The Dragon Slayer's Queen
She knows, without knowing how, that this is a ritual—ancient, perfected, dangerous.
The power builds, elemental and electric, until the whole hall is white. Zayla feels her own form melt and stretch, her hands becoming claws, her breath a torrent of violet flame. She wants to scream, but her dragon self is calm, cool, and in control. The ritual crests, the energy peaking, then is released—not as a weapon, but as a shield, a web of protection cast outwards in every direction. The dragons roar, not in anger, but in triumph.