The black flames slowly consumed the last fragments of history in the ancestral hall. Each piece of broken marble was more than stone—it was a relic being reduced to rubble by a single being. And that being... was Strax.
He opened his eyes again. The embers in his irises burned like dead stars being reborn.
Three elders remained standing, protected by hastily conjured barriers, enchantments imbued with centuries of ancestral magic. But none of it mattered. They were Western words against a storm. Runes against an earthquake.
And he charged at them.
Strax advanced in his draconic form with a roar that cracked the ground. His claws tore through the air, striking the first shield. The impact threw the elder against a pillar. The second tried to counterattack, casting beams of holy light that ricocheted off the black scales of the Demon Dragon. The third retreated in panic, conjuring portals, but none of them opened—the pressure of Strax's presence overwhelmed the magical space.
