The name did not carry the weight of a living dragon standing in the room.
It was an echo, a fragment of an ancient promise woven so deeply into Soren's bloodline that ten thousand years of death, war, and rebirth could not wash it clean. She was there, buried beneath the frost of his veins, silent and sleeping, but undeniably present.
Through the open channel, a wave of emotion flooded out of Pyronox's spirit and slammed directly into Eris's mind.
It was not her grief, yet it tore through her chest with such force that tears spilled down her cheeks, tracking dark lines through the soot on her skin. It was a sorrow so vast that human language had no words to contain its scope.
