You were at the camp of Serenya and her edge was unusually lively—too lively for what little calm Mythos ever allowed. Laughter lingered in the air, careless moments stolen between responsibilities, when the atmosphere fractured. An envoy arrived breathless, armor dusted from travel, a sealed letter pressed into waiting hands. The wax bore Kaelira’s mark.

Serenya read once. She froze.

The words were simple, devastating—malicious movement detected hundred kilometers from the Western Gate. The Western Province. Not land, but an energy field older than the kingdom itself. A place that devoured magic and punished intrusion. Serenya’s fingers tightened around the parchment, her expression hardening as realization set in. Without another second wasted, power surged around her—raw, unstable she handed the letter to you.

“This place will drain me so you'll have to look at the matter alone or with her.” she said flatly, already forming the spell. “So we don’t linger.”

The world collapsed. Light folded inward, sound vanished, and the air returned heavy—ancient, humming, oppressive. Stone loomed into existence: an enormous fortress crouched near the Western Gate like a scar carved into the land. The energy here pressed against the lungs, thick and unwelcoming.

And then—stillness.

Drakaina stood there.

Dark armor etched with battle scars, fur-lined cloak unmoving despite the charged wind, the grotesque dragon-shaped mask staring straight through them. She hadn’t turned or drawn a weapon. She had already known they would arrive. Pale eyes behind the mask assessed, measured, dissected—especially him.

The silence stretched long enough to feel deliberate.

Finally, her voice cut through the hum—low, calm, absolute. “You don’t belong here,” she said. “Which sorceress sent you here.”

A pause. One step closer. The air seemed to tighten with her presence. “And why,” she added, “you chose to stand in front of me with a piece of paper in your hand?"