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132

Auteur: Bella Fyre
last update Dernière mise à jour: 2026-01-20 10:58:51

132

The afternoon at the villa felt deceptively peaceful.

Sunlight filtered through the tall open arches, warming the stone floors and the low cushions scattered across the sitting terrace. Beyond the railing, the distant mountains shimmered in soft haze, their peaks lazily drifting between sky and cloud.

Connor squealed with delight as he launched himself tiny wings beating furiously from Max’s outstretched arms toward Brie. Halfway across the space, his form shimmered and collapsed inward,
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  • Dawlya’s Dragon   150

    150 The Draynor did not answer panic with panic. They answered it with preparation. Across the Dawlya’s world, warning tones rippled through the city low, resonant chimes that sent civilians into reinforced shelters beneath crystal and stone. Above the skyline, Draynor warships slid into layered formation, shields flaring one by one like overlapping halos. Power hummed through their hulls, disciplined, contained, waiting. High overhead, dragons broke formation. They did not scatter. They descended. One by one, massive forms peeled away from the sky, angling toward the mountain ranges surrounding the city. Wings folded as they landed among stone and ice, claws biting deep into granite. With practiced precision, they shifted scales flowing into skin, wings collapsing into shoulders, fire becoming breath held tight behind teeth. Kings. Warriors. Sentinels. All taking cover. All waiting. From the bridge of the lead ship, Avi stood at the forward viewport, Cain beside her, Morgan and

  • Dawlya’s Dragon   149

    149 The silence after the Circle’s surge was not peace. It was pressure. Stone groaned beneath the amphitheater as the remaining Dawlya magic recoiled into itself, collapsing inward like a clenched fist. The councilors, bloodied, shaken, stripped of their absolute certainty slowly dragged themselves upright. They were furious. The lead councilor lifted his head, eyes burning with a hate sharpened by humiliation. “This is not finished,” he said, voice raw but amplified by stubborn authority. “Keeper Avi, you are ordered to remain. You will return the Circle to Dawlya custody.” Avi didn’t answer. The Circle did not move. “You are not sovereign,” the woman with the broken seven-line mark spat, clutching her arm where dragon magic had seared her control away. “You are still Dawlya-born. Still bound by our law.” Avi finally spoke. Her voice was steady, but there was iron beneath it. “No,” she said. “I am Dawlya-raised. That distinction matters.” The councilor sneered. “You forget yo

  • Dawlya’s Dragon   148

    148 The doors of the amphitheater did not creak. They boomed. Stone split against stone as the ancient seals were overridden, Dawlya glyphs flaring a harsh, authoritarian red. The sound cut through the lingering silence of the Conclave like a blade. Every Keeper turned at once. Avi felt it before she saw them.The Circle recoiled. Not in fear in fury. Seven figures strode through the doorway in perfect formation, their steps synchronized, their presence oppressive. Behind each walked two protectors, tattoos glowing with enforced restraint. And at the center of the formation unmistakable even without the markings stood the New Dawlya Council. They wore authority like armor. And behind them, walking slightly apart, was a woman Avi had never seen before. Her tattoo stopped Avi’s breath cold.Seven lines. Not a Keeper’s seven. A Council Seven a line that did not guide a Circle, but subjugated one. The Circle screamed. Not aloud but inside Avi’s chest, sharp and sudden, like a struck ne

  • Dawlya’s Dragon   147

    147 The amphitheater did not erupt into chaos all at once. Instead, it fractured slowly like ice spreading across still water. Each Keeper rose in turn, as tradition demanded, and spoke their concerns into the Veil. The rules of the Conclave required it. The Circle listened whether it wished to or not, absorbing intention as much as words. Avi stood at the center and learned very quickly just how deeply fractured the Dawlya truly were. Keeper Sael of the Ninth Circle spoke first. Her voice was sharp, controlled, every syllable honed. “The balance of power has been violated. One Keeper now holds authority that eclipses the rest. History tells us this ends in domination or destruction. We cannot pretend otherwise.” Murmurs followed some agreement, some disdain. Keeper Vorrin rose next, barely waiting for Sael to sit. “Spare us the concern for balance,” he sneered. “Your Circle has siphoned from others for centuries. You fear Avi because she cannot be controlled, not because she is

  • Dawlya’s Dragon   146

    146 The amphitheater had not held this many Circle Keepers since before the first Draynor Dawlya war fractured the Veil. Stone terraces curved upward like the ribs of some ancient beast, each tier carved with sigils that drank light rather than reflected it. The air itself felt dense—charged with layered magic, old grudges, restrained fear, and something far more dangerous: anticipation. One by one, the Keepers arrived. Each arrival followed the same ancient protocol. A Keeper stepped through the Veil-gate alone first unarmed, unmasked, their full tattoo visible. Only after they were acknowledged by the amphitheater itself did their protectors follow. Two protectors only. No more. And never more than two lines etched into their skin. Those lines glowed faintly now on every guardian present marks of limited authority, bound strength, and deliberate restraint. The council had insisted on it centuries ago, after one gathering ended with three Keepers dead and half the amphitheater co

  • Dawlya’s Dragon   145

    145 The envoys had barely finished withdrawing to their assigned terraces when the air changed. It wasn’t dramatic. No thunder, no shimmer of power that would have sent Dawlya wards screaming. It was subtler than that thinning, as if the Veil itself took a careful breath. Althea felt it immediately. She straightened from the central stone, every instinct honed by centuries of survival tightening in her chest. The amphitheater had gone quiet in a way that had nothing to do with discipline. Even the mountain wind seemed to hesitate, unsure whether it was welcome. “Good,” Althea murmured. “They’re here.” Maerin frowned. “I don’t see anyone.” “Of course you don’t,” Althea replied calmly. “That’s the point.” The first ghost manifested not as a figure, but as an absence in an area where light bent wrong, where shadow didn’t quite obey. Then the shape resolved: tall, broad-shouldered, eyes like pale embers burning behind a half-smile that never reached them. Puc stepped fully into vi

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