavens, a GRRROOOOM that shook the sky. The clouds, once billowy and pale, blackened like ink spilled across canvas. From their churning depths, multiple roars pierced the wind—wild, grating, feral. RAAARGH! KRAAAH!
Petunia narrowed her eyes. "They're coming," she whispered.
From the veil of shadowed clouds, glowing forms began to take shape—dragons.
The lead dragon burst forth, wings slicing the cloud cover. Its back was laced with jagged, metallic spines that gleamed with residual lightning. Its wings were long and sinewed, claws hooked like blades. A crown of spikes adorned its skull, beard-like spikes fanned out under its jaw. Its coloration was dark gray laced with vivid purple, its underbelly a pale ivory sheen. Lightning flickered all across its body, crawling like serpents beneath translucent scales.
Behind it, the skies shimmered with more shapes. A second dragon revealed itself—smaller but no less deadly, its light purple scales flashing like polished armor.
Zephros dropped altitude with a tilt of his wings, seeking clearer vision below the clouds.
Petunia, her face sharp with focus, stared ahead. The wind tore at her robes, snapping the fabric behind her like a banner. Her purplish-blue eyes flickered like violet fire. It was hard to see, but not impossible. She locked her gaze onto the advancing dragon.
"Zephros," she ordered calmly. "Draw its attention. Keep it away from the village."
The silver dragon obeyed instantly. With a grunt and a surge of his chest, he launched a ball of searing blue flame—FWOOOM—toward the lightning dragon.
The flame collided near its path—KRA-BOOM!
The creature shrieked in fury and turned toward them, its jaws unhinging wide as lightning coiled from its crown down to its gaping maw. ZZZZZZZAAK!
A crackling beam of pure lightning screamed through the sky—ZRAAAAK!
"Zephros, dodge!" Petunia cried.
With a tilt and twist of his wings, Zephros spiraled sideways, narrowly avoiding the bolt. The air around them sizzled with the residual energy, and a BOOM echoed from a distant mountain it struck.
Petunia clutched the spikes on his neck, holding herself steady. "This is not the summer vacation I was planning," she muttered, her voice tight with adrenaline.
She raised a hand. "Drakarys, Zephros!"
With a defiant roar—SKRRAAAHH!—Zephros unleashed a barrage of blue fireballs, chaining across the sky like a comet storm. BOOM—BOOM—FWASH—
But the enemy dragon barreled through, unharmed, trailing electric sparks in its wake.
Then—ZRAAK!
Another beam struck near them—closer this time.
Petunia glanced upward—her blood chilled. "Oh no… there's the other one!"
From above, a second lightning dragon beamed a bolt straight down toward them. Its scales shimmered like a blackened moon, veins of blue and purple glowing beneath the surface.
"Zephros, down!"
But the bolt was coming too fast.
Gritting her teeth, Petunia raised both arms. FWOOM— the lightning struck her instead, and with a burst of incandescent light, she bent the beam sideways—ZAAAAKK!—redirecting it toward a distant mountaintop.
The stone exploded—KRA-BAAAM!—as the redirected bolt found its new target.
Below them, the villagers screamed and scrambled for cover, their eyes wide with awe and terror. From the ground, the aerial battle was the stuff of ancient legend—flashes of fire and lightning writhed across the sky, painting an apocalyptic scene above their wooden roofs.
Petunia breathed heavily. Her arms trembled slightly. So much effort just to deflect one bolt... She realized now how much the system's restriction hindered her.
Zephros roared and dove, leading the two lightning dragons away from the village. He dipped between rocky mountains, the air tight and howling. With a quick shot—BOOM—he collapsed the tunnel behind him with a fireball, hoping to block their pursuit.
Then, with a powerful flap of his wings, he soared above the clouds once again.
Petunia glanced back—they were still following.
Wind slashed across her face. She turned to Zephros, her voice steady.
"I'll take one. You take the other."
Zephros gave a sharp, incredulous growl—GRRRNHH?
Before he could protest, she leapt off his back—WHOOSH—SSSH!—air gathering beneath her feet in bursts as she used her weather manipulation to thrust herself forward.
The sky bent around her, air currents funneling her trajectory like a focused gale.
THUMP!
She landed squarely on the back of the second dragon, claws of wind gripping her place atop its scales.
It roared—KRRRAAAAGH!—veering erratically in the air, its spiked head thrashing to throw her off.
But Petunia didn't move.
Her eyes narrowed.
Clutching the jagged spines of the lightning dragon, Petunia clung on with everything she had. The beast thrashed through the skies, spinning and rolling violently as clouds screamed past in a blur of grey and violet. The wind howled in her ears—FWOOOOOOSH!—threatening to peel her from its back and send her plummeting toward the earth below.
"Hold—HOLD—!" she gritted through clenched teeth, her fingers burning against the dragon's ridged lightning-charged scales. The creature bucked again, its massive wings flapping with booming gusts—WHOOM—WHUMP——as it soared higher, angling into a vicious spiral.
Then came the warning.
A sudden sharp ZRRRMMT! crackled through the air. Static lifted the hairs on Petunia's arms. Her pupils shrank.
The crown of horns atop the dragon's head began to glow with an eerie violet light. Lightning gathered like coiling serpents across its back, dancing along its spine, converging toward its core. The sky around them darkened into a swirling tempest of stormclouds—KRSSHHH!
"Oh boy —" she gasped, just as the energy detonated.
ZRAAAAK-K-K-K-KT!—The lightning coursed violently across the beast's body in a radiant flash, illuminating the sky like a falling star.
The dragon, immune to its own current, screeched in defiance—SKRRAAAAAH!—but Petunia felt the full force of the blast. Electricity surged into her limbs, into her blood, burning like a thousand molten needles under her skin. Her spine arched with pain.
CRACK—ZAP—CRSSHH! Thunder answered back.
Her weather manipulation—nerfed by scenario restrictions—offered little more than a partial shield. She tried to channel the power outward, directing it into the sky or ground, but it was like trying to redirect a flood with bare hands.
Still—she didn't let go.
Her arms trembled violently, jaw clenched until her teeth ached. Her vision blurred. Sparks danced along her skin. Her grip was iron, her will unyielding.
"I won't fall," she whispered to herself, though her body screamed otherwise.
The dragon suddenly snapped into a sharp arc and dived—WOOOSH! The g-forces pressed against Petunia's chest as they arrowed down toward the village again.
"No—!"
Through the roar of wind and pulse of thunder, she understood its new target. Its mind was fixated on the cluster of wooden rooftops below. The very village she had sworn to protect.
The dragon had turned its fury upon it once more.
"No, no, no—dammit—listen to me!" she cried, fingers clawing into the lightning-scaled hide.
The beast roared—SKRAAAHH!—the sound shaking her bones.
And then—something changed.
The roar wasn't just sound—it was feeling. A wave of raw, blistering emotion surged into her thoughts—unfamiliar, alien… but real.
Rage. Loss. Grief. The color purple. The soft shimmer of eggs. Round. Fragile. Stolen.
Petunia's eyes widened.
Images, fragmented and primal, flooded her senses—memories not hers but the dragon's. She saw men in thick furs and helmets—Vikings—hands stained with soot and greed. She saw them prying open a nest high in the cliffs, removing eggs glinting with lilac and violet sheen. She heard the beast's desperate cries echoing in the mountains.
A wound, fresh and deep.
It wasn't just anger—it was mourning.
Struck by the weight of the dragon's loss, Petunia gritted her teeth against another surge of static crawling across her skin. For a moment, her entire body glowed silver as lightning rebounded across her bones, flashing through her dark hair and turning it pale as moonlight.
FZZZRRRRPT!
She yelled through the agony.
"What's in there?! Where are you heading ?!"
The storm answered with a bellow—SKRAAAAGH!
But her words were heard. Emotions sharpened into comprehension, and though no speech passed between them, the intent was returned in waves.
My children. My clutch. My blood. Gone.
And yet she held on.
Petunia gasped through grit teeth, her voice barely above the thunder, "I can help you! So stop resisting me!"
The dragon faltered mid-flight, its wings flinching just slightly. Lightning dimmed on its body—just a flicker. Just a breath.
And the village, still below, trembled on the edge of fate.
Thunder cracked in the sky as the lightning dragon landed with a bone-shaking THUD atop the tallest hill, dirt and broken stone spraying outward from the impact. The chieftain's house, an iron-studded longhall of dark timber, loomed behind them—now overshadowed by the beast cloaked in writhing tendrils of lightning.
Villagers screamed. Men scrambled for weapons. Mothers yanked children behind barrels and doors. The warriors—grizzled, scarred, proud—stood frozen with axes half-raised, eyes locked not just on the monster, but on the girl.
Petunia dropped down from the dragon's back, landing with a grunt on her knees. Her robes were torn, scorched at the edges, and her silver hair crackled with fading static. She stood slowly, unbothered by the wary gazes surrounding her, even as the lightning dragon snarled behind her, arcs of electricity dancing across its fangs like hungry snakes.
The chieftain emerged from his hall like a storm himself, broad-shouldered and wild-eyed, his furs stiff with dried blood and his beard braided with dragon teeth. In his arms were three eggs, smooth, purple, pulsing faintly with inner lightning. They hummed with potential.
"So," the man growled, addressing the dragon with utter contempt, "you want these, don't you? Knew you'd come."
The dragon screeched—a high-pitched, glass-shattering SKREEEEEE that made lesser men flinch and horses rear.
"Open the traps!" the chieftain barked.
With a deafening CLANG! and a cascade of rattling metal, nets woven of black iron came crashing down. Petunia barely had time to react before the reinforced net slammed into them like a wall, its links that pierced the ground sparking as they absorbed stray electricity from the dragon's body. She tried to sidestep—but dizziness from her earlier electrocution clouded her reflexes..
THWUMP.
The net landed hard.
But just before she could be pinned, a sudden WHOOMPH of air and flaring wings enveloped her. The dragon had shielded her, curling around the girl protectively, grunting as the full weight of the metal mesh crushed down onto him. Petunia, eyes wide, felt a warmth—no, a bond—ripple in the static around her.
The chieftain sneered, striding forward with slow, deliberate steps. He set the eggs down onto the gravel and raised a wicked black axe above his head, his expression twisted with glee.
"As for these evil eggs," he hissed, "let me show you what happens to beasts that cross this village."
Petunia's vision narrowed. Her body was bound. The heat from the earth surged up into her legs, drawing the lightning away from her fingertips. But she remembered the dragon's aura—she could still feel the static crawling beneath her skin from when he shielded her.
Her eyes flashed violet.
She pressed her palm to the dragon's side. Sparks danced. A deep vvvvzzzzzt of resonance pulsed through her bones. She gritted her teeth, narrowing the arc of power toward her right arm. poking a finger through the net hole,Her fingers burned, and then—
CRACK-THOOM!
A single, blinding bolt of lightning burst from her fingertip, sizzling with the weight of two spirits in sync. The bolt shrieked across the clearing, lighting up the village like dawn, and PIERCED the chieftain's forehead with a sickening SSHHHTK!
His head snapped back—body still standing for a moment before it collapsed like a felled log.
The villagers gasped. Time seemed to freeze.
SKRRAAK! The dragon, galvanized by her move, flexed violently. Petunia, fueled by adrenaline and an eerie calm, focused all her energy. Muscles tense, she strained against the metal cords.
CLANG—SNAP—WHHRRK! The net twisted and burst open in showers of sparks and shrapnel. She rolled out of its embrace with the dragon following suit, shaking off chains with a vicious growl that made the bravest Viking drop his blade.
Petunia stood at his side, scorched but unbending, eyes glowing faintly with crackling light.
Petunia stood amid the smoking debris, shoulders squared, hair singed at the edges but eyes bright with unshaken resolve. The lightning dragon's coils of energy flickered like serpents over its body, and together, they looked like twin storms incarnate—one born of fury, the other of control.
Her voice rang out, sharp and unwavering:
"If you want to face the same fate as your leader, I dare you to move!"
The words cut through the hush like a blade through parchment. No one stirred. Not the warriors clutching bloodied axes, nor the elders shielding the young. Even the horses, jittery with fear, stood still.
Petunia stepped forward with a measured grace. The scorched earth crunched beneath her bare feet as she moved toward the purple eggs still nestled where the chieftain had left them. Her silhouette, half-shrouded in smoke and lit by the flickering glow of the dragon's body, looked more deity than human.
The mother dragon—still tense, still humming with residual rage—watched her silently. Electricity crackled in the air as if holding its breath.
Petunia knelt down slowly, gently sliding her arms under the eggs, cradling them against her chest. The heat they emitted was soft, pulsing—alive. She rose, gaze locked with the dragon's massive eyes. Though they burned with elemental power, she sensed something new within them: gratitude.
Carefully, she stepped back, never turning her back to the dragon or the crowd.
And then—
BOOM!
The distant mountains trembled as two dragons collided midair.
Zephros came into view first, his silver scales now scuffed and marked with claw gouges and burns. He grunted, talons wrapped around the other dragon's wings as he slammed them both into the rock face. The cliffside shattered with a CRASH, sending boulders tumbling down into the valley below.
RRRHHHRRAAAAWK! Zephros roared, twisting his body midair, wings flaring wide as he dodged a jagged lightning beam. The enemy dragon snarled back, eyes glowing violet as he retaliated with another discharge. Sparks arced through the sky like violent stars.
They were evenly matched. And exhausted.
Zephros reared back, lungs swelling—his maw glowing with radiant blue fire.
The lightning dragon's mouth opened simultaneously, its throat lighting up with an ominous hum.
Petunia's eyes widened.
"No, no—Zephros! DOWN!" she shouted, voice sharp with urgency.
Turning to the mother beside her, she gestured and spoke in a firm but urgent tone, "Stop them! He's your mate!"
As if understanding the unspoken desperation in her words, the lightning dragon beside her let out a piercing trill, a sound not of rage, but of recognition.
VWWRRRMMMMMMMM! Her body surged upward in a bolt of motion, soaring skyward with incredible speed. In an instant, she was between the two males, letting out a bellow that shattered the incoming blasts into harmless mist.
Petunia stood at the base of the hill, breath catching in her throat. She raised a hand and called again:
"Zephros! Come down!"
Above, the two dragons hesitated, then with a few strained wingbeats, began their descent. Their bodies were ragged, wings torn in places, scales chipped and blackened by the other's fire. But their heads were high, and their eyes—though fierce—no longer held bloodlust.
They landed with heavy thuds beside her, chests heaving, tails flicking with restless energy. It was like watching two brothers who'd fought over a great wrong—and now stood in the aftermath, pride bruised but something unspoken understood.
The villagers stared at the scene, mouths agape.
This strange girl in jagged black robes, who had commanded dragons like pets. This silver-haired apparition who'd held lightning in her veins and brought death with a fingertip. The ease with which the dragons let her touch their eggs, the way they landed beside her like loyal beasts—it shattered something fundamental in their world.
Whispers stirred.
"She talks to them…"
"They listen to her…"
"Is she even human?"
Petunia, now walking between the dragons with the eggs in her arms, didn't respond. The wind caught strands of her hair—and with a gentle shimmer, the silver faded. Her locks returned to their deep, dark hue.
Gasps echoed. The shift was not missed.
"She's not human, alright ".