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.
