The Mosrow Clan's manor. Inside the manor, two large banners hung prominently. They bore the emblem of the Mosrow Clan—a sun motif emblazoned on a red field.
The design was embroidered with golden thread, catching the sunlight and shimmering softly. Beneath the banners, an array of Muwa armaments stood in orderly display.
Feather-blades were among them.
Also known as wing blades, these were the Muwa's signature weapons. The finely crafted edges bore ornate patterns.
Swirling winds, unfurled Muwa wings, and meticulously inscribed runes flowed across the blade surfaces.
Each feather-blade symbolized the feats and honor of the Mosrow Clan, its weight far beyond what any wooden stand or elaborate engraving could convey.
Beside the feather-blades stood suits of armor, fashioned from both plate and leather, tailored for the Muwa. Crafted to allow free wing movement, with shoulder guards adorned in feather-like motifs. The helmets protruded in beak shapes, their eye slits covered in amber crystal.
Entering the manor, the high ceilings overwhelmed the view. Built for the Mosrow family, the structure ensured that wings could spread and take flight anywhere without obstruction—vast and lofty.
The walls were crammed with paintings depicting the Mosrow Clan's history.
Large and small frames hung in haphazard order: a massive canvas of battles against orcs in the distant west, surrounded by portraits of Mosrow warlords.
The gazes of past chieftains, spanning eras, intertwined across the walls in varied sizes and compositions.
Passing through the corridor led deeper inside to the chamber of the manor's lord, Salma.
The door was thick and heavy wood, its handle cast in bronze. Carved on its surface was a Muwa with wings spread against a moonlit backdrop.
And from beyond that door came a scream.
It echoed off the walls and corridors, spreading through the entire manor—a muffled trace of agony.
"Argh! Hurry up and finish the treatment!"
It was Salma's voice, laced with pain.
"Warchief, you mustn't move!"
The healer's voice followed, urgent and pleading.
The door swung open as another Muwa healer rushed into the room.
The chamber was spacious. The ceiling arched high and round, with tall, wide windows letting sunlight pour in. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams.
The bed dominated the center. Thick fabric draped the mattress, but spilled blood had crusted along the weave, and hastily wiped spots left smeared red stains.
Salma sat upon it, half-upright, leaning his back against the headboard, wings partially spread.
His left wing hung limp. Red marks streaked between the feathers—dried blood, and some still fresh.
"I told you already!"
Salma bellowed.
"I could go out right now and twist their necks myself! So wrap this up, fast!"
His wing flapped. The right one unfurled wide, whipping up a gust. The bed's fabric billowed, and scraps of cloth on the table scattered.
"Warchief!"
The healer cried out desperately.
He was applying ointment to Salma's side. His hands were smeared with a bluish herb paste, its bitter scent filling the room. The acrid smell of burned herbs wafted through the air.
"If you move, the wound will reopen! It's already happened three times!"
The healer's tone bordered on begging.
Another healer carefully held Salma's wing, wiping bloodied feathers one by one with a water-soaked cloth, already stained crimson.
"The wing bone is cracked. You can't move for at least a week."
The healer said, a clean white bandage clutched in his manifested hand, though the form flickered unsteadily before Salma's fury.
"A week?"
Salma snarled back, brow furrowing.
"In a week, those bastards will be at the walls of Damu!"
"But if you go out now..."
"Are you saying I'll die?"
Salma's eyes sharpened. His fierce yellow gaze pierced the healer.
The healer fell silent, bowing his head.
Salma ground his beak. The faint clack echoed.
"I'm the Warchief of the Mosrow! My soldiers are dead! Sebire is dead! Right in front of my eyes!"
His voice dropped low. The anger didn't subside—it sank deeper, condensing, lingering.
"And you're telling me to lie here and rest!"
Salma's roar reverberated off the walls, bouncing back from the ceiling.
The healers' shoulders flinched in unison. No one in the room dared speak.
The air in the chamber grew heavy. Sunlight streamed in, but what pressed down on the space was the unquenched battle fury emanating from Salma.
It was then.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Heavy, rhythmic steps. The clank of plate armor. Metal creaking.
Someone was approaching.
Salma turned his head. The healers glanced toward the door.
The footsteps halted. Right outside.
Then a voice rang out.
"The Grand Warlord has arrived! Clear the way!"
Someone shouted from the hall.
Soon after, another voice replied.
"Warchief Salma is under treatment right now."
It was a Mosrow winged soldier, calm and resolute.
"Even for the Grand Warlord, he cannot be seen at this time."
Movement stirred in the corridor. Multiple footsteps. Wings fluttering. More Mosrow winged soldiers gathering.
"Stand aside."
A new voice emerged.
Low and deep, yet smooth. Not a threat, but an invitation.
"I've come because Warchief Salma is being treated. This is a visit to the sickbed."
It was Gardon's voice.
"But..."
The winged soldier hesitated.
"Stand aside."
Gardon repeated.
This time, the smoothness was gone. The voice remained low, but the weight within was unmistakably different. Not a request or warning—an undeniable command.
The winged soldiers retreated. Footsteps receding. Wings folding.
"It's fine!"
Salma shouted.
"Bring the Grand Warlord in at once!"
As Salma tried to rise from the bed, the healers hurriedly restrained him.
"Warchief!"
"Let go."
Salma shook his wings. The healers staggered.
The door opened.
Gardon entered.
Gardon's massive frame filled the room, making the space feel constricted. Walls and ceiling seemed to draw nearer.
His enormous form dominated the doorway. Plate armor encased him fully—black iron, its surface rough, scarred with gouges from countless battles.
The shoulder guards were thick, like slabs of steel. A red cloth draped over them, embroidered with Damu's emblem: a bear with claws raised.
He wore no helm. His short, stiff brown fur was exposed, his face marked by scars—a long gash across the eyebrow, another tracing the left cheek.
His brown eyes swept the room.
Gardon walked slowly. Metal armor clinked. Each step of his iron boots thudded dully against the floor.
The healers stepped aside. The Mosrow winged soldiers backed to the walls.
Gardon stopped before the bed, looking down at Salma.
"What happened."
It wasn't a question. A demand for a report.
Salma lifted his head, meeting Gardon's gaze.
"It wasn't orcs, or minotaurs."
Salma said.
His voice was steady, anger still present but now firmly controlled.
Gardon's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
Salma drew a breath. His wing trembled—whether from pain or rage, unclear.
"That night..."
Salma began.
And closed his eyes. The memory resurfaced.
Under the night sky, the moment arrows rained down. The scene where Sebire's body was covered by the red cloak replayed in Salma's mind.
That day.
Salma had climbed higher. To escape arrow range. Beating his wings fiercely, he ascended.
He checked his surroundings. The winged soldiers following him had already dwindled to less than half. Barely that. The survivors were above; the rest remained below. Unmoving.
Then the wind shifted.
A strong gust brushed overhead. Air compressed. Ears rang.
Salma looked up. Something was descending from higher in the sky.
A massive shadow.
At first, its form was indistinct. In the darkness, amid the night sky, a black shape lowered. It drew nearer, outlines emerging, and soon wings became visible.
Enormous wings spread wide. Leathery wings. Composed of bone and membrane, utterly unlike the feathered wings of the Muwa. Larger, broader, heavier in appearance.
A single flap stirred a fierce wind. Salma's body was pushed back. He nearly lost balance but quickly spread his wings to steady himself.
And then he saw it fully.
Ashen scales. Gleaming silvery under moonlight, gray scales lined a long neck, running down the back and covering the vast torso visible beneath the wings. But not scales alone—over them lay gear of iron plates and chains.
Plate along the neck, chain netting over the back, steel reinforcements at the wing joints. Like the barding Sarun-Ke fitted to warhorses, this beast was armored for combat.
It was tamed.
The head turned. The long neck curved slowly, facing Salma. Two eyes fixed on him. Murky blue eyes. Vertical slits for pupils.
The cold stare of a predator sizing up prey. Yet lacking the impulsive hunger of a wild beast.
The maw opened. Sharp teeth gleamed. Fangs flashed in the moonlight.
A roar erupted.
"Kaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
An ear-splitting sound. Air trembled. Salma's feathers pressed flat against the backlash.
Salma steadied his breath, locking eyes on the monstrosity before him. The roar was a threat, but he refused to be swayed.
In the lingering echo, he scanned the form beyond the noise.
This wasn't a drake. Smaller than a drake... with wings. Sleeker build. Muscles flowed smoothly, movements swift.
'A sky-faring... lesser drake.'
Salma thought.
But "lesser" was relative.
The creature was still colossal. As it spread its wings fully, a shadow spanning at least 20 cubits (about 10 meters) engulfed him.
From head to tail tip, the body stretched easily 15 cubits (about 7.5 meters). Especially the grotesquely long tail, occupying half the length, swaying lazily in the air.
And atop its back, someone was there.