The storm clouds were as thick as ink, hanging low as if they would crush the entire ridge.
Blinding lightning twisted through the depths of the clouds, each explosion unleashing deafening thunder that illuminated the vast wilderness in flashes, like a tumultuous painting.
This was the absolute domain of the Blue Dragons, where storms and thunder reigned supreme.
The air was saturated with the sharp scent of ozone, mixed with the oppressive pressure of the downpour, almost suffocating.
Yet, in this stormy territory where the Blue Dragons should have thrived, those who should have soared freely in wind and rain, commanding lightning, now had grim expressions, their muscles tense as they braced themselves against an impending enemy.
On the horizon, a looming tide surged forward with an unstoppable momentum.
More accurately, it was not water but a war torrent composed of the Molten Iron Tribe.
