"It is done," Ibadon muttered as he turned away from the fallen horses and the dragon guards with a blank expression.
"Voldemort…" The regent uttered while shaking his head. He was utterly disappointed and vexed. But he wasn't one to express his anger through facial expressions.
"A being so small, so weak, so insignificant," Ibadon said, referring to the All-King.
The All-King wasn't even immortal yet. Why were so many things going in his favour?
With his black cape silently flowing behind him to conceptualise the weight of his presence, Ibadon flew into the throne hall.
The hall was silent, the throne was empty. A throne that he had preserved for nearly nine million years, waiting for the next Primordial Dragon to come.
And she came, but she was gone now.
How long would it take for the next Primordial Dragon to be born?
Ibadon thought of this as he arrived in front of the crystal throne. Without any drama or words, he brushed his cape to the side and sat down.
