Mother of Dragons.
A title carved not in words but in flame, claw, and scale. A being who had existed since the first breath of terror haunted the newborn world—since the birth of the first monsters, the so-called Leviathans. Back then, she was nothing. Not even a dragon, not truly. Just a scrawny, trembling lizard with bones too soft to bite back and scales too thin to hold heat. She scavenged what she could—ash, bone marrow, half-digested leftovers—while above her, the world shook beneath the thundering crawl of titanic beings.
The Leviathans ruled then. They were hunger made flesh, immortal storms that chewed mountains into gravel and drank rivers dry. They tore through the land without opposition, as if the world itself bent to serve their endless appetite. They devoured monsters by the hundreds, played with them like fire with paper—light it, laugh, let it burn.
And so, because of them, she stayed weak.
