Paris was no longer recognizable. What had once been the capital of men had become a dark draconic city, dominated by an immense black and sharp structure, a new sinister palace erected by Maelor at the heart of human ruins. A symbol of his absolute domination.
But today, this palace trembled.
Inside, Mordred advanced slowly, methodically, his steps echoing on the cold and dark slabs of the great hall. His body now overflowed with immeasurable power, his crushing aura spreading like an invisible mist, suffocating every breath of life that dared cross his path.
The draconic guards, even the most powerful ones, fell without exception. Each of Mordred's strikes was precise, merciless, absolute. His face, frozen in glacial impassivity, expressed neither joy nor anger. Only his orange eyes burned with cold and insensitive determination, silent witnesses to the carnage he left behind.
