Excerpt from Tears Of The Priestess - Coming in September

[Paul]

In the heart of the Frozen Realms, where the sun rarely pierced through thick layers of frost and shadows danced like specters in the pale light, there lay a cavernous lair carved from ancient ice. The air shimmered with crystalline beauty, each breath tinged with the sharp bite of winter. Here, nestled within walls that sang a haunting melody as wind caressed their surface, resided Queen Sylvanara—the Great Ice Dragon.

Her scales glistened like polished diamonds under the meager illumination of her abode. As she alighted gracefully before the entrance to her sanctuary, an unsettling aroma wafted through the chilled air—a scent foreign to these frozen expanses. Her golden eyes narrowed with suspicion; mortals had dared tread upon her domain.

"Mortals," she rumbled softly, each syllable laced with an icy edge that sent shivers cascading down her spine. A flicker of rage ignited in her chest as she stepped into her lair, wings folding against her back like great sails drifting into calm waters.

Inside was chaos—the remnants of what once was a sacred nest lay scattered across smooth patches of ice. Sylvanara's heart thundered against her ribcage; she hurried toward where it had been cradled—her precious egg! Yet all that met her gaze were shards of frost-glazed stone and wisps of lingering magic dissipating into nothingness.

"No!" Her roar echoed through the caverns like a tempest unleashed—a sound so powerful it rattled icicles from above and sent tremors rippling beneath layers of snow outside.

High above the Frozen Realms, she soared through clouds painted with hues of lavender and gold. Her scales shimmered like a thousand stars caught in moonlight; they glinted with each powerful beat of her wings. The chill air wrapped around her majestic form as she ascended toward a horizon ablaze with possibility—a place mortals called Cartheim.

Sylvanara's heart thudded heavily within her vast chest; it was not fear that drove her, but an unyielding determination to reclaim what had been stolen from her—the precious egg nestled deep within her soul. It pulsed with life far below in the city's cobbled streets and towering spires. She could feel its warmth calling out to her across leagues of icy wasteland and temperate fields alike.

But anger burned hotter than any flame—a fire ignited by betrayal. As she circled above Cartheim, its sprawling architecture sprawled before her like a puzzle whose pieces refused to fit together. Mortals scurried beneath like ants, oblivious to their impending doom; they had taken what belonged to Sylvanara without understanding the consequences.

With a roar that shook heavens and earth alike, The queen of the Dragons descended upon them—a shadow darkening their sunlit day.
The city gates clanged shut as guards rallied under banners emblazoned with fierce creatures—dragons drawn not from lore, but from fear itself. They prepared for battle against an opponent who had lived beyond ages etched in stone or whispered around campfires. But no fortress could contain Sylvanara's wrath; no wall could withstand the fury borne from a mother's anguish...